A/N: So, CW's The 100 is my new obsession and this is my lousy attempt to contribute to the fandom. Please, please R&R! I neeeed feedback.

"Clarke, I can tell when you're lying."

She huffed, brushing her hair out of her face as she stormed past him. "I'm not lying, Bellamy. I really am okay, I just need—" She trailed off, digging through a box of makeshift medical supplies and getting distracted for the third time in as many minutes.

He groaned, "Clarke, could you please—"

She waved her hand in his face, shushing him while she continued to glare at various empty shelves. "No, no I'm listening. I just need to find the bandages…"

He raised his voice so everyone in the ramshackle med tent could easily hear him. "Can someone please get our medic some bandages? Is that really too much to ask?"

One of her interns hurried up, muttering apologies and shoving what looked like a wad of seaweed into Clarke's hands. She smiled apologetically and thanked the girl, then turned back to the patient on her examination table.

It had been an accident, more than anything else. No Grounders, this time. No river monsters or acid fog. Just good, old-fashioned nature. But being raised on the Ark meant none of them knew the warning signs, and before they knew it a dozen teenagers on a plant-gathering expedition were caught in a rockslide. None of the wounds were life threatening, but there were enough cuts and scrapes and potential concussions to keep Clarke busy for hours. Which Bellamy knew meant that she hadn't stopped to treat any of her own injuries.

"Clarke." At this point she was just ignoring him, already knowing what he was going to say, so he elbowed his way in front of her, blocking her view of the patient. She rolled her eyes, but he spoke before she could. "Clarke. Are any these injuries fatal?"

"I need to check that boy for a concussion, Bellamy." He just looked at her, arms crossed, until she answered his question. "None of the wounds appear fatal, no. But I still need to check everyone, including the patient that you are currently standing in front of."

Without responding, Bellamy took the small flashlight from her hands and turned to face the young teenager on the examination table. He wordlessly checked his eyes and reflexes and looked him over for any major scrapes that hadn't already been bandaged. "You're good to go." The boy hesitated, looking questioningly at Clarke, who rolled her eyes again but nodded and excused him.

"You know how to check for concussions?"

"They give all cadets basic first aid training. And," he looked at her pointedly, "if I can do it so can any of your very well-trained interns. There's only four more injured people to examine, and it won't do anyone any good if you're incapacitated tomorrow because you refuse to take a minute and take care of yourself."

She scoffed. "Incapacitated? Really? Bellamy, I'm hardly—"

"Yes, Clarke, incapacitated," he knew he was starting to yell, but he didn't care. Maybe it would make her understand. "You've got blood all over you and I know that a good portion of it is yours. And I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that an open wound means a high risk for infection at any place and time, but especially in a bacteria-ridden tent in the middle of a radiation-soaked forest. Now could you please," everyone was staring at this point, including her – he let out a breath, "please justtake care of yourself for once."

She just kept staring at him, a confused look on her face, and he desperately hoped that he hadn't given too much away. He looked away and took a few deep breaths, trying to somehow calm his rapidly beating heart as she looked around the tent, realizing that they were suddenly alone. "I just—" She turned back to him, starting to speak and stopping herself several times, finally just shaking her head and grabbing the bottle of moonshine from the table.

She poured some of the potent alcohol onto a rag of questionable cleanliness and lifted up her shirt, craning her neck to examine the rather impressive gash running down her side. Leaning against the side of the examination table, she pressed the cloth to her wound with a hiss. She grit her teeth and kept wiping at the blood, but was having obvious trouble reaching the scrapes on her back. Before he could stop himself, Bellamy stepped forward and pulled the rag out of her hands. "Let me."

Again, she stared at him for a long moment without saying anything. But just when he was about to give up, to back off, to hand the rag back and mumble an apology, she simply pulled herself onto the table and said, "Okay."

"Okay." He stepped closer to her, tentatively reaching for her side and repeatedly looking to her for reassurance before finally starting to clean the wound. Apart from the occasional groan that she couldn't hold back when the alcohol touched some of the more sensitive cuts and gashes, they remained silent.

After cleaning and bandaging the wounds on her side, Bellamy reached for the moonshine and a new rag. She reached out and grabbed his hand, stopping him. "What are you doing?"

"You've got more scrapes on your face, and I thought—"

"No, Bellamy, I…I mean…" she sighed and furrowed her brow and he knew that she was struggling to formulate her thoughts into words, so he waited. "I mean, what was that, a few minutes ago? Why were you so upset? I'm a little banged up, yeah, but I honestly would've been fine waiting…"

He ran his hands through his hair, looking everywhere but at her. "I don't want you taking risks like that. I get that it's your job to take care of everyone else, which, by the way, only feeds your massive hero complex, but if you don't take the time to make sure that you're okay then one of these days you're gonna end up…" He trailed off, eyes on the floor.

She reached out and lightly touched his arm and he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes were full of…something, but her smile was light and he couldn't help but respond in kind. "Well, I guess it's a good thing I've got you to take care of me."

"Always."