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Clarke blinks, squeezing her eyes shut and taking a deep breath. Then she opens them again and gives the boy sitting in front of her a tight smile, tying off the makeshift bandage around his hand. They really need to stop giving the younger kids knives.
“Come back tomorrow so I can clean and rebandage it, ok? You’re gonna be just fine,” she reassures the boy. He can’t be older than 13, and was apparently trying to learn knife throwing with Murphy, an idea that ended with a long, deep gash across the palm of his hand and Clarke yelling at Murphy for being an irresponsible idiot.
Since making peace with the grounders, things have been getting better around camp. They now have more supplies, cloths to act as bandages and herbal plants to help with pain and swelling, etc. Clarke and Bellamy have a strange, tentative partnership. Clarke wouldn’t say they’re friends, not quite. They’re co-leaders. And well. If there have been a couple times Clarke very nearly kissed him, no one needs to know. And if there were a few times she was so, so sure he was about to kiss her, that’s between her and her daydreams.
Because right. That’s another thing. She doesn’t sleep anymore. She genuinely cannot recall the last time she slept more than one hour consecutively. The only sleep she does get is in small bursts, quick naps when she feels she can’t take another step. They never last long. She always has too much to do, and the nightmares sure as hell don’t help.
She feels the exhaustion like a fog in her head, creeping in on the edges of her mind, sending her head spinning. So she ignores it as best she can and tries to act normal.
Now, the boy, Eric, flashes her a grateful smile before hopping off the cot and leaving the tent. Clarke sighs as she stands up, gripping the edge of the cot to steady herself as dizziness washes over her. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before plastering on a smile and walking over to another patient, a girl who seemingly has broken her ankle.
“How’re you feeling Sarah?” Clarke asks kindly, kneeling by the injured foot. She set it as best as she could and fashioned a splint as best she could with two straight sticks and a thick bandage. She can only hope it heals properly at this point.
“I’m alright,” Sarah nods. Her brow furrows slightly as she watches Clarke work, fingers skipping over the bones of her ankle. Sarah winces at the touches, but doesn’t make a sound. “Are you? You look tired.” Clarke glances up, giving her a reassuring smile.
“I’m fine,” she says, the lie slipping easily off her tongue. How many times has she said those very words, and how long has it been since they’ve been true? “And you will be too. Just still no walking around on it for a few days, ok?” The girl nods, still watching Clarke skeptically.
And that’s how her day goes. Clarke grows progressively more exhausted as she works, all tight smiles and false assurances whenever someone shows concern. Luckily, there are enough stupid teenagers in the camp for her to have plenty to do, a constant flow of injuries keeping her busy throughout the day. Not something Clarke ever thought she’d be grateful for, but here she is.
She lasts until it’s dark. Then a little bit past. She would last longer, probably through the night and the next day, probably until she physically couldn’t anymore. But Bellamy seems to have other plans.
She’s walking through camp, headed to check on one of the patients that’s bedridden in one of the tents, one of the few that isn’t in the dropship, when she trips over a root and stumbles. Her eyes had been half-closed, her mind far off as she walked. She hadn’t even seen it. The only thing that saves her from crashing to the ground is a pair of strong arms around her, warm hands settling on her waist. She leans unconsciously into the touch, before her brain registers whose brown eyes, wide and dark with concern, are staring back at her. Then she pulls away, steadying herself as best she can on shaky feet.
“Bellamy. Hey. Uh, thanks,” she stammers, hoping he won’t notice just how out of it she currently is. “Didn’t see that root there.”
“Yeah, clearly,” Bellamy says, voice skeptical. His hands are still on her hips, holding her steady. “Are you ok?”
“Mhm, fine,” she brushes off, not meeting his gaze. “Just on my way to check on a patient, so…” Clarke tries to skirt past him, but his grip on her waist tightens, his gaze burning as he studies her face.
“You don’t look ok,” he accuses. Clarke frowns at that, huffing indignantly.
“Pretty sure I’m the doctor here, Blake. If I say I’m fine, I’m fine ,” she insists. He still doesn’t let her go, his jaw ticking.
“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” he demands, voice low.
“ Um .” Clarke genuinely does not know. “Yesterday.”
“Well that’s a load of bullshit,” Bellamy scoffs. “Come on, I’m taking you to your tent and you’re going to sleep.” Clarke finally musters enough strength to push Bellamy off of her, pulling herself from his grasp as she fixes him with a glare.
“ No , I need to go check on my- my patient,” she insists, her mind suddenly blanking. Who’s she checking on again?
“Alright, Princess. If you can tell me where their tent is- hell if you can tell me who it is, I’ll let you go check on your patient,” he challenges. Clarke just stares at him, mind entirely blank and extremely unhelpful right now. She can feel the exhaustion swarming in her head, filling every corner of her brain. “That’s what I thought.” Bellamy reaches for her again, taking her arm gently and tugging her in the direction of her tent. Clarke stumbles, grabbing his arm to keep from falling.
“No, I’m fine,” she mumbles, but there’s nothing behind her words, her voice small and her words slurring together with exhaustion. Bellamy sighs and suddenly Clarke feels weightless as he lifts her into his arms. She pushes at his chest, trying to no avail to get him to put her down. “‘M fine, let me down, Bellamy.”
“You’re far from fine, Princess,” Bellamy rumbles, the words vibrating in his chest. Clarke’s too tired to argue now, Bellamy’s warm and solid embrace making it extremely hard to focus. So she just rests her head against his shoulder, eyes closing.
Delinquents gawk at the pair as they move through camp, but Bellamy effectively shuts the murmurs up with sharp glares. Octavia rushes up to them as he approaches her and Clarke’s shared tent, eyes wide with concern at the sight of him carrying her.
“What happened? Is she ok?” Octavia demands, eyes running over Clarke for any sign of injuries.
“She needs some fucking sleep, but other than that she’s fine, just a stubborn dumbass,” Bellamy says, pushing past Octavia and into the tent. He walks right over to her makeshift bed, Octavia scurrying along behind him. He gently sets her down on the pile of furs, graciously supplied by Lexa and the grounders. He brushes the hair from her face, fingers ghosting along her cheek. She’s mostly asleep now, letting out a small sigh at the touch. Octavia suddenly feels like she’s intruding, so, despite her concern for her friend, she slips out of the tent.
“Night, Princess,” Bellamy murmurs, standing up from his crouched position to leave. Clarke’s hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist. When he looks down at her, her eyes are open, wide with panic.
“Don’t go,” she whispers.
“Clarke, you’re not thinking straight,” Bellamy sighs. But looking at this girl, who he’s pretty sure he’s now entirely in love with, and saying no as she begs him to stay is not easy.
“I don’t want to be alone,” Clarke admits. Bellamy understands. He has nightmares too, of course he does. He understands why she doesn’t like to go to sleep, why she doesn’t want to stay alone. But still, she’s not herself, and the Clarke he knows would not want him to hold her through the nightmares. Then… “Please.” Her voice is small, scared and vulnerable, and Bellamy’s last resolve crumbles with the word. He lets out a sigh, nods, and crouches back down beside her.
“Alright, Princess. Just go to sleep,” he murmurs, gently running a hand through her hair. She sighs, face relaxing as he melts under his touch. Bellamy’s heartstrings tug at the sight. This girl’s going to be the death of him.