Authors Note: I had these stories posted here originally, before I took a mental health break from writing and deleted my old account. I kept these stories up on Ao3, but I've noticed on FFnet people seem to leave much ruder comments. I didn't really have any bad critiques, but there was a lot of people telling me I needed to write more, or seemingly dissatisfied with the endings. Comments like, "is that it?" Is not encouraging at all and quite honestly can ruin my mood for that whole day. I am getting back into writing fanfiction, because it is something I love and offers some form of community that I enjoy taking part it. That being said, I am never obligated to provide for you, and that moment that this stops being something I enjoy is the moment that I will start to question why I would continue to do it. I am leaving this note on all my old stories, because I will be updated more regularly (once to twice a week) and I'd really appreciate if I could avoid these comments in the future. I don't want to have to resort to not reading the comments at all for my own sanity. Thanks for taking the time to read my thoughts & I hope you can understand where I am coming from. xx Be kind.
His voice sounds different, wrong when she hears it.
She knows she lost hope. She accepted that 2,103 days ago. The first time her mind played tricks on her.
It was like losing him all over again when he reached down to brush the pads of his finger against her cheek, like he was trying to commit her to memory. She choked on a sob when she felt nothing.
She thought about throwing herself off a cliff that day.
She hates the relief she feels when she sees him now, not in the moment itself, but for what will come later, when she forgets, and leans into him, thinking for a moment she'll be immersed in his warmth, only to be left cold and alone once more.
She wonders which version of Bellamy she's conjured up this time. She hasn't seen him in weeks. She feared he'd gone for good, even if it was what she wanted then, willing her mind to grasp onto whatever sanity she had left.
Sometimes he would say something, or look at her, and she would break, because it wasn't her Bellamy. Just some fantasy image, far too agreeable, or too kind, too quick to tell her he loves her when she's never heard those words outside of her own fantasies.
It pissed her off so much the first time he said it she tried punching him, slamming fists into the walls over and over again, until there was nothing left but the sounds of her cries and blood covered knuckles.
Then there was the Bellamy that hated her. He'd visit her when she was at her worst, like the day she carved Gina's name onto her rifle. He'd come to tell her it was her fault. Chanting monster over and over again, until she was on curled up in a ball with her hands over her ears, screaming her throat raw in an attempt to drown out the voice in her head.
This is a new one though – older, like he's aged with her. His face is scruffy and his eyes hollow. She doesn't recognize the clothes he's wearing, and he's got an arrow pointed at her chest, so she's thinking her brain is seriously under-stimulated and created this scenario out of boredom.
"Clarke?" he says again. His voice is deeper, scratchier. She blinks watching him with mild curiosity as he lowers the weapon. "This can't be – Holy shit." He's gapes at her like she's the ghost, "Oh my fuck." He's shaking his head dropping his belongings on the ground. He takes a step towards her, then another, before dropping to his knees, gasping for air, like he's having some sort of panic attack. It's hilarious, really, because she's diagnosing her imaginary friend.
"Wow," she sighs, rolling her eyes. "And here I was hoping I cured myself of this nonsense."
She grumbles a string of curses and goes back to skinning the rabbit she caught, making herself comfortable on her makeshift stool.
His breathing eventually quiets, and if it wasn't for his shadow lurking in her peripheral vision, she'd have thought he evaporated into thin air.
She feels him staring at her; which is just rude and annoying, because why the fuck does some sick part of her clearly enjoying doing this to herself?
"Shit," she loses focus and cuts her finger.
Of course that gets a reaction from fake Bellamy 3.0, and he swears, fumbling around in his bag for something. She eyes him wearily, growing increasingly concerned with her state of mind, because he appears to have a lot of shit with him, which is another unusual aspect of her visions. Could she be getting worse? Brain tumor perhaps?
He picks some white cloth out of his bag and looks up catching her suspicious gaze. He approaches her hesitantly as if he's afraid she'll run if he gets to close, like a stray animal. He crouches down to eye level and reaches out to her, gesturing for her to take it.
She scoffs, "Seriously?"
He furrows his brows lowering his hand, searching her face for something. He grunts, leans back, so he's sitting on the ground in front of her.
She sucks her finger into her mouth, breaking eye contact with him. If she feigns indifference, he'll eventually go away. She's learned this trick over the years. Acknowledging her delusions is like adding wood to the fire.
He clears throat and she picks her knife up again, humming while she goes back to work on the rabbit.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" She falters for a moment, but recovers quickly. "Do you know who you are?" She hums louder, hoping her subconscious will take the hint and kindly fuck off.
"Jesus, can you please say something? I'm terrified – I mean I don't understand how you're alive. I keep thinking about this plant I ate earlier," he curses, continuing his rant. "I swear Monty said it was safe, but I'm really starting to think I'm high as fuck, and seeing things, which I really hope isn't the case, but you're – Well, you're not even fucking looking at me." She can't help it, she laughs. He blinks, "I have no idea what's happening."
"Oh my god. This is the most entertaining one yet," she cackles, clenching her stomach. "Shit, I must be getting worse." He furrows his brows, combing a hand though his curls, it's such a Bellamy thing to do she almost cries. "I missed you," she says soft, all traces of laughter gone.
"You know who I am?" he says in awe.
She rolls her eyes. "I don't what my brain is trying to tell me with this –" she gestures to his everything. She pinches her nose and sighs. "Screw it, I'll bite. Yes, I know you. You're Bellamy."
"Good! That's good."
"Uh-huh," then she points to herself and says, "I'm Clarke," like she's talking to a small child.
He frowns. "You know – I never really let myself think about this moment, because I was so sure – never mind, this just isn't how I pictured this happening, assuming I'm not high, and you're not clone."
She rolls her eyes.
"I feel like I'm having an out of body experience. That's shock right? We're being way too fucking casual about this."
"I'm pretty indifferent," she sniffs.
He gapes at her. "Yeah, shock then. Definitely."
She pauses what she's doing to study him. "You're a bit more annoying than the last one. It's refreshing. Almost like . . ." She shakes her head and drops her gaze.
"That last one?"
"The last time I saw you."
"Uh, okay . . ."
"That was what? Like four – five weeks ago?" She nods, agreeing with herself.
"Clarke, we haven't seen each other for over six years. Shit I need to take you to the others. Something's wrong."
She laughs. "Yeah, you're telling me. Is that why you're here? To remind me I'm insane? I got that already. Please leave now."
He reaches for her arm and she drops the rabbit, standing abruptly, backing into the nearest corner.
"Don't," she hisses.
His eyes grow soft and glassy. "I'm sorry, I just – please come with me, let me help you."
"You can't. I can't. Go away."
"You're out of your mind if you think I'm leaving here without you."
She throws her knife at him and barely misses his shoulder. "Shut up! I don't want you here. You're not him."
He blinks and his jaw drops. "Clarke I – "
"No! You're not real," she says. "You're not real." Her vision blurs and she sinks to ground, tangling her fingers in her hair, squeezing her eyes shut, repeating the words over and over.
"Clarke," he's so close, she thinks she feels his breath tickle the side of her neck.
"Please," she begs. "Leave me alone."
"I'm not going anywhere, Princess." And then he's holding her, pulling her into his lap, cradling her to his chest. She lets out a strangled gasp at the feel of him. He's everywhere, hands stroking her back, cupping her cheek, lips grazing her forehead.
"Bellamy?" she heaves between sobs, not daring to look, afraid he'll disappear if she does.
"I'm right here, Clarke. I'm here," he whispers, taking her hand and pressing it against his chest. "You feel that, Princess?" She lets out strangled gasp, and he shushes her with more sweet words and touches. "I'm real. I'm here, until my heart stops beating."
She opens her eyes.