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Raven always thought Bellamy Blake was graceful. She remembers watching him move, envious, once, of the grace in his own steps. His legs were long and powerful, and still are, if she's to be honest with herself, and she had always wished to match him stride for stride.
She's always liked his hands, so big and warm, fingers slender but unable to pick a wire from its place in a motherboard. She always thought there was strength to be found there, in how he gripped his gun, in how he pressed his palm against his sister's back, in how he held one of the rare books they'd found in Mount Weather.
It's outside, when they're leaving the mountain after their second trip of pilfering it, that they're attacked. Grounders come from everywhere, or so she thinks its them. They scream a war cry she can't decipher, but it's one Bellamy reacts to too quickly.
She doesn't remember what happens after he shoves her out of the way. All she remembers is him falling.
*
In medical, Abby asks him, "Did you land on your hand?" Every time her fingers apply pressure to his wrist, he tries to stifle his own wince. Raven sees it as bright as day. She knows Abby isn't blind to it, either.
"I don't remember," he grits out. He glares at her, like Abby's the villain here. Sometimes Raven's convinced she is. She's that person in his stories who always seems nice and sweet, but is exposed mid-way through to be the one who had poisoned a bright and ripe apple.
"Turn your hand for me," Abby arches her brow and looks at him pointedly.
He tries to, but he grits his teeth and flinches. It'd been how he'd reacted back when she'd reached down to pull him up. He hadn't hesitated in accepting her offer, even though she suspects he's never once forgotten about her leg.
He'd flinched then, inhaled a sharp breath, and had almost sulked as he remained on the ground.
"No guard duty," she says. She reaches over to grab a roll of bandages, cleaner than any of their clothes after a hard scrub in alcohol and the small bars of soap they'd found in the mountain. "No guns. Nothing but rest until it heals."
Bellamy glares at her with the sharpness of a thousand knives. Raven can't help but smile.
*
Her smile falters once she realises he's planning to sneak out.
She storms into her workstation, finding him sitting at her bench, fiddling with the parts she can't quite figure out how to screw together. They're all odd, from different objects, from different machines.
She knows it's a sight to see her hobble with a stomp into her workstation, but when Bellamy glances up, he looks scared.
Good.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" her voice is a loud boom, a clap of thunder that's begun to frighten even her in the middle of the night. Without him beside her, she finds herself more scared of the dark these days.
"Sitting," he says. He looks her dead on, unblinking, guarded. She hates it when he retreats beneath his mask of being the chaotic guy who doesn't give a shit.
She hobbles over toward the workstation, pressing her hands against the edge as she stares at him. If she pins him down beneath a sharp gaze, he'll give. He always relents.
"You asked Wick to turn off the fence," she says, voice low and sounding almost calculated in how she strips it of her own hurt. But it doesn't last for long. She barks out, "Wick!"
He remains sitting, looking up at her with his hands pressed flat against the table.
"Are you going to say something?"
He presses his lips together and shakes is head. "No."
"You're not leaving," she says. She leans back and folds her arms across her chest. "Not while I'm here."
Bellamy cocks a brow. "You're not going to stop me."
"Like hell I'm not," she says. "You can't punch with your left hand, Bellamy. You suck at coordination even with your right."
He doesn't look impressed.
"Your wrist is a liability," she says. "You're not leaving."
"I can make it work."
"You're not leaving," she repeats. Her hands ball into fists and her toes curl on her right foot. Through gritted teeth, she hisses, "You're not leaving."
"We're going back into the mountain," he says. His voice is as guarded, stripped of emotion, as his face. He looks at her, but she wonders if he even sees her. "We missed something. Kane's too stubborn and up his own ass to see it."
Even though she knows there's still supplies they could use in Mount Weather, like more pain medication, like those damn beds in their infirmary, it seems like a stupid plan to her. She can already map out his route. He'll go through the front, where anyone watching the entrance can see, and walk inside the mountain like it doesn't scare him to return.
Her jaw clenches. Raven's unimpressed, and it shows in the line of her mouth. "Your wrist is fractured."
"So what?" He moves, then. It's only a shift against his stool, but he still moves. His mask is cracking. She takes her hammer and chisel and continues to strike against him sharply. "I've been worse."
"When there was no other option," she says, voice even. "When there was no other way. When there weren't people who are here to help us."
He cocks his brow. The corner of his lip quirks up, but she doesn't think it's cute. He's almost laughing at her with the simple curve. "You really think that?"
"No," she says. "But we can use them."
The moment she says it, she knows it won't be enough for Bellamy. It isn't for her, and she's easier to please these days if it means those in the guard leave her alone if she promises to not tinker with the electricity and power of Camp Jaha with her fingers crossed behind her back.
"I'm still going."
"No, you're not," she says, voice even.
"I am."
"No."
He sighs, voice growing angrier, "Raven."
"Your wrist is fractured. You're a good soldier, Bellamy." He seems to bristle at that. She could've called him a king, a monarch, a leader who is better without his princess. But she doesn't. She knows if she does, she'll only push him through that wiring he'd escaped through so many months ago.
She leans forward to fold her hands against the lip of the table. Looking him square in the eye, she notices how he seems almost hesitant. His own gaze is softer, no longer sharp. "But you're an idiot."
He remains quiet for a moment. "Someone has to."
"Miller and Jasper."
"They're not —"
"Octavia," she says. He quietens then. Her eyebrow arches as she speaks down to him, tone purposefully condescending, "Your sister is going. You're staying. She said she won't stay put if you leave with your wrist all mangled up."
Bellamy's mouth presses into a sharp line. "You and O —"
"We knew you'd be stupid," she says. "I have her on radio. The best damn radio in this hole. You're going to stay put and trust her."
His jaw clenches. His hands curl around the edge of the table. She watches how he winces as he forgets applying pressure to his right wrist hurts.
Stupid, she thinks, but she doesn't believe the pain to be deserving.
"Trust me," she says. She presses her hand against her chest. "You know I would never let anything happen to her."
Bellamy looks down. His hands slip from the edge of the table and into his lap. She isn't sure if she feels something inside of her deflate at his refusal to look at her.
"I know," he murmurs.
"I didn't let anything happen to you," she says softly. She shrugs a shoulder and smiles. "Except let you fuck up your hand. Who knew your only use was to hold a rifle and look pretty?"
He doesn't react for a few moments. She knows she's toeing a line here, one so dangerously thin she could fall either way. She could tip into his arms or far from them. But she knows, without a doubt, that he would push her out of the way of a spear or a Grounder launching themselves at her even if he was the one with the messed up leg.
She expects him to scold her with a lecture. She expects him to swivel on the stool she'd made him and walk away. She expects a lot from Bellamy Blake these days. She hadn't expected herself to be so content with leaning heavily on him.
He looks up with a smile. "You think I'm pretty."
She tries to bite down on the inside of her cheeks, but her smile continues to win out. She finds she wants to look away from him, and does so, letting her eyes rest on his shoulder. "Cute."
He sighs. "I won't go."
She remains quiet, waiting for the but to ruin everything. He's so good at that, detonating thick and impenetrable walls by simply aiming the tip of his rifle toward it.
"But I won't let O be alone, either."
Raven smiles. "I connected another radio up just for you, shooter."
When he looks up at her, she notices how he's finally allowed himself to look tired. Peering over the lip of the workbench, she notices how he's cradling his right wrist in his left hand. "Cute," he says, and she knows he's saying thank you.