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Bellamy has come to realise that Clarke is the strangest, strongest and most complex person he has ever come across.
He comes to this conclusion whilst stumbling on his knees towards a tree, with her less than a foot away, and Dax's dead body laying at his feet. As he falls ungracefully beside her, he touches Clarke's knee for support and she grabs his hand - just for a second, before he shuffles uncomfortably and she lets go. He wants to tell her that it wasn't her grip making him uncomfortable, it was his demons, but he keeps his mouth shut as she speaks. "You're okay." She murmurs - more like breathes - as he falls next to her, although he's not sure who she's talking to. They're both breathing heavily, and he's pretty sure there are tears on both their faces, although it's too dark for him to get a proper reading on her.
The worst part about this situation is that the tears on his face aren't for Dax. They aren't for the man - child - whose life he just stole. Bellamy doesn't feel sorry for him, he doesn't regret killing a boy under eighteen.
Because that boy under eighteen would have killed both him and Clarke if he didn't.
Bellamy takes a deep breath. He's here. He's actually here after what he just saw. He saw Chancellor Jaha, and the ark citizens. Every single one that he killed. What's worse is that he knew some of them. He didn't know them personally, of course, but after his mother gave birth to Octavia she found it more difficult to go out, so Bellamy went and got rations, and helped out. He saw these people in passing. They were from Section 17, like him. They were his people as Clarke had said they would be. Clarke. He glances over at her and she seems just as shaken up as he is. Of course she’s shaken up he thinks she just watched you kill a guy - she was almost killed herself.
“No, I’m not.” Bellamy says aloud, just in case she was talking to him - because it's glaringly obvious that he isn't, and he's sure she can see it. There's no point in denying it. “My mother,” He continues. “If she knew what I’ve done, who I am,” He shakes his head, eyes wide and fixed on his feet. “She raised me to be better - to be good.” He can feel Clarke’s eyes on him, intense and upset.
“Bellamy.” She interjects, her voice breathy and just a little bit desperate. It’s a plea to stop talking, he knows that, but he continues anyway. He’s started, he might as well finish.
“And all I do is hurt people.” He finishes, because it’s true. “I’m a monster.” A lone tear falls down his cheek, stinging his skin where it is red raw and bleeding.
“Hey,” She murmurs and he half turns, but doesn’t look at her. “You saved my life today.” She tells him, her voice bordering on vehement. “And you may be a total ass half the time,” Bellamy laughs under his breath because of course the princess would come out with that at a time like this. He turns to look at her now, her face less than inches away from his, because he can look at her now, the weight of what he has done settles heavily on his shoulders, but she’s beside him to help out just a little bit. “But,” She starts, and hesitates, her eyes flicking between his, “I need you.” The words are new, different. Bellamy has never heard them before. He knew he was needed with his mother, and Octavia, and the words had been said in passing - “Bellamy! I need you to come to the kitchen for me and…” - and with girls he’d bedded; but they’ve never been said in the tone that Clarke used, a little desperate and husky and altogether true - no room for doubt in her voice.
“We all need you.” It is only now that Bellamy actually makes real eye contact with Clarke, his eyes lifting to hers to assure the sincerity of her statement. “None of us would have survived this place if it wasn’t for you.” The more arrogant part of Bellamy agrees with this statement, but in this moment it seems to be the minority of him, he just wants to get away from here. He needs to live. She’s got to understand that, she was just as ready to kill Dax as he was, to ensure their survival. He looks away, because he can’t think about leaving when her eyes are burning into his, the intensity of her gaze full on his face, inspecting his features. “You want forgiveness?” She asks, but he senses that the question is highly metaphorical. “Fine. I’ll give it to you: you’re forgiven, okay?” But she has to know it’s not that easy. He turns to look her way again anyway. “But you can’t run, Bellamy.” His eyes fill up again, because he knows he can’t run - he’s got to run, anyway, though. “You have to come back with me.” She doesn’t understand, he thinks, to be trapped in your own mind, your own doings. She’s never done anything bad enough to warrant that.
“You have to face it.” She asserts, making him reminiscent of his mother, telling him and Octavia to face their fears when they were children. He thinks of himself, telling Charlotte that she had to slay her demons before she could sleep at night. They both died, he thinks. She doesn’t understand.
“Like you faced your mom?” He retorts, because really there's nothing else to say - nothing he can think of, nothing that will banish his demons, so he plays with hers. She looks away now, looks down, he can see it in his peripheral vision, although he’s not looking at her (he's studiously avoiding looking at her, actually). She shakes her head a little and fixes her eyes on the ground, letting out a something caught between a sigh and a laugh. “You’re right.” She tells him, closing her eyes for the briefest of seconds and shaking her head again. “I don’t want to face my mom.” She looks at him again, but he doesn’t look at her. “I don’t want to face any of it.” He glances up at her, but she’s looking away. Then she looks towards him and Bellamy swears that he’s never seen a more pained expression. “All I think about everyday is how we’re gonna keep everyone alive.” She admits, and he feels a stab in the heart, because he should be able to say the same. He can, some days, but others, he is just focused on him. He wishes the statement wasn’t true, but it is. He’s entirely selfish, everything that she isn’t. “But we don’t have a choice.” She tells him, and he feels that she’s speaking about the two of them as hypothetical - who is he kidding? Actual - leaders of this camp, this little kingdom that they have created. He sniffs, scrunching his face up, just to stall and waste time.
“Jaha will kill me when he comes down.” He tells her, like she doesn’t already know. She meets his eyes deliberately, speaking slowly.
“We will figure something out.” She tells him. He laughs slightly, a bitter sound that catches in his throat, tasting like bile and sliding back down like acid.
“Can we figure it out later?” He asks, leaning his head against the tree behind him. She watches him for a second more, her face scrunched up slightly in pain, before shuffling back, against the tree, mirroring his actions.
“Whenever you’re ready.”