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He doesn’t remember the journey through the woods.
His feet carry him blindly through the strange trees on the nearly day long journey. He can hear Gabriel and Echo speaking in hushed tones behind him, can hear the sounds of the leaves crunching under Hope’s - how? How? - feet as they lead her chained through the forest, but he never turns around. He’s lost in panic and confusion and the memory of the way his sister had looked at him before she vanished before his eyes. He had just begun to feel like he was starting to get her back, and now he doesn’t even know if she’s alive or dead.
He wants to scream.
It’s late when they reach Sanctum, and he finds himself standing frozen in the courtyard, eyes moving unbidden to the dim light in the window he knows to be hers. He doesn’t watch as Gabriel takes Hope away, doesn’t look as Echo appears at his shoulder. He tenses. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not yet. What she says instead surprises him.
“If you’re going to go to her, just go,” she says. She doesn’t sound angry, just resigned, and he feels like an asshole instantly. He turns to look at her and she shrugs. “We can talk about this in the morning.”
“Echo…”
“Stop.” She shakes her head. “I think we both owe it to ourselves and each other to be honest. I know you’re not going to talk to me about this, but you do need to talk about it. She’s always going to be that person for you, isn’t she?”
“I’m so sorry,” he manages, knowing both that he owes her that at least and yet it’s not nearly enough. He never set out to hurt her; he had meant it when he had reassured her of their relationship before returning to earth, and yet…
“Things changed,” she says, smiling a little wryly. She’s good at masking her emotions as always, but he thinks he can see the hint of sadness in her eyes, a crack in her emotional armor. “We lived in a bubble in space for six years. We should have known that things couldn’t stay the same.”
He hangs his head at that, wishing he could find the right words to say. Echo doesn’t give him the chance, looking back up at the window and saying thoughtfully, “We were good for each other in a lot of ways.”
“We were,” he agrees.
She nods, squaring her shoulders. “But sometimes that’s not enough.”
No, it isn’t. He’s known that for a while, known that this conversation was overdue but hadn’t been able to find the right moment to have it.
“I’m going to move my stuff to Raven’s room in the morning,” she adds. When he says nothing, she reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Bellamy.”
With that, she disappears into the night, and he stands alone with his thoughts for a while. Eventually, he finds himself looking back up at the light in the window.
He’s moving before he can talk himself out of it.
_
Clarke leans back against the pillar, one last shaky sob escaping her chest before she hastily swipes underneath her eyes, desperate to get rid of the evidence. She clenches her fists in her lap and counts slowly and silently to ten, giving herself a little extra time to compose herself before going back to her room. She doesn't want Madi to see her like this.
On some level she knows that it has only been two days since her mother's death; it is perfectly normal for her to still be grieving. Still, to grieve feels like a luxury she doesn't have, not when Sanctum is in shambles and her people's presence in the compound is tenuous at best. Add to that the fact that she doesn't want her grief to add to Madi's own turmoil, and here she is - sneaking out at night after her daughter falls asleep to grieve alone.
It's better than lying awake in her bed, replaying the look on her mother's face as she pushed her into the vacuum of space with her own two hands.
No , she reminds herself firmly as her stomach twists at the thought. Not really her mother. A stranger. A killer who had stolen her face.
It isn't much of a comfort, not when she can now clearly picture both of her parents' last breaths. Not when she knows that she is on some level responsible for both. That she had a hand in her own orphaning is a gnawing thought that has been haunting her since she touched back down on the surface of the moon. She would give almost anything for a distraction to pour herself into. She had tried earlier that day.
She spots them the moment she steps foot in the bar, the four of them leaning over a set of drawings Gabriel has spread out over the table. She can see Gabriel pointing something out on the page just over Bellamy’s shoulder, some kind of symbol she’s never seen before. As though sensing eyes on them, Octavia looks up and meets her gaze. She offers her a small, understanding nod. It’s a soft gesture that Clarke wouldn’t have expected from the younger woman just days ago. Something really did happen to Octavia in those woods, something that softened all those jagged edges. Octavia holds her gaze for a moment before looking at her brother and jerking her chin wordlessly toward where Clarke stands. Bellamy turns immediately to look over his shoulder, surprise coloring his face when he sees her there with her pack slung over one shoulder.
“Just give me a minute,” she can hear him say to the others, not taking his eyes off her as he approaches. She sees Echo’s eyes follow him for a moment with an unreadable expression before turning back to the table.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft and a little confused. “What are you doing here?”
She adjusts the strap of her pack, her shaking fingers itching for an outlet for her nervous energy. “I’m coming with you guys. No harm in having an extra set of eyes, right?”
His confusion is replaced by understanding and she can tell he sees right through her. He places a hand on her upper arm and guides her to a hallway away from the crowd. “Clarke, do you think that’s a good idea?”
Irritation surges through her at that. She knows he’s coming from a place of concern, but it feels coddling - suffocating. A kindness she’s not sure she deserves. “Yes. I’m perfectly capable of a day trip through the woods, Bellamy.”
“Hey.” His hands come up to her shoulders and his voice is firm when he says, “I know you are. This isn’t about you not being capable, this is about you deserving some fucking rest.”
She winces, looking away. Even bravado can’t hide the dark circles that have bloomed under her eyes. She had been hoping it wasn’t so obvious.
“Look,” Bellamy continues, “you just lost your mom. You almost lost Madi. Clarke, you did - “ he breaks off, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face. He drops it and sighs, “I almost lost you just two days ago.”
She sucks in a quiet breath at that. There it is again, that openness. The type of unrestrained admission they have never been very good at before. She’d heard his words as she was dying.
I need you.
He’d never said that to her before, and it was a phrase that had been playing in her mind late at night when she struggled to sleep. Something had shifted between them since her near death; a slow but definite crumbling of the walls that had sat heavy between them since he returned from space, and maybe even before that.
But even as he looks at her with that wondrous expression - like he can’t believe she’s still here, like losing her would have crushed him - she has to remind herself of the facts. The same thing she has to keep telling herself so she can place him back in a box where she can have him in her life, even just as a co-leader and friend.
He’s not hers.
“And what about Madi?” he asks, pressing on.
“Madi’s being kept sedated so she can rest,” she responds automatically, but she can hear how her own protest is half hearted. She should have known Bellamy would bring up her daughter to persuade her to stay. “She's been having trouble sleeping. Raven and Jackson said they would keep an eye on her.”
“She just got you back, Clarke,” he reminds her softly. “She thought you were dead. Imagine if she wakes up and you’re not there.”
She’ll think it wasn’t real. That Clarke never came back at all. She locks eyes with him and there’s something in his expression, something painful that makes her wonder if he knows this firsthand. It’s too much for her in that moment so she drops her gaze to the floor.
“This is just a day trip to get information,” he says reassuringly. “We’ll be back around nightfall and I promise I’ll fill you in on everything then, okay?”
She takes a deep breath before nodding, defeated. He gives her a small smile.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he promises.
Nightfall came hours ago, and there’s still no sign of them. She’s been trying to tell herself that there are plenty of reasons they could have gotten delayed but it hasn’t done much to stifle the uneasy feeling growing in her stomach or the persistent shake of her hands. Not for the first time, she curses the fact that radios are wholly unreliable on this godforsaken moon.
There’s nothing she can do now but wait, so she gathers herself and heads toward the tiny apartment she’s currently sharing with Madi. When she rounds the corner she stops short at the sight of a figure standing in the dark hallway in front of her door. Reflexively, her hand flies to the knife at her belt before she recognizes the man.
“Bellamy,” she breathes, relief flooding her. That relief is short lived when she catches sight of his face, pale and strangely blank. Something is very wrong. “What happened?”
“I…” His voice cracks, and he shakes his head slowly, looking at a loss for words. There's a dark stain on his shirt. Blood. She moves towards him quickly, one hand sweeping his jacket aside to get a better look.
“Are you hurt?”
His hand closes over hers to stop her movements, but he doesn’t let go. She can feel the tremor in his hand. “It’s not mine. Octavia.”
He swallows harshly, like he’s fighting back tears, and she quickly unlocks her door. She leads him into the apartment, casting a glance at the closed bedroom door. Madi is still deep asleep thanks to the sedatives Jackson had provided. Clarke doubts their voices will wake her up. She gently pushes Bellamy towards the couch and he slumps onto it, looking exhausted. She crouches in front of him, taking his hand and catching his eye.
“What happened?”
Bellamy catalogues the dark circles under her eyes and the slump in her shoulders and instantly feels selfish for having come at all. She’s still mourning the death of her mother just days before, she did die herself not twenty-four hours before that. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be burdening her further. He’s selfish, selfish -
“Bellamy?”
Her soft voice breaks him out of his self-loathing spiral and something in him crumbles at the sight of her concern.
Everything pours out at once. The anomaly. Hope. Octavia disappearing from his arms. Clarke takes it all in stride, like he knew she would. Like she always does. Her brows furrow when he talks about Hope’s appearance but she doesn’t interrupt him. When he finishes, feeling like he’s been hollowed out, she asks, “What did Gabriel say? He knows the most about the anomaly, he must have some ideas.”
Bellamy flinches guiltily, remembering clearly having screamed at Gabriel for answers immediately following Octavia’s disappearance, but the man had looked just as stunned as Bellamy felt. “If he does, I don’t know. When she wouldn’t talk, we brought Hope back to Sanctum and I came here to see you.”
Clarke looks a little taken aback by that, and he knows it’s revealing but can’t find it in himself to care. He nearly lost her a second time only days ago, and he might have lost his sister for good today. He doesn’t see the point in pretending she hadn’t been the first person he wanted to see when his world tilted on its axis once again.
He shivers, suddenly aware of how cold he is, and Clarke’s assessing eyes don’t miss the motion. She reaches over to the back of the couch and pulls out a blanket.
“Here,” she says gently, handing him the blanket. “I think you might be in mild shock.”
He holds the cloth in his hands but doesn’t move to wrap it around himself.
A beat passes and Clarke asks haltingly, “Did you want me to get Echo…?”
“No. We broke up.”
“Oh.” She bites her lip, looking unsure. “I’m sorry, Bellamy.”
“Don’t be,” he sighs. “It was...I think we both knew it was coming.”
Clarke falls silent for a moment before she stands, making her way over to a cabinet across the room and rummaging through it.
“What are you doing?”
“Josephine may have been a psychotic bitch, but she had good taste in liquor,” Clarke says, waving a bottle at him. “Want a drink? I think we could use one.”
“Sure. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight anyway.”
She sits heavily beside him, her mouth twisting in a rueful smile. “Me neither.”
“Have you slept much at all?” he asks, watching her pour two glasses. The amber liquid looks inviting, a promise to numb the shake of his hands and quiet some of the thoughts racing through his head.
She shrugs, her face deceptively light as she hands him his glass. “Twenty minutes here and there.”
He huffs, wanting to admonish her for not taking better care of herself but knows he’d be a hypocrite if he did. “Me too. Almost makes me miss cryo.”
She snorts softly at that and he nearly smiles at the sound. “Yeah I guess things were simpler when we were asleep for a hundred years.”
He hums in agreement, taking a long drink. The alcohol burns, warming him from the inside out. They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before he wonders aloud, “Do you think we dreamt in cryo?”
She looks thoughtful. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. If we did, I hope they were good ones. It’s been a while since I had good dreams.”
He drops his gaze. Him too. He wonders if when he finally closes his eyes tonight, he’ll see Octavia disappearing from his grasp, over and over again. Unsurprisingly, Clarke seems to sense where his mind has gone.
“We’ll figure this out, you know,” she tells him, her voice resolute. “With Octavia and the anomaly. We’ll figure it out.”
He looks at her then, his heart lurching in his chest at the sight of her soft, earnest expression. He wants to close the distance between them, to press his mouth to hers and remind them both that they’re alive no matter how broken they feel. He’s not sure if they’ll be able to get Octavia back, but somehow, against all odds, Clarke has come back to him twice. Twice he’s lost her now, and both times he’s gotten her back. He doesn’t want to waste that. He refuses to waste it.
But he knows this isn’t the moment. Not when they’re both exhausted and mourning. He doesn’t delude himself that they have the privilege of time, because he knows better than anyone that time is a false security. But when he tells her how much she means to him, how long he's loved her, he wants it to be a moment where they won't be overshadowed by loss.
Clarke shivers, drawing him out of his thoughts. He reaches for the blanket she had given him, draping it over both their laps. She shoots him a grateful look, settling back fully into the couch cushions, and he follows suit.
“Tell me something,” he says eventually. It's not that he feels the need to fill the silence, but he finds himself wanting to hear her voice. For six years he’d had nothing but the phantom voice of her in his head, and hearing her now always manages to feel comforting and make his heart race all at once.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Tell me something I don’t know.”
She thinks for a moment. “Did I tell you I can speak Mandarin now? Courtesy of Josephine.”
His eyebrows raise. “Yeah? Let’s hear it.”
After Clarke demonstrates her newfound ability, she asks him to return the favor and tell her something she doesn't know. He offers up that he’s gotten pretty adept at being able to pickpocket unnoticed, thanks to Emori’s instruction during their years spent on the Ring.
“You should tell that to Miller.”
“I don’t want to give him another reason to be jealous of me,” he deadpans, and this time he does smile a little when she tilts her head back and laughs.
Those anecdotes quickly morph into swapping stories, and they pour a few more drinks as they talk. It feels good, like a relearning of each other that they haven’t quite managed since he returned from space. When Clarke leans her head on his shoulder as she recounts a story about trying to teach Madi constellations, he’s sure that the warmth in his chest has much more to do with her than the liquor.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
He wakes at some point in the night, fully laying down on the couch with Clarke wedged into his side. Her head is on his chest, fingers curled loosely into his shirt, and she looks more peaceful than he’s seen her in a long time, her face smooth and untroubled in sleep. He allows himself to study her for a moment, his fingers ghosting lightly up and down her bare arm before he wonders if he should move her to her bedroom so she can be comfortable. He must shift at some point, because Clarke’s fingers suddenly tighten their grip.
“Stay,” she sighs, too tired to open her eyes.
He has no desire to argue with that. Couldn't, even if he did. He settles back into the couch, his arm tightening around her waist. Clarke sighs again, happily this time, and lightly nuzzles her head against his chest before settling back to sleep. He reaches up with his other hand, gently pushing her hair away from her face.
There’s still so much waiting outside this apartment. Tomorrow they will question Hope and try to find some answers about what happened to Octavia. Tomorrow they will have to deal with the growing tensions in Sanctum left in the wake of the Primes.
But tonight, he thinks as he holds her closer. Tonight they rest.
And for the first time in a long time, with Clarke in his arms, he does.