Work Text:
Clarke quickly learned that there are three types of people that come to Mount Weather Penitentiary’s infirmary wing.
The first are the ones that are actually sick or injured. A good example would be Monty Green. He suffers from asthma and has an incredible weak immune system. There were usually two or three weeks where Monty was healthy and active before sickness struck again. It’s so recurring that a bed is reserved in the infirmary wing for Monty. He usually sleeps there when the vomiting won’t stop or his fevers rise above 100, because essentially, a high fever could kill someone like Monty Green.
Then there were the malingerers. These were the inmates who feigned fevers and illness to escape daily routine. Take Jasper Jordan for example. Every week on days when he’s assigned cafeteria duty, a guard brings him in, saying that he’s been complaining of excruciating stomach pains or that he’s been sweating buckets all hour. Clarke checks his vitals, runs a quick physical, and after finding nothing, recommends he stay hydrated and use his exercise time to actually exercise.
Lastly there were the mentally ill. To check up on these patients, Clarke had to pass three checkpoints and be given a panic button. She went with psychologist, Raven Reyes, every month to check on Finn Collins. The first time she walked into his cell, she’d been overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes. The new ‘no smoking’ policy at Mount Weather was obviously not as strict as she thought it was. Finn’s first reaction to Clarke hadn’t been as pleasant as she’d wanted it to be either. He’d spit a mouthful of blood at her. To say Clarke had been shocked and disgusted was the understatement of the century. It’d splattered all over her face—getting into her nose and mouth and every nook and cranny in her skin. Raven dragged her out, reminding Clarke to remain calm, as she pulled a napkin out of her pocket. Just get it off. Just get it off, Clarke had hissed, closing her eyes. Thankfully, the visits with Finn were calmer now and he’d become accustomed to the monthly checkups, occasionally making polite conversation with Clarke. He was especially friendly with Raven; she jokingly says it’s her good looks, but Clarke already knows their history.
Then there was the exception. Bellamy Blake. (There always was an exception, wasn’t there?) Clarke wasn’t sure which category he fit into. More often than not, he came in with real, serious injuries but occasionally he’d come in faking some sort of infection. When Clarke was in med school, she’d read about PTSD and when she took the time to analyze Bellamy, he showed key symptoms of the disorder. When Clarke had brought it up to Raven, she said that she had sessions with him twice a week, but that was all she was allowed to say due to patient privacy.
Clarke remembers the first day she’d met Bellamy. All inmates were subjected to an annual mandatory evaluation. He’d been particularly snarky that day. At every pinch or needle prick, he’d claim she was torturing him, constantly snapping at her to be gentle. While evaluating him, she’d decided he was exceptionally healthy so she’d expected never to see him again.
But of course she did.
The next day he came in with a broken nose. The day after that it was a sprained wrist. And the day after that it was a black eye. Bellamy was in the infirmary wing almost every day with another injury and Clarke was beginning to wonder what crime he committed, because it was obviously something his peers loathed him for.
*****
“I said I have a concussion. I’m not drunk,” he snapped, angrily.
“Breathe into the breathalyzer, Mr. Blake.”
“No.”
Clarke recognized the voices immediately. She sighed, knowing that her mother was in there attempting to treat a less than polite inmate. She heard Abby’s low voice whispering to Bellamy.
“I want you to remember whom you’re speaking to, Mr. Blake. I didn’t waste 8 years of my life studying to be a doctor just for a criminal to tell me how to do my job—”
“Thank you very much for substituting for me, Dr. Griffin, but I think I can take it from here.” Clarke’s voice cut through the air and her mother froze. Both Bellamy and Abby’s heads rose to meet her gaze. Abby clenched her jaw and threw the Breathalyzer down on the counter. She pushed past Clarke, anger rolling off her in waves. Clarke waited until Bellamy nodded at her before she followed her mother out.
“What do you think you’re doing here,” Clarke questioned, once the door shut. Abby’s eyes were guilty but wild with anger.
“Why are you here? You’re sick, you’re supposed to be at home resting.”
“I heard you were substituting for me and I knew something like this would happen so I decided to come in,” Clarke said, her voice monotonous. “That isn’t how we treat patients are Mount Weather, mom.”
“You don’t have to deal with these people anymore, Clarke,” Abby said, her voice too hopeful for Clarke’s liking. “There’s a position open at the hospital. I recommended you and—”
“I’m doing fine here, but thank you for the recommendation.”
“Clarke you can’t honestly enjoy working with these criminals.”
“Mom,” Clarke sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Every day they deal with people who dismiss and treat them like you just did, simply because they’re here. I think they’re just happy to have someone to treat them like actual people. And I don’t have a problem making them feel like they’re human beings again.”
“This is a dangerous practice, honey. Do you even know what that young man did to—?”
“No. I don’t, and I don’t want to nor do I need to. I’m a doctor. I treat patients, not prisoners. I want you to remember that next time you talk to one of my patients like that. This is my workplace. This is the only place I get to get away from you. So don’t come here again.”
*****
“I’m going to ask you a serious question,” Clarke said, leaning in and looking at Bellamy pointedly. “Where did you get the liquor?” Bellamy’s jaw clenched and he looked away from Clarke.
“I told you and your mom: I’m not drunk.”
“Oh, I know,” Clarke said, mater-of-factly. She pulled away from him and leaned her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. “You’re not drunk, but I can still smell the cheap booze on you. I can tell you tried to cover it up with a couple of mints. Is it in your bunk, Bellamy? Is that how you fell out of your bed? You tried to hide it quickly before the officers came around with breakfast? Not fast enough, I see.”
It was silent for a split second before Bellamy met her eyes, his cheeks slightly pink.
“I hate you,” Bellamy seethed.
She sighed, rubbing her neck. Clarke hated making these calls. She pulled the walkie-talkie out from her waistband. She eyed Bellamy as she spoke.
“Hello, this is Dr. Clarke Griffin calling in from the infirmary wing. Is there an officer patrolled near cell number 45?”
Almost immediately a response came in. “This is Officer Jackson, how can I help?”
“Yes, I need you to search the cell. If you find anything suspicious contact Kane.”
“You just got me into some serious shit, princess,” Bellamy growled. Clarke walked up to him. His eyebrows rose at their close proximity. Clarke’s gotta hand it to him: he looks pretty intimidating right now, but if Clarke doesn’t get the answers, someone else will in a way that’s going to send Bellamy right back to her.
“Tell me who gave you the booze and I can get you off the hook.”
“Ah, but how am I going to get my fix, then? A criminal still needs a treat every once in a while,” he asked mockingly. Clarke stared at him, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. She glared at him, and his eyes dared her to say something, to push him a little harder to confess, but she remained silent.
“Are you going to do your job and treat me for my concussion or what?” he asked, tiredly. “I think I’ll slip into a coma if you don’t.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Blake,” Clarke sighed. She still wanted to know who was bringing in the alcohol, but it was becoming extremely clear that Bellamy would not be the one to confess.
*****
“Anyone else injured?” Clarke asked, her eyes scanning the clipboard quickly. She’d just arrived at work and Jackson had already been waiting, ready to tell her of Bellamy Blake’s new injury.
“John Murphy has a black eye but the nurses have already treated him for it. Your job is to determine whether Mr. Blake needs to be sent to the mainstream hospital for his injury.”
“A broken clavicle,” Clarke whispered, finally looking up at Jackson. His face looked tired and he had a 5 o’ clock shadow but he flashed Clarke a reassuring smile. Ever since Clarke had began working at Mount Weather Penitentiary, Jackson had always made sure to get to work before Clarke and leave only when she did. She always found it strange, considering Jackson was an officer and not her assistant, but the companionship was always appreciated. “Jackson, do you know how difficult it is to break a collar bone? Jesus, these guys are going to kill him one day,” she breathed, pushing open the door to the infirmary.
“What’s up, doc?” Bellamy greeted. He clenched his jaw and he sent her a weak smile. He lay on the table, the nurse nodded at Clarke, before leaving. “I’ve just got a little mishap.” His face was covered in sweat and his words came out in breathless puffs.
“Stop talking,” Clarke snapped. She shook her head, pressing a hand to his shoulder. It sagged a little and the skin around the fracture area was slightly purple and blue. She cursed under her breath, as she felt around for any signs that the injury was more serious than she perceived. She sighed in relief. No need for surgery.
“Good news and bad news, which one do you want first,” Clarke asked. She reached around for an ice pack.
“Bad news first, then good news. I need a goddamn happy ending in this goddamn place,” he bit out, still breathing heavily.
“Okay,” Clarke said, placing the icepack against his shoulder. He winced but let out a heavy breath. “Bad news: you’re gonna need to restrain yourself from picking a fight for about three months because your bone’s not going to heal until then. Also, your arm’s going to be in a sling for at least a month, maybe two.”
“On to the good news then,” he whispered, using his free hand to wipe some sweat off his forehead. His dark curls were plastered against his heady skin.
“Good news is you don’t need surgery. The bones didn’t separate too far and it should heal on its own. No need for pins and screws inside you, Blake.”
“I feel like that isn’t enough to compensate for three months of being restricted to only one arm,” he sighed, finally relaxing against the bed. He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. His hands shook slightly so Clarke took the initiative to hold the icepack for him, giving him some time to steady himself.
“Will you call my sister?”
“Octavia’s already been called,” Clarke assured.
“Ugh, I bet she’s so sick of getting calls from prison,” he whispered. “I’m such a screw up. She must be so embarrassed. I mean, she’s dating this fancy older artist guy and she’s going to med school and her life’s perfect—right up until you get to the part about her brother being in prison and—”
“Bellamy, did the nurse give you something?” Clarke asked quietly, squeezing his hand.
“Yeah, like some mor-mor—”
Clarke squeezed his hand again.
“Morphine?”
He nodded and she let one side of her lips tilt up in a half smile. “You should get some sleep then. Stop fighting the drowsiness.”
“You look like super pretty in this light,” he whispered exaggeratedly. Clarke swat his hands away, as she looked around at the close to pitch black lighting. It was early morning and the only light in the room was a lamp by his bedside.
“Are you calling me ugly, Blake?” she whispered, teasingly.
“Not in the slightest, Griffin…”
****
It’d been half an hour since Bellamy had fallen asleep. She met Jackson outside the doors of the infirmary.
“When’s my break today?” Clarke asked, leaning her head back against the wall. Jackson mimicked her and closed his eyes. He sighed, knowing what she was doing.
“12:00,” he replied, dutifully.
“When’s Bellamy’s leisure time today?”
“16:00.”
“Move my break to 16:00, please and thank you, Jackson,” Clarke said.
*****
True to his word, Jackson had gotten Clarke’s break moved. She now stood in the doorway leading to the Yard. Jackson stood beside her, a loyal friend, even if he disagreed with her choices. They watched as Bellamy made his way into the area from the other side. Jackson wrapped a hand around her forearm.
“You think you want to do this, Clarke,” he said, lowly. “But you don’t. There’s a reason officers don’t get involved in prison brawls.”
“One of these days, an inmate is going to die within these walls because your peers refuse to intervene, Jackson,” Clarke said, pulling out of his grip. She was walking across the damp grass, her white coat flowing behind her. She watched as some inmates circled around Bellamy. He smiled, using his free hand to hold out in defense. He shrugged, a smirk on his face as they closed in on him. Someone else would've thought he was being too cocky. A little too egotistical and care free for someone about to be pummeled, but Clarke saw the nervous shift in his body language and the way his eyes constantly scanned his attackers.
Someone lunged and Clarke winced at the cry that Bellamy let out.
“Hey,” Clarke shouted. A couple heads within the group turned around and they walked towards her. She lifted her chin up, thinking about all the times Bellamy called her a princess. Now’s the time to bring out your regal highness, Clarke. “Mind explaining what’s going on here, Murphy?”
“Much apologies, doctor, but I don’t think this is in your realm of expertise,” he said through his gritted teeth. He had Bellamy pinned against the wall, his hands loose around his neck but a flicker of pain flashed across Bellamy’s face nonetheless. Clarke took a step towards Murphy, but someone sidestepped her. She grinned up at him, before socking him in the side. He growled, but not before she pressed his pressure point, watching as he slowly sunk to the ground.
“You see,” Clarke huffed, eyeing the rest of the guys. “The great thing about being a doctor is that you know which organ is where and which pressure point knocks someone out. Your buddy here probably has a bruised liver and he’ll be a little fuzzy about the events that happened here. I’d be happy to do some more demonstrating.” Her eyes sparkled and Bellamy didn’t miss the wink she sent his way.
“To be frank, you not really the scary type, Dr. Griffin,” a boy said.
“Here’s the thing, though,” Clarke said, leaning in, as if she were letting them in on a great bit secret. “If I decide to break your nose, I’m the only one who can set it back into place. If I decide I don’t want to, you’ll be forced to have weeks on end of soreness and bruising, and after all that? You get a crooked nose for the rest of your life. Won’t exactly reel in the ladies, if you know what I mean. Or if that doesn’t scare you enough, if I decide to break your collarbone, I can make sure you don’t get the right treatment you need. That could lead to excruciating pain for months and then you get a little tent-shaped bone right here,” she said, patting the collarbone of a guy near her. “All in all, I may not be the only one who can kick your ass, but I’m the only one to make sure you get patched up nice and tidy.”
“This is real fucked up, Blake,” Murphy whispered. “Having your little pet come save you. You’re a motherfucking coward—”
Clarke was behind Murphy now, a little tap here, a little tap there and Mr. Pottymouth was completely unconscious at her feet.
“Well, this was awfully fun,” Clarke said, pretending to wipe the dust off her shirt. “But I really must be going. I really hope I don’t see any of you boys soon.” She walked back to Jackson and he stood there with slight amazement on his face. He didn’t let too much surprise or pride show on his face, but enough to let her know what went down was pretty out of the ordinary.
“I want John Murphy penalized for Bellamy’s broken collarbone,” she said.
“Kane’s already looking into that,” Jackson replied.
“Good.”
“Clarke,” Jackson said. She heard curiosity in his voice, which isn’t something you hear from Jackson often. “Do you…do you have a thing for Bellamy Blake?”
Jackson was actually disappointed she wasn’t more thrown about the question. She simply arched an eyebrow at him, before shaking her head, a smile on her face—not one that admitted to his suspicions but one that said ‘Oh Jackson, you idiot’. He didn’t like that smile.
“He’s my patient,” Clarke says matter-of-factly. “He’s also an inmate. I just happen to be a very nice doctor.”
*****
“I thought I specifically told you to restrain yourself,” Clarke growled, rushing to get bandages. Bellamy laughed as he clutched his bleeding and bruised fingers.
“You told me not to get into fights,” he said, watching as she bustled around, grabbing random items off the counter. “You didn’t tell me not to get my fingers jammed in the door.”
“For the love of God,” Clarke said, walking towards him. She placed his hands on the counter, looking at the swollen fingers. “You’ll have to go the mainstream hospital to get an X-Ray, Bellamy. Look at this,” she said, pointing to the gash that cut through all four of his fingers. “How the hell did this even happen?”
“Guard closed the cell door too soon,” Bellamy choked out, as she pressed a towel onto the wound.
“You saw the door closing so you just—what? —Stuck your hand out to get crushed?”
“Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face, Griffin.”
“There are easier ways to get my attention than breaking your hand, Blake.”
“Oh, like what, Ms. Workaholic?” Bellamy asked, smiling at her. She removed the blonde hair from behind her ear, so it’d cover her smile. “Face it,” he said. “Clarke Griffin will forever and ever be a workaholi—”
“Keep it down,” Clarke hissed, but before she could stop it, a giggle bubbled out from her throat. She coughed to cover it up but Bellamy didn’t miss it. He didn’t comment on it, but he bumped her shoulder with his and a proud smile rested on his face the rest of the night.
*****
“I need you to step back, Doctor Griffin,” Kane said. Jackson stood between her and Bellamy. Cameras flashed and reporters were shoving mics in Bellamy’s face, shouting questions at him.
“No, they can’t treat him like this,” Clarke said, attempting to push past Jackson.
“Get out of my way.” In a split second, Bellamy was shuffled into the car, shackled at the feet, and sent away to the hospital. She looked at the truck driving away in shock. They should’ve waited for her. She was the doctor, for Christ’s sake. She leaned her head against Jackson’s chest, in defeat, inhaling sharply as she saw reporters scurry away into their cars, following the prison truck.
“Clarke,” Jackson whispered, as Kane walked away, awkwardly patting Clarke on the back. “You’re not allowed to go with him unless it’s an emergency. He’s just going for an x-ray.”
“They can’t treat him like that. They’re invading his privacy. They just can’t,” Clarke said, hopelessly. She was exhausted to say the least. It was too early in the morning for this kind of anxiety.
“He’ll be back in an hour.”
Clarke reluctantly pulled away from Jackson, attempting to shake off the worry. She was about to turn away when his voice pulled her back.
“You couldn’t have not expected this with what he did and all, Clarke,” Jackson called.
“I don’t know what he did,” Clarke said, over her shoulder. From the sound of Jackson’s voice, she’s not sure she even wanted to.
“Oh, Clarke,” Jackson said, his words bleeding sympathy. She hurried back to her station, feeling the sudden need to stitch up something. To fix something. To do something. Anything.
*****
Clarke hadn’t seen Bellamy in days, and that was all right, I guess.
She was going a bit crazy, but that’s all right, too.
She had Bellamy’s file sitting on her desk, waiting to be opened, but she could never find it in herself to do so.
But it was her lunch break now. She was without patients. She was without nurses. She was only with the file. The file with Bellamy’s mug shot, and his blood type, and the name of his family members, and his social security number, and the name of his lawyer, and his emergency contacts, and his past crimes (if there were any), and his crime—the crime that put him in Mount Weather. All inside that one stupid beige folder, but it felt wrong to go digging around in his past. And a small part of Clarke, wanted Bellamy to tell her—to voluntarily tell her about himself.
Careful what you wish for.
A hand swipes up the folder from Clarke’s desk. She almost falls over in her chair in surprise. Clarke already knows who it is without looking up. Her heart is beating and her faces heats in embarrassment.
“I’ve watched you look at this for the past 20 minutes,” Bellamy said through his clenched teeth. “Obviously you’re at some moral crossroad, so I’ll just read it to you.”
“No,” Clarke said, suddenly, making a grab at the file.
“No, I insist,” Bellamy said, mockingly, opening the file. Clarke couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want this. Not anymore. She wanted to know…but not like this. Not like this. God, not like this.
“Bellamy—”
“Bellamy Blake. 5 foot 11 inches. Shows many symptoms of mild PTSD and is increasingly aggressive towards inmates. Before arriving at Mount Weather Penitentiary he was arrested twice before his sentence for assault and battery of an officer and petty theft. In both cases, victims decided not to press charges. Only living family member is Octavia Blake. Emergency contact is Octavia Blake. Before his two arrests, Blake seemed to be the average citizen and worked a factory job for Jaha Tech. On May 24th, Bellamy Blake snuck into the house of Thelonious Jaha, CEO of Jaha Tech and—”
“Stop,” Clarke pleaded. Her eyes were wide and her hands were clenched around the side of the desk. Her breath, ragged, as she stared at Bellamy, his eyes ablaze.
“I don’t need to know.”
“But you want to,” Bellamy whispered. “Everybody…everybody wants to.”
“I don’t,” Clarke pleaded. “I don’t. I really don’t, Bellamy. Please.”
She slowly wraps her hand around the file, taking it from him. She places it on the desk, nodding slowly. His hands are shaking—her hands are shaking. His eyes look so guilty that Clarke wonders…and he sees it. He sees the wonder surface again, and he staggers back, inhaling shakily. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he brings his fist up to his eyes, pressing them into the sockets as tears leaked out.
“I stabbed Thelonious Jaha 13 times,” he choked out. “I killed him while his son was out getting engaged. And then during my court hearing, I heard that Wells Jaha broke off his engagement because it was ‘too much’ and he needed time to mourn—time to mourn a life I took. And you know what the worst part is, Clarke? My story—my guilt, my reasons, they couldn’t convince my lawyer to fight for me. My lawyer didn’t believe in me. Someone who was supposed to be on my side, threw me under the bus.”
“You killed someone,” Clarke whispered. It wasn’t a question, she was merely restating it. “You killed someone, Bellamy. There is no reason. There is no guilt—no story, no anything that makes it okay.”
“He took away everything I had—”
“You did,” Clarke exclaimed, pointing a finger at him. “You threw everything away for this,” she said, motioning to the building. “You threw your life away, you threw your job away, and you threw your sister away when you decided that revenge was the answer.”
“But I didn’t,” Bellamy said, cracking a sickly smile. “I saved her. I saved my sister. He was going to take her. He was going to take her.”
Clarke looked at him, and she saw the way he was hovering between okay and slightly unstable. His whispers were becoming slightly delirious, but Clarke wanted more. She wanted to know more about this crazy murderer who believed he did the right thing. But not right now. When he was ready they’d talk. And when she was ready.
*****
It was weeks later before the topic came up again. It was late at night and Bellamy wasn’t in the infirmary wing because he had an injury. He was here simply because he wanted to be.
“I found out this big company secret,” Bellamy said, as he was helping Clarke sort some new equipment they’d just received. “They were dumping old computer parts into the ocean. I questioned whether to confront Jaha about it for months. When I finally did, I told him I was going to go to newspapers and news stations about it. He threatened O. He told me he was going to go get her in the morning if I did. He told me he has a guy who’d want her. I nearly killed him then.”
Clarke was frozen. She couldn’t move. There was a lump in her throat that she couldn’t get air around. She was afraid to make a sound—afraid to have him remember he didn’t want to talk about this.
“I still wanted to go public, of course. What he was doing…it wasn’t right. I’m not some big ol’ tree hugger, but I know when something’s wrong. And dropping hundreds of pounds of machinery into the ocean is wrong. You can’t…you can’t do that and get away with it. I wanted my sister safe, though. Then out of nowhere, this man, Shumway, approaches me, claiming to have the answer to all my troubles. He told me if I kill Thelonious then he’d make sure my Octavia and I were taken care of for the rest of our lives. He wasn’t lying. The first time Octavia came to visit me, she told me 500 grand showed up in our bank account. She thought I did it for money. She thought I risked my life for money.”
“Did you tell someone about this,” Clarke asked, slowly.
“My lawyer.”
“Who was your lawyer, Bellamy?”
“Shumway’s sister.”
“You picked the wrong lawyer.”
“I was appointed one. I couldn’t afford one, Clarke.”
“Did you tell anyone else?”
“My sister.”
“Did she tell anyone else?”
“I made her promise not to.”
“Why?”
“Because then she’d be in danger. She’s safe now.”
“I’m going to look into this Bellamy, and if you’re lying…”
“I’m not. Promise.”
“I don’t care much for promises.”
“I swear, then.”
One side of Clarke’s lips tips up.
“That’s more like it.”
*****
“And you believe this?” Jackson asked, incredulously.
“I don’t need you to believe him. I just need you to tell me where I could find his interrogation videos,” Clarke said, looking at Jackson. His eyebrows rose in surprise, almost touching his hairline.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Trust me?” Clarke said, not sounding in the slightest bit confident or convincing.
“How about, no,” Jackson said, attempting to walk past her.
“Wait,” Clarke said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Jackson—”
“We’re not detectives, Clarke. We’re a doctor and an officer. It’s not our job to dictate who’s guilty and who’s innocent. It’s not our job to decide who deserves to be in here and who deserves to return to society.”
“But if you’d just listen to me,” Clarke pleaded. “His story makes sense. Remember two years ago, when animals were washing up on shore with pieces of metal and machinery parts in them? What if they were from Jaha Tech? I just need to know if his lawyer really did withhold information. And they can reopen the case, and then our job will be done.”
“Clarke, this is dangerous,” Jackson said, warningly. “This could get you put in here as well.”
“I just need to know.”
“What makes him so different, Clarke? What makes Bellamy Blake’s case so much more important than anyone of the other 100 in Mount Weather? What’s different?”
“He’s different,” Clarke insisted. Something changed in Jackson’s face. Something shifted and understanding dawned upon his features. Clarke shook her head vigorously, biting her lip. Perhaps her denial would be more convincing if her eyes weren’t so frantic—if her defenses weren’t so weak. If she didn’t look so ready to hide something.
“No, no, no,” Clarke said, shaking her head. “That’s not how it is, Jackson. Please.”
“I don’t think this is the job for you,” Jackson said, looking past Clarke, removing her hand from his shoulder. “If you intend to fall in love with every boy who shows you kindness, perhaps its time to hand in that resignation letter.”
“Jackson,” Clarke said, shock paints her features. “That’s not how it is.”
“Yes it is, Clarke. Admit it, sometimes over the past couple of months you’ve fallen in love with Bellamy Blake. Now he tells you some phony story about his crimes, and you jump to conclusions. He’s murdered someone. He didn’t take a gun and shoot him once. He took a knife and stabbed the man thirteen times. He’s guilty Clarke. Some things are better left alone—this is one of them. Don’t go digging up confidential information.” Then, he turned on his heel, heading down the hall.
Clarke was left, mouth open and blood thrumming. She could hear the way her heart was beating erratically.
Of course, she’d fallen in love with Bellamy. It was such a Clarke thing to do.
*****
“Your brother said he’d help me.” Bellamy’s helpless voice streamed from the computer. “He wanted Jaha dead. Please. You have to help me. I have a sister—I can’t go to jail. Not yet. She needs me.”
“I’m doing everything I can, Bellamy,” Shumway’s sister said, her voice overly compassionate and trusting.
Clarke stared, transfixed, at the screen. Sweat plastered her blonde hair to her forehead and her heart raced so fast, she was afraid she’d pass out. She was in. After weeks of trying, she finally got into the network. Clarke could officially add hacker to her list of occupations.
“You don’t understand,” Bellamy’s voice came. “I can’t go to jail.”
“How many citizens do you think are in a situation where they can go to jail, Mr. Blake?”
“This is different.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Are you on my side or not?”
Clarke heard faint footsteps outside and quickly ejected the USB. She placed it in the inside pocket of her jacket, and turned in the chair just as the door was kicked open.
Kane.
“Damn it, Jackson,” Clarke hissed.
“Funnily enough, Clarke,” Kane said, sheathing his gun. He took Clarke by the arm. “There are some people who consider breaking and entering a crime, punishable by incarceration.”
Clarke was walked outside, handcuffed and patted down. Four officers stood around her, the blue and red lights of their cruisers flashing brightly. Kane retrieved the USB from her, holding it between his fingers.
“What is this?”
“Watch it,” Clarke challenged.
“What’s on it?”
“Enough evidence to reopen Bellamy Blake ‘s case.”
“Clarke,” Kane sighed, rubbing his neck. “If this is what I think it is, then you’re going away for a long time. Is this confidential government information? Did you hack into the national network to find this?”
“Kane, Bellamy had good reason for his—”
“Clarke,” Kane interrupted. “You broke a federal law.”
“Reopen the case,” Clarke demanded.
“I’ll pass it on to the police department, but Clarke…I can’t save you from what’s coming for you.”
“I don’t need saving, Kane. I’ve got this.” She looked Kane in the eye, standing her ground, despite the fact that she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.
“I’m not so sure you do, Doctor,” Kane said, eyeing her shaking fists.
****
Bellamy hasn’t seen Clarke in a good couple of weeks, but then again, he hadn’t been in the infirmary for a couple weeks. He knew Clarke could take care of herself, but he couldn’t help the way the worry blossomed in his chest.
“Jackson,” Bellamy hissed, as the guard passed Bellamy’s cell. “Jackson!”
“Mr. Blake,” he greeted.
“Where’s Clarke?”
“Doctor Griffin is no longer employed at Mount Weather Penitentiary due to recent complications with her actions.”
“Wait—what?”
“I’ll see you for Yard time,” he said, leaving.
“Jackson,” Bellamy exclaimed. “Jackson, come back here! Right now! Do you hear me?! Tell me what happened to Clarke!”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to strangle you,” Bellamy’s roommate mumbled from underneath his pillow.
Bellamy eyed his roommate, closing his eyes before making the loudest ruckus he’s ever made.
It’s safe to say, Bellamy’s roommate wasn’t into his shenanigans.
Good.
*****
Bellamy had never been happier to have a bruised neck. Jackson’s nails dug into Bellamy’s elbow and he flinched at the pinches of pain.
“Jackson,” Bellamy growled. “Stop.”
“This was stupid. How could you do something like this? Do you think Clarke would’ve wanted this for you?”
“I just need to see her.” Jackson stopped in his tracks, turning Bellamy to face him.
“Do you really want to see her, Bellamy?”
“Truly, Jackson,” Bellamy said, irritation surfacing. Jackson clenched his jaw and Bellamy couldn’t help but wonder what had the, usually calm, guard so perplexed.
“If you freak out, I’m going to knock you out,”
Jackson threatened, before turning them around and walking in the opposite direction.
*****
Bellamy was starting to feel nauseous with all the turns they were making. Bellamy’s never really taken the time to explore the Mount Weather facility, but let’s just say, he never thought it was quite as large as it was. There were multiple floors with just offices and no inmates. And then there were floors packed with inmates to the point where they were crowding themselves. But finally he caught a glimpse of golden hair. In the place he least expected.
A cell.
“’Sup roomie,” Clarke called, walking up to the bars. She wrapped her hands around the metal and peered at Bellamy through her messy hair.
“Clarke,” Bellamy choked out.
“The one and only,” she said, smirking.