A/N: First Clarke/Bellamy fic I've ever written. I miss those two so much right now. :O This is basically a canon fic, that only very slightly alters the end of the season finale, and then pushes past it. I hope people read and enjoy it. Let me know what you think, I appreciate any feedback I can get.

"If you need forgiveness… I forgive you, Clarke." Bellamy's words are desperate, his voice nearly cracking with the emotion running through them. He can see it in her eyes, she's slipping through his fingers and he's only just got her back.

His hand finds hers, interlocking the fingers until their palms are flush, the heat between them pulsing with each heartbeat. He's afraid to repeat the question and scare her off like a skittish animal, so he just waits, and miracle of miracles she nods, leaning into the tug of his arm. Relief washes over him in a flood and he guides her back into the shelter.

That night, there's celebration. Their people are relieved to be free once again, but the tension that's just under the surface is like the taught skin of a wardrum, just waiting for a broad palm to slam down on it. It's guilt mixed with apprehension, and it makes everyone on edge. The raucous gathering that spontaneously erupts is the result of this this strange amalgamation of emotion, and it feels wrong to be so carefree, but everyone knows it can't last so they cling to it.

Clarke cannot stand it. She's haunted by the faces of the mountain people that will never again smile or dance in reckless abandon, and it's no surprise to Bellamy that when he glances out over the group of their friends that she's nowhere to be seen.

He knows exactly where he'll find her, holed in the the med bay all alone as she smudges lines of charcoal across the blank expanse of a wrinkled piece of paper. She hoards the alabaster sheets like they're gold, and in a sense they are. There's a limited amount of art supplies, and they're mostly still tucked away inside the mountain, a place she's certain she'll never re-enter.

She jumps when he touches her shoulder, as though his hands are made of ice, twisting around on the exam table to face him. He can see the goosebumps chase across the back of her neck, uncharacteristically exposed with her hair piled on top of her head. She looks so much younger with the golden locks swept away from her features. Her face is all round and innocent and he's overcome with the urge to cup her cheeks and draw her close to him, laying his forehead against hers. He's thought about it so many times that for a second he doesn't even realize that's exactly what he's doing.

"Bellamy…"

His name is a half whispered sigh, and he can feel it blowing out against his own lips. When he kisses her it's gentle, a tentative probing against the seam of her lips before his tongue darts in her mouth. She taste like… well, Clarke. The faintest hint of something sweet leftover from dinner, berries maybe, and something primal that he's been craving for longer than he can remember.

He's astonished at the way she responds, lifting her whole body closer, arms darting around his neck, pulling him tight with a strength he's seen in action many times, but never felt quite so acutely. All this happens so quickly, he can barely catalogue the sensations for future reference, but he tries with all his might. For some reason it all feels incredibly tenuous, like it's a dream he's about to wake up from.

He steps closer, notching himself between her legs. In response, her thighs lock around his and she pulls him down to the exam table, sweeping her sketches into the floor. The fluttering paper catches his eye, and he breaks away from her, unable to look away.

The likeness of Maya stares back up at him, her expressive face and wide eyes captured so expertly by Clarke's deft strokes. Bellamy's impressed with her skill, as always, but it isn't the likeness that stills his arms at her sides, rather it's the absolute horror on the girl's face, tears streaming down her soft cheeks. When he looks at Clarke again, his expression is pained, his chest constricting as he struggles to get the words.

Shaking her head, Clarke begins to cry. "No, Bellamy, please… I killed her."

This time when his arms go around her he crushes her to his chest, letting her sob against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He's never realized just how small she is, how incredibly fragile. He's never seen this side of her, and something inside of him shatters, sobs racking his own frame as they stand entwined.

"We're in this together, Clarke. Fifty/fifty." His voice is thick with the tears he's shed, but he has to tell her what he's thinking. "I'm still up in that mountain too."

"Only because I sent you there."

And there it is, a kind of anguish he's never heard before, so filled with regret it makes his heart stop in his chest. He pulls back, lifting the tail of his shirt to wipe the tears from her face. "No… I went because I had to. If you hadn't said it, someone else would have. It was our only option."

"Like flipping the switch? Was that our only option?" She's staring up at him, hoping for some kind of absolution or condemnation. The mountain people were not the only lost souls on earth.

"Yes." He's adamant, unyielding in his answer. It's what he tells himself everytime he thinks of the name 'Lovejoy' every time he closes his eyes and sees the shooting stars flaming out in the night, but she's already shaking her head no, pulling away.

"There had to be something else. There HAD to be." The resolution in her voice is terrifying, and when she shimmies just out of his reach, it's like he's lost a limb. "Clarke, no, please…"

He's begging her, something he never thought he'd ever find himself doing again. Begging for mercy had never gotten him anywhere, but he needs her to stay. As she walks through the med bay doors, he realizes with a start that she never agreed to stay with him, and that she'd always intended to leave. Perhaps she would have snuck out in the middle of the night when no one was looking, maybe left him a concise note explaining her decision.

He runs out after her, his boots slipping in the mud as he rounds the side of the lean-to. She's nowhere to be seen. He can hear the revelers a short distance away, chanting some song they'd recently learned from the grounders, banging on little drums nestled between their knees. The rhythm is frantic and it matches the beat of his heart as he dashes to the entrace of the camp, yelling her name. "Clarke!"

There's no response, and he doesn't see any flash of silver blonde hair in the moonlight, no matter how hard he searches. She's gone.