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Her mark materializes when she’s ten- soft and hazy around the edges, a bloated full moon- and she thinks it’s a bruise.
“Does it hurt?” Her mother asks, pressing gently against her hip, fingers cool against her heated skin. Clarke shakes her head, fidgets when her mother continues probing at it; scraping her nail against the edges, dabbing at it with her pointer finger.
Her father tells her a story that night, of hubris and of greed, of greek gods and myth. She listens, wide-eyed, enraptured by his words, of the possibility of a soul mate.
“Are you mommy’s soul mate?” she asks as he cards his fingers through her hair, rubs soothing circles around her temples to lull her to sleep.
“I choose to be,” he says, easy, and that’s that.
Wells tell her that it’s a tattoo of sorts- permanent, binding- and also, rare. He says it with a trace of envy in his eyes, his palm resting against his own hip absentmindedly, fingers searching skin.
He’s wrong, but she doesn’t tell him that. The mark changes along with her, lines sharp and sweeping when she turns fourteen, pitch black when she’s sixteen. A living, growing being- just like her- and if she listens close enough, hand pressed against her hip, she swears she can hear its heartbeat.
The mark settles when she’s seventeen, a full moon, a perfect circle, dark and defined. There’s a sense of urgency now- eagerness and hunger as she kisses up throats and rucks up shirts- always followed by disappointment and yearning.
She’s seventeen when the ark starts to fail, choking on its final breath. Seventeen when her father dies, seventeen when she’s locked up in a cold, white box, four walls and no windows.
It turns out that there’s nothing much to do when you’re awaiting a death sentence, so Clarke mourns instead. She mourns for her father, for everyone else on the ark, for the soul mate whom she never got to meet. She draws familiar faces on the walls and when there is no one left, she draws the fleeting faces through the window, blurred and warped through a sheet of glass.
Her mother visits her when she is eighteen, tells her that she’s not dying.
“You’re safe,” she whispers fiercely against her neck, smoothing her hair away from her face, “you’re going to the ground instead. All one hundred of you.”
“I’m safe,” she parrots, ever the dutiful daughter.
But as they strap her into the dropship, the engine grinding and whirring under her, screams rising in pitch as they plummet through space, she can’t help but think, it’s still a death sentence anyway.
The impact doesn’t kill her, but it rattles her teeth, slams against her spine, and she keeps her hands clenched into fists, waiting for the infrastructure to fall apart.
Not a bad way to go, she thinks dryly, as the dropship screeches across earth, the sound jarring and disruptive, smashed to death upon impact, crushed by fiery debris.
They come to a halting stop, the metal walls groaning loudly in protest, Clarke’s fingers still curled over the thick strap of her seatbelt.
“Listen.” A boy says, shaking dust out of his hair, “No machine hum.” There’s a murmured assent in response before everyone breaks into uneasy muttering, fidgeting in their seats.
A fine layer of dust has settled over her clothes, her hair. She blinks, takes a slow, ragged breath. The air still tastes stale, like atmosphere and the ark. The lights above are a flickering strobe light, sporadic flashes of blood and bodies. Her eyes settle on a jagged metal pipe, one end still slick with blood, dust particles floating lazily.
“We made it,” Wells breathes, reaching over to unbuckle his seatbelt, hands trembling. And for a minute she forgets, her hands instinctively reaching out for his, accustomed to steadying his hand, to provide comfort. She draws away, unbuckles her own seatbelt instead.
“Not everyone made it.” she spits instead, jumping to her feet. She doesn’t stick around for his response, takes measured, careful steps down the ladder so she doesn’t slip on the blood.
“The outer door is on the lower level!” Someone shouts, and there’s a clattering of boots, the ladder trembling under her grip as others begin their descent. Clarke speeds up, narrowly avoids getting her fingers trampled by a heavy boot before she’s swallowed by the crowd, a wave pushing and jostling her to the front.
“Just back it up guys!” The voice is authoritative, commanding, and the people respond, forcing her back as she scrambles to push past them, panic seizing at her throat-
“Stop!” she yells, her voice hoarse and scratchy from hours of disuse. The reaction is instantaneous, most of them parting a way for her through, gazes wary as she charges forward, boots slamming loudly against metal.
The first thing she registers when she approaches him is the blood on his boots, crusted against his jaw. He turns to look at her, only partly illuminated by the flickering beam, features barely discernible and she knows him, she knows him-
Clarke knows him, and not in some vague sense, not a nameless stranger brushing up against her the compartments of the ark, not a face she’s seen across the dining hall. There’s something inherently familiar about him, something that pulls at her skin, settles into her bones. There’s no room for doubt or confusion, she knows him. She’s never met him, and she knows him.
His face is blank, impassive despite her staring, and she can see him clearer now that she’s standing closer to him. Older, a little taller than her, freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, shoulders tense and poised for a fight.
“The air could be toxic.” she says, fighting to keep her tone level.
He looks right at her, gaze assessing and calculating, lingering on her hair, the padded jacket her mother threw over her shoulders. His grip tightens over the handle of the lever, knuckles going white.
“If the air is toxic, we’re all dead anyway.” he retorts, but she notices the way his eyes drop to the curve of her hip, covered by the length of her shirt, and her breath catches in her throat.
“Bellamy?”
Clarke’s not expecting the crushing sense of relief, the flood of worry and fear rushing through her body disappearing with a shaky exhale when she sees the girl pushing her way to him. These aren’t her emotions, her thoughts, and the distinction is obvious.
She finds herself looking at him again, at the patch of skin covered by the dark pants worn by guards. There’s a name to the face now, Bellamy, and the word feels easy rolling off her tongue, natural.
“My god,” he breathes, face splitting into a wide smile, “look how big you are.”
The girl laughs, and Clarke can feel her weight pressed up against her body when she hugs Bellamy, her body relaxing instinctively. She digs her nails into the skin of her outer thigh, reminds herself not to get swept up in the moment, in feelings that are clearly not her own.
He leans down, resting his chin against the girl’s shoulders, his eyes meeting hers for the briefest of seconds.
“Where’s your wristband?” she interrupts, and he narrows his eyes at her, suspicious and wary all the same. Clarke arches her brow, stands a little taller when he glares. It’s oddly satisfying.
“Do you mind?” The girl snaps, “I haven’t seen my brother in a year.”
There’s a ripple of interest in the crowd, a derisive shout, “No one has a brother!”
“That’s Octavia Blake, the girl they found hidden in the floor!”
Octavia lunges out, nearly clipping her jaw, and she feels a flare of protectiveness, a undercurrent of exasperation-
“Octavia, no.” he yells, his arm banding over her waist and pinning her hands to her sides, “Let’s give them something else to remember you by.”
“Yeah?” she snaps, lip trembling, “Like what?”
Bellamy lowers his voice, sides of his mouth still turned upward, the smallest of smiles, “Like being the first person on the ground in a hundred years.”
He cuts his gaze over to her, daring for her to argue, then without further ado, pulls the lever.
She squints instinctively, throwing up her arms when a gust of wind slams against her face. Clarke coughs, blinks away the tears furiously as Octavia takes a cautious step forward, boot crunching against leaves.
There’s a lot more green than she thought there would be, and Clarke stretches her hand out tentatively, feeling the slight warmth of the sun against her skin before she pulls back. It’s too bright, and she has to strain her eyes to take everything in, drenched in sunlight and brighter than any of the lights powered by the ark.
“We’re back bitches!” Octavia screams, and the cheers start, a wave of bodies surging forward instantaneously, pushing past her.
The toe of her boot catches in the ledge of the walkway, and she stumbles, grabbing out at the metal wall just as someone pulls her back, feet dangling helplessly for a split second before she’s dropped unceremoniously back onto the ground.
“What, not even a thank you?” He smirks.
“If you’re holding your breath for one, you’re going to be waiting awhile.” she snaps, taking a pointed step away from him. Her skin feels prickly, electrified from where he had grabbed her waist, fingers skimming over her mark.
There’s a beat of silence, and she chooses the time to study him, to really look this time. She appraises the small, curved scar right by his top lip, the tightness of the jacket around his shoulders, all bronze skin and dark ruffled hair.
If Clarke had met him on the ark, between the dark winding corridors, in the midst of a crowd, she would have noticed him. She would have wanted him.
But this is earth, and her father’s dead, and nothing is the same anymore.
“Stay away from me, princess.” He threatens, pushing past her, and she gets the implication behind the words, loud and clear. Stay out of my head.
“With pleasure,” Clarke mutters, and she briefly contemplates if he can hear her too, if he feels what she does, before she tumbles out of the dropship, sucking in her first breath of oxygen on earth.
______________________
She can’t help but wonder how he manages to shape the words tumbling off his tongue, how he can transform them so entirely and seamlessly.
Clarke loses count of bare wrists and smug smiles, of dented pieces of silver buried under leaves.
“Whatever the hell we want!” he roars, and it becomes a war cry.
(She hates him.)
______________________
They lose five people in the first month, and it’s awful.
One of the boys is mauled by an animal in the dead of the night, skin ripped apart violently and intestines surging. They still bring him to her anyway, and she threads the needle through his skin, hands shaking the entire time as his body quakes beneath her. She only learns after that his name was Charles, and that he was fourteen.
He finds her when she’s burying the body, fingers still slick with blood and nails crusted with dirt.
“They need you at medical,” he says gruffly, kicking at the pile of dirt she’s unearthed with a makeshift shovel, “I think Monroe broke her thumb.”
“I’ll splinter it for her later.” she says thickly, wiping at her nose.
“He’s already dead,” Bellamy snarls, vicious, “leave it, won’t you?”
She flings her shovel against the ground- nothing more than a dented piece of metal attached to a seat belt strap, a toy- reaches out and shoves at his chest instead.
“Fuck you,” Clarke says gritted teeth, “Show some respect.”
“This isn’t the ark anymore, princess. Not your kingdom in the sky, where things always work out.” he sneers, stepping right into her space, a hair’s breadth away, “We’re on the ground now. You have to get used to people dying around here.”
She wants to fight back, to tell him he’s wrong, venom building against the back of her throat, poised to spit. But he’s hurting too- he feels as wretched as she does, feels responsible for what happened to Charles (He’s supposed to take care of them, all of them)- and this is the way Bellamy deals with it, by lashing out.
Clarke shudders, tries to push back at his flood of emotions, the acute sense of loss, the lingering disappointment. There’s regret too, she knows, for taking it out on her and she can’t fathom how she’s able to resent him and understand him, all at once.
“You’re right,” she says instead, “I should get used to it. But he still deserves a grave.”
She picks up the shovel again, tries to ignore the sensation of the dirt digging into her knees as she covers the body. Bellamy doesn’t leave- just stands there, hands by his sides, limp- and she wishes that she liked him enough to comfort him, to assure him that it wasn’t his fault. Tell him that he’s not the only one responsible, that he’s not in it alone.
Clarke presses down against the dirt with the end of her shovel, stamps on it a few times so it lies flat. She’s sweating now, beads of it slipping into her bra, against the back of her neck.
“Here,” he says, quiet, handing her a rock, a grave marker and a peace offering. His convoluted way of apologising. She takes it, lays it down gently onto the earth.
“He was only fourteen,” she tells him, her voice catching.
“I know.” he responds, hand reaching up to wipe at her face gently, thumb snagging against skin to wipe off a streak of dirt. This is the first time he’s touched her ever since the first day on the ground, and her skin burns under it, leaves a trail of ashes in it’s wake. She clamps her hands to her sides, suppresses a shiver.
Bellamy drops his hand back to his side, flexing his fingers, jaw clenched.
“Why are you still hanging about?” he snaps, all traces of vulnerability from before gone, “Monroe’s waiting for you.”
“I don’t take orders from you.” she spits, shoving him in the shoulder as she strides away.
She wakes up the next day to the crackling of trees, the muted thump of them falling to the ground. She smiles up at the worn material of her tent, see-through and riddled with holes.
It really says something about them, she thinks. She chooses to bury the bodies. He chooses to build walls.
______________________
Wells gets into a fight with John Murphy, and he doesn’t come to the med bay after. Clarke doesn’t ask him to either.
She’s doing inventory when Bellamy comes stomping in, soaking wet and hair plastered against his forehead.
“Why is Jaha tracking blood wherever he goes instead of coming to you?” he demands.
“Why are you asking me? Ask him.” she says acidly, slamming the drawer shut with enough force to rattle the cabinet.
“Unbelievable,” Bellamy says, glaring, “I thought you were better than this.”
“Excuse me?” She can feel her hysteria rising, her throat tightening- a sure sign of tears to come- hands curling into fists, “This isn’t some petty grudge or adolescent drama that you think it is-”
“I know,” he interrupts, “I know exactly what this is about. That’s the problem.”
“I’m not following,” she says, and she hates how her voice falters at the end of the sentence, how she’s on the brink of crying at just the mention of her father.
“Was Wells the only one he knew?” he says, eerily calm.
“Look, he has to be the one, it’s the only logical-”
He makes a frustrated noise, reaches out and places his palms against her shoulders, grounding her. “You’re missing the point, Clarke. Who else knew?”
His gaze is steady, the pressure on her shoulders gentle, pitying almost. She blinks away the moisture gathered behind her eyelids, stares down at Bellamy’s shoes.
“Think about it,” he says quietly.
(She confronts Wells after, and she can’t help but think that whoever said the truth will set you free was a filthy liar.)
______________________
At first, it’s nothing but a silver glint in the sky, a wink in the night. Then it begins to burn, arcing across the sky in a burst of fiery glory, and they do as delinquents do.
They start a betting pool.
“Meteor,” Octavia says, all confidence and conviction, “I’ll bet you a week’s worth of my lunch.”
“Like your brother would let you starve,” Miller grouses, “latrine duty for a week instead?”
They shake on it, and Clarke watches, exasperated, as a eager Miller notes it down in a threadbare notebook, handwriting neat and block-like.
“You’re taking this very seriously,” she deadpans, taking a bite out of her rabbit.
“This is serious business,” he counters, before throwing her a unexpected grin, “wanna get in on this, princess?”
“No thank you,” she says primly, poking out her tongue when he nudges her with his elbow.
“It’s coming down!” Jasper yells, jumping to his feet, and there’s a burst of excited, frenzied chatter- white noise to Clarke’s ears- as she scrambles to her feet as well, watching it descend, shaking the earth gently when it disappears behind a clump of trees.
“Maybe it’s a spaceship,” Monty muses.
“Alien life form.” Jasper agrees, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly.
“Or it could be from the ark,” Clarke breathes, and she tries to tamper down the hope blooming in her chest, tries to remain realistic, “something sent down to help us.”
“That’s got to be it,” Octavia says, tugging on a stray lock of hair that has unwinded from her ponytail, “We should go check it out.”
“No.” Bellamy cuts in, “It’s too dark. We’ll go tomorrow morning.”
Clarke scoffs, pushes herself off her seat, “You’re kidding right?”
He glares, working his jaw, and she can feel the unease radiating off him, the scramble to stay in control, “You want to be held accountable if someone gets hurt?” He says through gritted teeth.
“What are you trying to hide?” she retorts, the words rolling off her lips seamlessly, and she must have struck a nerve because he physically recoils from her, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.
“It’s for our safety.” he says weakly.
“Bullshit,” Clarke seethes, “you’re just a coward-”
“Clarke, please.” His voice is low, pleading, and the words die in her throat. It’s not just unease now, but pure unadulterated panic and fear. She doesn’t need to look at his hands to know that they’re shaking, can practically feel the tremors against her spine.
“What’s going on?” she hisses, lowering her voice, valiantly attempting to push away at Bellamy’s overwhelming emotions, “You have to tell me.”
He wets his lips, the look in his eyes considering, “It’s better if you don’t know.” he says finally, and Clarke nearly stomps her foot in frustration.
“You know I’ll just figure it out eventually, right?”
He sighs, rolling his eyes, but she doesn’t miss the twitch by the corners of his lips, the way he bites at his cheek to keep from smiling, “I don’t doubt it, princess.”
(It sounds almost fond coming from his mouth, and she hates how pleased that makes her feel.)
“Bellamy’s right,” she says instead, raising her voice over the groans of disappointment, “we’ll go tomorrow at first light.”
The crowd scatters quickly after that, darting back to their tents or grouping together by the fire, most of them grumbling under their breath about wasted opportunities.
“Buzzkill,” Someone mutters, shoving past her, and she can’t help but scowl in response, because teenagers-
“They respect you,” Bellamy muses, “and they sure do listen to you. But I’m not sure they like you very much.”
“How can they,” she says sarcastically, “when there’s you around, constantly vying for their attention?”
He heaves a dramatic sigh, tapping his elbow against hers, surprisingly friendly, “I can’t help it that I’m popular.”
The laugh bubbles out of her before she can stop it and she tries to play it off as a cough instead, hacking into her palm.
Clarke’s heading off to her tent when he stops her, fist twisted in the sleeve of her jacket almost shyly.
“Thanks,” he says, earnest and miserable all at once, light by the fire casting flickering shadows against his face. And the memory surfaces, unbidden, of the day they came to earth, of the blood on his skin, crusted against his shoes.
“It’s something bad, isn’t it?” she whispers.
He avoids her searching look, but she feels the shame all the same anyway, the pulsing sense of regret and fear.
“Go to bed.” he mutters, pushing her towards her tent lightly.
“You’re an idiot.” she tells him in response, punctuating the statement with a sharp zip of the tent flap.
It’s difficult to fall asleep after, and Clarke spends an hour stewing in frustration and intrigue, staring up at the thin walls of her tent while probing at Bellamy’s confused state of emotions. She wishes that she had a better understanding of this link they have but it slips through her fingers every time she tries to grasp at it.
It’s hard, she reasons, to try and catch something that feels like it’s fluctuating constantly, something intangible and different, alive. She rests her fingers against the mark, drowsy with sleep, wonders if she’s imagining the beat she feels under skin.
She drifts off eventually, dreams fractured and disjointed, all rippling lines and sharp teeth, blood and gunpowder. Her palms are sweaty, gun held loosely in her hand, and the noise it emits when she fires is loud enough to split her skull-
Clarke jerks awake, gasping wildly, still shaking from the adrenaline rushing through her veins, pushing down the instincts that screams at her to run.
She pulls on a shirt and trudges over to Bellamy’s tent.
He sleeps on his stomach, arm thrown over the bed carelessly, mouth lax and hair sticking up in wild tufts. There’s no girl pressed up against his side tonight, and she heaves a sigh of relief for not having to awkwardly evict his latest conquest.
It’s annoying, having to wake up to a wet stripe against her underwear, limbs loose and sated, and she can’t help but brood about it throughout the day because it’s not like she’s lacking sweethearts-
Anyway.
Clarke kicks off her boots before poking at his shoulder, putting a tremendous amount of force behind it, more of a pointed jab.
“Wake up.” she growls. He only murmurs something in response, turning over so his back is facing her, and she feels a surge of irritation for Bellamy Blake.
She kicks at his makeshift bed instead, yanks at the blanket wrapped around his torso.
“Bellamy, if you don’t get up right this second-”
Clarke grabs onto the stretch of exposed skin by the small of his back, pinches hard. This finally elicits a yelp from him, his legs kicking out at her wildly and she shrieks when he grabs ahold of her, cool metal pressed against her neck.
“Are you crazy?” she gasps, pushing at his arm, and he blinks at her, as if he’s finally seeing her-
“Clarke?” He scrambles off her, and she realises belatedly that he’s only in his underwear, hastily averting her eyes to his face.
“Who sleeps with a knife under a pillow?” she mutters, rubbing at her neck.
“I feel safer this way,” His voice surprisingly small, weary.
She folds her legs over one another, shifting against his lumpy cot as she tries to settle into a comfortable position. She gets a little distracted watching the movement of his throat when he swallows, the hint of sweeping lines against his hip when he shifts.
Clarke gulps, thanks the deities when he shifts, obscuring that patch of skin with his elbow before he yanks his shirt over his head.
“I’m guessing that this isn’t a social call?” Bellamy says dryly.
“You killed Jaha.” she shoots back, feels a grim sense of satisfaction when he flinches, inhaling sharply.
“So what?” he replies, brusque, tightening his grip around the knife, “He deserved everything-”
“You did it for Octavia,” Clarke interrupts, “don’t you see? You were manipulated into doing it, Shumway took advantage-”
“I still did it anyway!” he explodes, pushing off from the bed, “I could have walked away-”
“Oh, and leave her to fend for herself?” She gives an incredulous laugh. He glares, still frantically pacing the length of his tent, and she catches his wrists when he tries to take another lap.
“Bellamy.”
“They’re going to kill me when they come down, aren’t they?” He gives a bitter laugh, lurching on his feet. “Execute me right in front of Octavia.”
He doesn’t pull away from her touch, so she slides her hands down to his instead, locking their fingers together. He shivers, squeezes her hand lightly as his body relaxes, releasing a shaky exhale.
“The wristbands,” she says, tapping lightly at his wrist, tracing at the bone with her pointer finger until he relaxes fully again, “yhat was a part of your stupid master plan, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says heavily, “I wanted them to think that we were all dying. That earth was uninhabitable.”
“That was clever. For you at least,” she teases and Bellamy groans lightly, slumping down to the ground.
“I’m glad you still see the humour in this situation.”
“Well, it’s funny when you’re being so dramatic.”
They lapse into silence, Bellamy’s hand still curled over hers absentmindedly, his thumb rubbing circles into her skin. She stares at the back of his head, heart pounding irrationally quickly, and it’s better that he’s not looking at her, gives her the courage to say-
“You know I’m going to help you, right? I won’t let them kill you, not without a fight.”
He doesn’t respond- doesn’t have to- she senses his hesitance, the awe and gratefulness.
It’s novel to Bellamy, she realises, to have someone fight for him, to have someone want to protect him. Atlas, she thinks, heart pounding a jagged rhythm against her rib cage, and she wishes she could tell him that she’ll hold up the sky with him too, if only he’d allow it.
“We’ll go retrieve whatever it is that came down tomorrow morning,” Clarke murmurs, pulling away gently, “You should get some sleep.”
She’s struggling with the laces of her boots, frustratedly picking at a stubborn knot when he says, “You don’t have to go.”
She nearly falls over her feet at that, having to grab onto the edge of his cot to prevent from hitting the ground, “What?”
“You could stay. I’ll take the floor-” He keeps his eyes on the blanket below him while picking at the stray threads, and she tries not to show how charmed she is by his nervousness.
Clarke shucks off the boots again, peeling off her socks smoothly. “I always sleep on the right,” She says quickly and before she can lose her nerve, settles herself against his pillow, her bare toes brushing against his kneecap.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind the-”
“Bellamy,” she says with exaggerated patience, “you’re the one who asked me to stay.”
He flushes all the way up to the tips of his ears, ducks his head when she arches her brow, “Right.” He mumbles and she turns away when he yanks at his shirt, turning her body away from him so she wouldn’t be tempted to look.
The cot creaks when he presses his weight against it, her shirt rustling against his bare back when she shifts, obnoxiously loud in the silence.
“Night.” Bellamy murmurs, his voice already hazy with sleep.
“Night,” She mutters in response, her foot coming to rest against the back of his leg. She holds her breath, waits for him to pull away.
He doesn’t respond, his breaths even and measured and he must already be asleep, she thinks drowsily, her eyelids growing heavy-
He slides his other leg over hers, entangling them, weight over hers heavy and comforting. She bites back her smile, presses her face deeper into his pillow as Bellamy begins to snore.
______________________
She wakes up, lips dry and mouth tasting like cotton to the sight of Bellamy pressed up against her.
He’s stupidly heavy, crowding her with his head pressed against her sternum and his arms banded over her stomach tightly. She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, because who would have thought, Bellamy Blake, a cuddler?
She jiggles her knee against his thigh, huffs loudly, “Wake up.”
He groans, mumbles something under his breath, voice hoarse and scratchy as his arms tighten around her torso.
“You’re using my boobs as a pillow,” she says especially loud, but judging from the soft snuffling noises he’s making, she’s pretty sure that he’s fallen back asleep. Idiot.
Clarke gives a experimental wriggle, tries to push her way to freedom, but she’s pretty sure she’s fighting a losing battle from the way he sinks against her, muscles slackening-
“I will elbow you in the face if you don’t get off me.” she threatens, painstakingly extricating her arm from his chokehold, “I’ll give you five seconds. Five, four-”
She shoves at him impatiently when she gets to three, elbowing him in the ribs hard-
He yelps when he hits the ground with a muted thump, and Clarke swears when pain shoots along her spine, skittering down to her ankles. “Holy shit,” she breathes, sitting up and scrambling to the edge of the bed, “Bellamy. I felt that.”
“You felt what?” he grumbles, joints cracking as he staggers to his feet, “guilty, I hope.”
“Please,” she says dismissively, “I meant, when you fell. It hurt, right? I felt it too.”
He stops in his tracks, gives a strangled sound of disbelief, “Seriously?”
“No I imagined it,” she says, rolling her eyes, “I just made it up to-”
He’s still standing there, clearly exasperated, arms crossed over his bare chest, boxers riding ridiculously low on his hips and all she can see is the moon on his hip, dark lines and inky black, hers.
She shouldn’t be surprised- logically, she knew that he had it for months- but it feels different now, actually looking at it, seeing it clear against his skin. Real.
Bellamy clears his throat, shifting his weight to the other foot, and she has to keep herself from smiling stupidly at how endearing it is when he’s unsure of himself.
“Can I,” he pauses, struggling for the words, “do you-”
“Here,” she says awkwardly, lifting the hem of her shirt.
She lets him trace it with his fingers, breath shaky against her skin as she tries to keep as still as possible, tries not to squirm when his nails accidentally grazes her side.
“Sorry,” He says immediately, pulling back, “it’s just,” He pauses, exhaling shakily, “wow. They’re exactly the same.”
“Not what you were expecting?” she says, dry.
“You weren’t what I was expecting.” he counters, reaching up to sweep her hair behind her ear. “You know what this means, right?”
“That I’m probably going to be stuck with you for awhile?” she sighs, “Yeah. It’s terrible.”
“The worst,” he agrees gravely, “you’re a real pain in the ass.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Then there’s a shout in the distance, the rumble of the gates being opened, and Bellamy tenses, cursing “Octavia,” under his breath before leaping to his feet and grabbing at his clothes, “she must have left without us.”
“Fuck,” she mutters, fumbling with the zipper of the tent, wincing as her knuckles scrape against the teeth before she finally gets ahold of the zipper, breaking into a run towards the gate.
“Jasper!” she screams, and at this point, she’s not sure if the panic she’s feeling is hers or Bellamy’s, “did you let Octavia out?”
“No!” He insists vehemently, “Clarke, I let her back in.”
“You what?”
“She’s back,” he says, tripping over his words in his haste to get them out, “she’s in the med bay with-”
She spins on her heel, heading for the opposite direction, pulling at Bellamy’s arm once he catches up. There’s already a crowd by the med bay when she arrives, all of them pushing and jostling at each other to peer in, one step away from descending into total and utter pandemonium.
Then she hears a gun go off, followed by a few piercing shrieks, chaos slowly subsiding when they realise it’s Bellamy.
“Get back to your posts,” he barks, still glaring as he slides the gun into the waistband of his pants, “now.”
The crowd clears quickly after that, shooting Bellamy furtive glances and muttering darkly. She hides her smile behind her palm, has to resist the urge laugh at his disgruntled expression.
“Guess who’s more well-liked now,” Clarke says, smug.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, pushing past her and into the tent.
She’s not sure what she had been expecting when she enters- maybe supplies sent from the ark, or parts from a crashed space shuttle- but a girl is definitely not one of them.
There’s a nasty gash by the side of her temple, skin streaked with blood and she scowls when Octavia pulls the needle through, her stitches clumsy and uneven.
“What the hell is this?” Bellamy snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.
“It’s a girl,” Octavia snaps, snipping at the thread, “now I know you haven’t met many of them, but this is just getting ridiculous, Bell.”
“Real nice of you-”
“Enough,” she says, exasperated, shoving past Octavia so she can assess the stitches. They’re crude and probably bound to leave but a scar but they’ll do. The girl has her arms crossed over her chest, clearly amused as they squabble, her legs dangling loosely over the edge of the table.
“Do I get a name?” Clarke asks, and when she smiles- all teeth, confident and bright and a little feral- she can’t help but think that this is a girl that she wants on her side. (She’s also unfairly attractive, so Clarke might be a little biased, but still.)
“Raven,” She says, sliding off the table and offering her hand to shake, “and I guess you could say that I’m the messenger.”
______________________
The months that follow after are better. Not great, no, but better.
They have a actual greenhouse now, a water filtration system, a kitchen. The first time Monty presents her with a small, oddly shaped potato- grown from seeds they found in a bunker- she actually shrieks in joy, because finally.
Raven makes them walkie-talkies, sets up a communication room so they can confer with the ark. She tinkers with the guns they find in a bunker, makes them bullets, fashions spears and fishing rods out of scrap metal and wood. (No one really gets the hang of fishing except for Wells, who reels in three trouts on his first try.)
Bellamy starts building cabins when it gets colder, draws up plans for a dining area and a smokehouse. There’s been some talk about building a communal shower area- essential during winter, when the lakes are frozen over- with Bellamy’s insistence that if Raven can rig up a water filtration system, she can definitely figure out some pipes.
It’s not so much surviving now as it is living.
They start being able to afford small luxuries: eating on makeshift plates, having garnish on their food, trips to the lake so the younger ones can learn how to swim. It’s strange, not having the constant threat of survival dangling over their heads. It takes Clarke a while to acclimate to their new situation, to learn that they now have space and time to enjoy themselves, to grow.
She’s adapting to Bellamy too- and the bond they share- able to pick up on his emotions, to separate them from her own, to sense when he’s hurt and trying to hide it. There’s time to learn about each other now; to discover their quirks, their habits, their bodies.
The first time he kisses her, slow and soft and gentle, she pulls at his hair, deepening the kiss until he relents, groaning into her mouth as he lowers her against the table, his knee wedged between her thighs. (They don’t get to go much further because Octavia bursts in, complaining about having a weird rash and if anything is a boner killer, it’s definitely the mention of a rash in an inappropriate place.)
She likes how easy it is to be affectionate with him, how even the lightest of touches can be reassuring. He likes to squeeze her hip when he comes up next to her, a reminder that he’s there, fingers ghosting over the mark and sending shivers down her spine. Their kisses in public are quick and chaste, with Bellamy always tracing the mark through the fabric of her clothes, a force of habit, their little secret.
He gets distracted whenever she does the same, gliding her fingers over the patch of skin, applying a little pressure with her nails. They’re discussing the cabins to be built, her hand up his shirt when he slips up, mentions ‘our cabin’ in passing. (She teases him about it all day after, only relents when he starts to get sulky, muttering, “Well, if you don’t want to,” under his breath.)
Their cabin is situated in the middle of camp, right in the thick of it all, accessible by most. It’s convenient especially because their cabin is between Miller’s and Raven’s, so there’s no need to cross the length of the camp just to conduct meetings and arrange schedules.
The only drawback is having to stay quiet when Bellamy is kissing down her neck, having to muffle their moans against shoulders and into pillows. It’s particularly hard when he’s tracing the mark with his tongue, biting at her hipbone, and she has to stuff her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out.
“You did that on purpose,” she breathes, accusatory, as he slides back up to kiss her full on the lips, grinning.
“Maybe,” he says, easy, and she rests her head against his chest, drapes her thigh over his while he slips an arm around her shoulders.
Clarke’s drifting off when she hears the shouts, when she catches a glimpse of something hurtling down from the sky, movements jerky and unsteady, a dark shadow in the horizon.
“Bellamy,” She shakes him awake, throws him his shirt, “the ark’s coming down.”
He peers out of the window, still bleary from sleep, mutters a fuck under his breath before he begins to dress.
She senses his unease before she sees it, the undercurrent of anxiety as he fumbles with his belt.
“Hey,” She darts over to him, runs her hands against his sides, “you’ve been pardoned, remember? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
He laughs, a shaky exhale against her skin when he rests his forehead against hers. They’re still for a moment, just taking each other in, his hands tangling in her hair.
“Just feels like everything is about to change.” he admits, closing his eyes, and she reaches up to kiss his eyelids, a swift peck to his mouth.
“Some things don’t,” she reminds him, sliding her hands down to trace the mark by his hip, silence reassurance, I’m with you, I’m with you, I’m with you.
He opens his eyes, and she can feel him smile against her mouth, the sweep of his thumb over her cheekbone.
“Some things don’t,” he agrees.