Work Text:
“Start with Bellamy Blake.”
“No,” Clarke tried to protest, but the sound lodged in her throat, as though if she didn’t say it, it wouldn’t really happen. All the while, her mind scrambled for a way out. There had to be one, there always was, she just had to —
Too late.
The doors banged open, and in came a horde — presumably chipped, definitely armed, most of them looking worse for wear. Bellamy’s form hung limply between two of them; the sight left Clarke torn between horror at his condition and pride that it had taken so many of them to subdue him. They’d discussed this outcome, if only briefly since neither of them liked to linger on the possibility, and even if Bellamy didn’t care nearly enough for his own well-being — had it been just his own life at stake, anyone who knew him could predict that he would go gentle into that good night — he would always fight like hell to keep his people safe.
Hands still literally tied, Clarke could only watch as they arranged the noose around his neck and placed a crate under his boots with mocking care. The two that had brought him in lingered, eyes fixed on Abby — no, ALIE.
“It doesn’t have to be this way, Clarke. All you have to do is tell us —”
She closed her eyes. I’m sorry, Bellamy. “No.”
ALIE cocked her head. “No?”
“He would never forgive me if I let you use him to make me give in,” Clarke said, as much as a reminder to herself as a plea for them to let him go. “I can’t.” Yet the words were only half true — knowing Bellamy, he’d more likely find some reason to blame himself for getting her into the situation.
ALIE paused, recalculating the situation given this new input, then turned back to the men awaiting her command. They kicked the crate out from under Bellamy’s feet.
The three seconds that followed felt like much, much longer to Clarke, three lifetimes in which her heart gasped for breath alongside him, before the doors slammed open again, this time accompanied by the hissing of gas.
Though he was the last person Clarke expected to see march into the room, Murphy was certainly a welcome figure as he strode straight to the man he himself once tried to hang, supporting the latter’s weight as one of his companions raced to cut the rope.
Clarke breathed a sigh as Murphy carefully lowered Bellamy to the ground, though her relief didn’t come until he began to cough.
Of course they weren’t out of the woods yet — when were they ever that lucky?
Weeks afterward, Bellamy was constantly in and out of the infirmary. Most of his external injuries were on their way to healing, but he had yet to regain something equally important to him as mobility: his voice.
“I just don’t know, Clarke.” There was regret and guilt in Abby’s eyes, and her listener was vindictively pleased — her mother should feel bad — only briefly before her own concern and guilt took over.
“He’ll live at least, though, won’t he?” Clarke detested the vulnerability in her voice; she wasn’t sure she had the right to feel so much proprietary worry over Bellamy’s condition when it was all her fault.
At that moment, Bellamy himself appeared in the doorway, a scrap of paper in his hand. He held it up.
I’ll be fine.
Clarke had to swallow down a sob as she threw her arms around him. He hugged her back, grip as firm as it had ever been, pressing his cheek against her hair.
After a moment, Abby spoke. “Medically, he should be stable. You’ll need to come see me right away if anything changes, Bellamy, but I’m officially discharging you. Get some rest, alright?”
He nodded, still not letting go of Clarke. Taking the hint, Abby retreated.
“Are you — do you want to go back to your room?” Clarke finally asked, reluctantly pulling back just enough to see his response.
He shook his head, pointing to her.
“You want to come to mine?” she guessed.
He nodded, a cautious question in his eyes.
“Of course.”
Noticing the way he hesitated, Clarke reached for his hand, squeezing gently.
Truth be told, they soon settled back into their rhythm with little change — even after it all, they were still Clarke and Bellamy; that was exactly the same as it had ever been. Except that Clarke’s best friend, her partner, had lost an integral part of himself. (No matter how much she used to tease him about enjoying listening to himself talking, especially back in the Dropship days, she knew how much it mattered to him to be able to speak up, to take action and effect change. And, if she was being completely honest, she’d liked to hear him talk, too.)
Lincoln had stopped by earlier — sans Octavia, though he thoughtfully reassured them that she was fine, just taking some time and space to figure things out — and he’d given Bellamy a small bound notebook. Until Raven and Monty worked out the major kinks of the tablet they were building for him, it would do.
Currently, Clarke and Bellamy were seated side by side in front of the newly reconstructed bar, swapping drinks and truths and the lead in their tic-tac-toe championship.
“I’m sorry,” Clarke blurted.
For what?
“Everything, really. All — this.” She gestured to the notebook lying between them. “I wish I could fix it somehow.”
His free hand found hers as he scribbled urgently. Losing my voice was worth it as long as you’re safe.
“But —”
To her surprise, that old teasing spark was back in Bellamy’s eyes. You miss my sexy deep voice already? he wrote, a smirk turning his cheeks up mischievously.
Clarke choked out a laugh. “Yeah, actually. Never thought I would, since there was a time when we couldn’t get you to shut up, but —”
His smirk widened as he toyed with the ends of her recently-trimmed hair. There was a suggestion, a teasing promise in the darkening of his eyes, and suddenly Clarke was hyperaware of how much she wanted him, had since those early days.
Finally, she had the courage to ask. “Are you coming home with me tonight?”
Confusion registered briefly in the raise of one eyebrow; they both knew it was a rare night when they didn’t sleep in the same bed. (Nothing prevented the nightmares that haunted them both, after all, but it was much easier to wake up next to your partner than have to burst into their room to make sure they were alright.)
Then he got it, what she was really asking, and his grin was heartstopping — answer enough in itself.
Small surprise. They’d always been able to communicate without words, even before they’d realized it themselves.