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Marcus Kane looks at the boy in front of him and immediately berates himself. After everything that Bellamy Blake has done to keep their people safe, calling him a boy, even if it's only to himself, isn't only a disservice but wholly dishonest.
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair, thinking through the different ways to break this last bit of news to Abby. His ruminations are only interrupted by the sound of Bellamy jerking himself awake after accidentally allowing his head to droop onto his chest. Bellamy shoots him an apologetic glance, but all Marcus can really see are circles under Bellamy's eyes that are so dark they look like bruises, the weariness that hangs on his entire frame, how young and vulnerable he looks in the harsh morning light.
He reaches out and lays a hand on Bellamy's shoulder. "Thank you for telling me what happened. And about Clarke. Now, go and get some rest. There are free beds in Section 3." He lifts a hand between them when Bellamy begins to protest. "Your friends will be alright. Right now, the best thing you can do for them is to get some sleep. Then we can all figure out where to go from here." Bellamy looks torn for a moment, but exhaustion quickly overtakes him. He nods and leaves the room, leaving Marcus alone to contemplate his next step.
He wants desperately to sleep but knows that the moment he closes his eyes, all he'll see is Abby strapped to the operating table, eyes wide with fear and pain. Besides, he wants to be right by her side the moment she wakes up.
He thinks about the night before, walking next to her on the trip back from Mount Weather. He had caught glimpses up ahead of him of Raven in Wick’s arms, her head resting on Wick’s shoulder. For a moment he’d been overcome with an overwhelming, irrational wish to be twenty years younger, just so he could scoop Abby into his arms instead of walking next to her stretcher. He smiles to himself when he recalls the sound of Abby’s quiet laughter at that moment. He’d apparently been more exhausted than he realized and had voiced that unreasonable desire out loud, much to her great amusement. The sound of her laughter, so sorely missed, had been enough to make his lack of filter worth it. She had grabbed his hand then and squeezed it, not letting go until she had to be put under anesthesia.
Even now it feels strange to be away from her. He hasn’t been farther than five feet from her for the past two days. Hasn’t really had her far from his peripheral vision for longer than that. But his hovering next to the surgery table had grown so irritating to Jackson that he’d finally been banished from the medical bay and gone looking for Clarke.
His brow furrows at the thought of Clarke and he massages his temples in an effort to keep a rising headache at bay. If he’s honest with himself, he isn’t really surprised that she’s gone. She had come to walk next to him and Abby during the course of the night, brushing hair out of her mother’s sleeping face and kissing her softly on the forehead. Her eyes had traveled to their entwined hands and settled on Marcus’s face, studying it for a moment with an impassive look in her eyes. Finally, she had looked down at her mom and said, “Thank you for taking care of her.” He’d nodded and replied with, “Of course.” Her eyes had flicked to their hands again. After a moment, she spoke again. “You care about her.” It hadn’t been a question, but she had paused to give him time to interject all the same. He had known that he could say that he’s known her a long time, that she’s his friend, that she is Chancellor, and he knew that those things were the truth but that they also weren’t. And he had just been so tired of living in half truths. So instead he had said nothing and waited for her to continue. She had looked at him appraisingly then and nodded. After a moment, she had continued. “I’m glad. She trusts you. And I know you’ll take care of her.” She had shot him a small smile then and kissed her mother’s forehead once more before retreating to the back of the line with Bellamy.
He realizes now that she had already made up her mind. Had waited until her mother was sleeping to keep her goodbye simple and painless. He wants to believe that she’s selfish for leaving, wishes he could raise his ire that she had left her mother without any real goodbye. And a part of him believes both of those things. But mostly he hopes that she can find who she is once more now that she doesn’t have to bear the weight of 47 other lives.
He's knocked out of his reverie with the arrival of Jackson at the door of the conference room. "Abby is fine," he says before Marcus can even get a word out. "She's still sleeping but the anesthesia should wear off in the next 20 minutes or so." Marcus nods his thanks to him and rushes over to the medical bay. He sees Abby lying on a hospital bed in the far corner, and for a moment all he can hear is the sound of a drill mixed in with her screams. He flexes his hands just to remind himself that they're not bound by handcuffs but only red and raw, a bleeding testament to his inability to do anything to help her in that godforsaken prison.
He stands next to her bed and grips the hand rails. Swears to himself that he'll never get that close to losing her again. Because the truth is, Marcus Kane has spent his entire life losing Abby Griffin in one way or another (he can still remember the hurt on her face as the moon rose in the ink black sky; the quiet pleading on her lips that December day; the steely glare in her eyes as he looked at her across the table). It's only recently that life has surprised him by giving him chances to find her once again.
Except for last night. Last night he would have lost her and no amount of redemptive acts or daredevil stunts could have brought her back.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Swallows back the echoes of her pain, clamps down on the residual feelings of despair and desperation and tries to focus on what's right in front of him. Once more he attempts to think of a way to tell her that Clarke is gone in a way that will hurt the least. Instead, he finds himself studying her face, a seeming luxury after months (years, if he's really being honest) of furtively sneaking glances at her. In her waking hours, worry and frustration seem permanently etched into the lines of her face. In sleep, her face holds an expression of openness and peace that he hasn't seen since they were children growing up together on the Ark. He finds her just as beautiful now as he did then, though he wishes that there was more calm and less world weariness about her now. It's a stupid, selfish thing to want, he knows, especially when he also knows he's partially to blame for that exchange. Too many bitter choices. Too many lives they've lost and taken.
She whimpers slightly in her sleep, the look of peace replaced with a crinkled brow and down turned mouth. He moves his hand to her face, brushes his fingertips across her forehead and down her cheek, tucks a few wayward strands of her hair behind her ear. She sighs, and the tension in her face eases. He continues the motion until the lines of worry relax completely, until he's just brushing phantom strands of hair off her face. He's proud of the way his hand barely shakes, even though he's wanted to do this for longer than he's really willing to admit.
Her hand comes up to cover his and he stills his motions, opens his hand so that he's cupping her face. She leans into him and smiles, eyes fluttering open slowly.
"Hi," she breathes up at him. He smiles back down at her.
"How are you feeling?" He asks.
She huffs a small laugh. "Ugh." Is all she replies. She looks down at her blood smeared shirt and torn jeans. "About exactly how I look right now."
"You look beautiful." He finds himself saying before he can really think it through. He doesn't take it back though because it's true, it's always been true, and he can remember the thousand and one times he's wanted to say it but swallowed it back down instead. He's tired of having his throat burn with all the things he's held back from saying to her.
A look of shock crosses her face momentarily before transforming into a blazing smile. She lets go of his hand by her face and reaches up to brush the hair back out of his eyes. "Liar." She teases.
He laughs. "I think we can both agree that I'm always annoyingly truthful with you." She laughs in turn and nods, looks up at him with unfiltered warmth and affection. He grins back down at her, though he has to forcibly clamp his free hand down on the bed rail to keep himself from scooping her face into his hands and kissing her. Instead, he turns his face into her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist before bringing it back down and twining their fingers together.
This is all selfish, he knows, but he aches for one honest moment of affection with her before he has to tell her about Clarke and she turns herself into finely cut granite once more to guard against the hurt. Already he can see her looking away and past him, eyes searching for the one thing that means the most to her.
He squeezes her hand and her eyes shift over to him. She must see the look of concern in his eyes because the smile slides off of her face, replaced by her ever present expression of worry.
“Abby,” he starts quietly, like the next moment might break her, “Clarke is gone.”