"Seeing their faces every day is just going to remind me of what I did to get them here."
Three Months Later:
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Clarke
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The soft burning stench of meat wafted through her nose as she sat around the small fire. She felt a hand on the small of her back, tickling down her skin in semi-comforting motions—if comfort is defined solely on skin to skin contact. Clarke bit her lip and stared into the flickering flame, unaware of what she should say to the boy next to her. "Fox?" He nuzzled his nose into her hair but she flinched at the use of her fraudulent name. How could she not shake at the mere memory of her dead friend? It was by her own design that she carried the shame of their actions, the grief for their dead, and the constant reminder of their personal deterioration. It was by her own carelessness that she was in 'Delphia, formerly Philadelphia. She thought about going to Polis—she thought about joining Lexa for the pure benefit of familiarity but she reframed from doing so. Seeing her face would just remind her of what they both did for their people and her betrayal and the choices she had to make in the absence of Lexa's army—killing Maya…killing Wallace…
"Hm?" Clarke turned her face towards Jason. She didn't know his last name and she didn't need to, Jason was a temporary filler until she regained her health from her difficult journey. In theory, it was reckless to embark on a trip without adequate supplies but she couldn't step foot into camp—and she couldn't turn back to see all that she left behind, either. Clarke could close her eyes sometimes and see the moment his heart broke before her. Bellamy. His name still produced a burning sting in her eyes when she dared to recall their goodbye. She remembered having to pull herself from him, how she had to harden her features so he couldn't see her tears, her momentary hesitation as his embrace sought to comfort the pain away—actual comfort, not just skin to skin contact.
Jason's ashen skin, touched by silky caramel pigments looked gorgeous against the flame but her attraction never extended past the physical mile marker. He tried for more, he really did, but she could not extend her heart to him. "What are you running from?" He nudged her with his shoulder, a slight nervous smile on his lips as he sought to pry open the confines of her solitary-born soul. She never thought she would miss prison but suddenly, she wasn't so sure that she wanted to be free. He could easily be talking about their sexual relationship—how she never stayed in his hut when she had the opportunity to do so on so many occasions. Or he could be addressing the way her eyes seemed to be scouting every possible exit of the small camp when things were steadily falling into her lap.
Naturally, she found herself in the healing position in the small settlement. But she was too terribly broken to continue to wrap wounds and stitch deep cuts without shaky hands and memories. Without thinking of the first injury she treated on Earth—Wells… or the second, Octavia—the girl who hated her, and rightfully so…or even the third, Jasper. Jasper who hated her, too. She answered calmly, matter-of-factly, "People around me die." Her words weren't a whisper, simply plain and audible to anyone within distance.
He knew she had a past even if she did not know the details of said past. Of course, he knew some of the details indirectly. The story of Clarke of the Sky People seemed to spread like a wildfire through the nations and she wondered who told the extravagant, embellished tale. Lexa? The other grounders? She might smile if Indra sat around the fire and told the story of the brave little princess that murdered hundreds of people for her own. Did they think she was noble? That she did the right thing because her people won the war? If they'd lost, would she still be the rumored hero or the evil villain? "But what are you running from?"
"Myse—" Clarke stopped talking, narrowing her eyes in the direction of the newcomers in camp. She was still considered a stranger, but a well-liked stranger—a person deemed remotely harmless, if they only knew the truth… "Why are they here?"
Jason's lips tipped into a frown, "Gathering troops for a widely supported cause. Uh, after the recent alliance the Tri Kru made with the Sky People…things have become highly tense. There are some that do not agree with the trespassers." Clarke prevented her eyebrows from furrowing, nodding with a stone-like expression across her features as she urged him to continue. "They are scouting for warriors, men and women to rid our joint nations of the enemy."
Her teeth slammed together at his words and she tried to prevent herself from showing any emotion. They're in danger. My people are in danger. I need to warn them—
Bellamy will take care of them.
"I don't understand…I thought there was peace."
Jason bitterly laughed, "Peace is an illusion, Fox. Even a girl like you should know that to be true."
They're still recovering…they aren't prepared for another war or another fight.
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Bellamy
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The sound of a pencil rolling across the table snapped him out of his daze. No one bothered to ask where his mind went when he got that look in his eyes—the look that never truly faded after they turned their backs to one another and marched into separate worlds. He was thinking about Clarke, again. He was thinking about how he missed his closest friend, finding that Miller didn't compare anymore in light of things. Bellamy wasn't a fool, he knew when Clarke made up her mind that it was final. There were plenty examples to elaborate on her stubbornness and her darkened will power, killing Wallace for one.
He was positive that she would have something to say about the messy lines he'd drawn across the map, how they were weak and how the map wasn't exactly accurate. He was also positive that they would have argued on the subject. He fondly smirked at the concept of arguing with Clarke until his smirk fell when he realized he hadn't heard her voice in nearly ninety days—something he would have formerly viewed as a blessing, now his biggest curse. Bellamy picked up the pencil only to toss it back down in frustration after he thought about her goodbye a second too long.
Bellamy understood why she left; he really, really understood why she turned her back on the life they'd constructed, the life they could have tweaked and perfected until there was beauty once more. He blamed himself, really. How could she find the words when he was so close to giving up—so close to leaving the camp they built because he was scared and guilty? How did it feel like a personal failure watching her leave? Why couldn't he find the words to make her stay? Why couldn't he just spill his guts?
I need you.
Because he certainly needed her to yell at him, boss him around, argue with every decision he made until he proved he was right or found flaws in his system. Because he honestly needed her to stand by his side so he didn't feel so alone in his promotion. It was Clarke who made the tough calls, it was Clarke who made the sacrifices—Finn, the grounders in TonDC, her morality, her faith, and her sanity— and he was carrying her title as unofficial leader. He still had a gun on his hip, he still had his sister, he still had most of his friends—even more than he ever imagined he would.
And as far as he knew, Clarke could have died of dehydration four hundred miles away from the very dark room in which he sat.
He couldn't understand how her words—the words that brought him so much solace after their day trip, after the events with Dax—weren't good enough for her but enough for him to move forward. His head could not wrap around the complexity of her bent code that pardoned him for the actions he performed in the name of war, in the name of survival, but failed to excuse her for her own.
Bellamy furrowed his eyebrows and stared at the full cup across from him.
"Have one for me."
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Jasper
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Jasper wiped a hand across his nose, a sniffle vibrating through the night air as he glared at the fire. In his other hand, he held the dingy googles he'd arrived on Earth with—a reminder that he wasn't that boy anymore. He sighed heavily as he heard footsteps approaching him, "Not now Monty…" he whispered, then more quietly, "Not ever."
"It's not Monty." Octavia informed him gruffly, "But the boy I know wouldn't be sitting around the fire, drunk and alone." She still wore the grounder fashioned clothes but her war paint was long gone from her skin. Her hair remained in the beautiful, difficult looking braids and Jasper hated himself for thinking she looked hot.
His head shot up, "I'm not the boy you know, Octavia. Not anymore."
"Jasper…"
A wry laughed filled the air, "I've fallen in love twice on Earth." He confessed as he brought the metal bowl to his lips, "First with you…a girl way out of my league. I didn't even have a chance with you and everyone knew it—everyone but me, I guess." He sucked on his lip for a moment, "And then Maya. I fell in love with Maya and she died—no, your brother and my best friend and Clarke murdered her."
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" He stood up, extending his arm to point in her direction. "Why do you get the happy ending, huh? Why do you get to be with your soul mate—" He sniffled once more, trying to fight back the tears that always accumulated in his eyes with the mere thought of Maya. "Why do you get to be happy?"
Octavia snorted, "You think I'm happy when I see my closest friend drinking himself to death alone? Or when I see my brother looking at that fucking fence waiting for Clarke to return? You think I'm happy simply because I'm in love?" She crouched down in front of him, placing her fingers on the goggles in his hands, "You're still the boy with the goggles…you're just…evolving into someone else fit for this world."
He cracked a weepy smile, "Regular Darwinist, aren't you?"
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Review if you like it…I'm trying to keep it close to the characters and how I feel they would react afterwards but I'm really just shooting in the dark. Let me know how it is…
P.S.
Charlie Matheson (Revolution) sort of inspired Clarke's sexual relationship because I feel like Clarke can always go darker and sleeping with someone she doesn't love—doesn't really care for is a typical reaction in television dramas.