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Octavia, naturally, was the first one to notice.
It began with that hug. “The hug”, as she likes to say, complete with air quotes. It was just so unlike Clarke to be so unreserved, especially with her brother of all people. Clarke was just relieved that Bellamy had returned safely, Octavia had initially reasoned - after all, who wouldn’t feel that way for a friend?
But when Clarke lingered, her withdrawal slow, reluctant, as if she drew strength from Bellamy’s touch, his presence - Octavia wondered.
Monty, perceptive as he is, never put two and two together. Perhaps he was simply influenced by Jasper, who tended to think in shades of black and white - already labeling Clarke and Bellamy’s relationship from the start as sheer hatred at its worst, begrudgingly cooperative at its best.
At least, on the surface it appeared so, so Monty never questioned it. Until that nightmarish day when the fate of the 47 lay in precarious balance with the lives of the residents of Mount Weather.
A shared look, Monty realized then, could carry the weight of a hundred truths. A hand on top of the other could convey a bond impossible to fully express.
Since that day, Monty wondered.
Raven, understandably, never even considered it.
( To be fair, her attention was pretty much diverted by the whole Clarke & Finn thing. )
But when Raven, still then in Wick’s arms ( he insisted on carrying her all the way back, not that she complained ), saw Bellamy enter the camp with an odd gravity to his tread, a visible tenseness in his posture - she felt as if her heart would plummet down to her stomach.
She wasn’t certain how she knew, but when she looked past him, past his shoulder, searching for her and not finding her there - even with her usual loud-mouthed insistence, Raven couldn’t get down quite fast enough.
“Where did she go?” Raven demanded, and it only took one glance at his face. An expression she wore many times, she was certain, when she thought of Finn. And with that one look, Raven didn’t wonder.
She knew.