Clarke had no one to blame but herself. What started out as a simple trip to the nearest Grounder camp—now that everyone was free from Mount Weather, their tentative alliance had morphed into something akin to friendship—had somehow turned into a search-and-rescue mission, resulting in her sliding down ten feet of embankment, over a jumble of rocks and face-first into a shallow stream. The good news was: they found the Grounder child's toy, about three centimeters in front of Clarke's face.
Abby Griffin had not been happy when her only daughter was carried, unwillingly, into Camp Jaha's makeshift infirmary, even though the only thing they could find wrong with her were a few scrapes and a sprained ankle. After she was patched up, her mother had taken it upon herself to place Clarke on temporary bed-rest, broken when, and only when, she decided that her daughter was capable of walking around without causing further damage to herself and anyone else around her. Clarke's protests were ignored. Apparently, the camp could get things done without her. End of story.
She was trying to decide whether sawing off her own foot with the nearest scalpel, at this point, would be more of a help or hindrance when Octavia stumbled into the infirmary, eyes alight with a certain something that Clarke had not been witness to for a very long time. Her cheeks were tinged a bright red, flakes of white spattered throughout her dark hair and sticking to her eyelashes. Clarke was halfway off of her cot before the shooting pain reminded her of yesterday's mishap. She winced, catching herself on the edge of a hastily built bedside table before returning her attention back to her friend. The girl was practically overflowing with a nervous energy; palpable in the tiny room and rolling off of her body in waves.
"What is it? What happened?" Images of death and war—knives stained with blood and white bodies, flesh torn apart by drills—flashed through her head, but she did not worry for very long. Clarke felt her nerves evaporate as a slow, excited smile spread across her friend's face, brightening the dim room and lifting Clarke's gloomy spirits and lingering dread.
"Snow, Clarke."
x
Clarke was furious. It had been nearly a week and a half since her mother's 'lock-down' and no amount of pleading or begging had swayed her decision. Instead of being outside with the rest of her friends, she was forced to remain indoors, sulking. In her boredom and annoyance, it was the ultimate sort of betrayal.
The rustle of a tarp told her she was no longer alone.
"Hey, Princess."
Clarke rolled to her side, eyes landing on Bellamy Blake. He stood in the center of the infirmary, arms full of boxes, shaking the wet snow from his dark hair like a dog. Clarke wrinkled her nose as a few droplets landed on her bare feet, chilling her already numb skin. Ice packs were great and all, but their purpose fell a little short when the room was already freezing.
"How's the weather," she asked dully. As the week wore on and the snow turned into a full-on blizzard, the infirmary played host to quite a few new and unusual cases — frostbite, colds, bouts of asthma and, unsurprisingly, general stupidity. None of them had ever witnessed weather like this—the Ark's temperature remained constant throughout the entire year and they never had to worry about things like rain and snow—causing everyone to come down with the exact opposite of Cabin Fever. The Grounders probably figured that they were all idiots. In truth, the thought of missing out on the Colony's first snowfall was pissing her off more than her mother's orders to remain in bed all day.
"Fantastic," Bellamy grunted. "I love playing grumpy grandfather to a bunch of crazed hoodlums."
Clarke huffed, irritated, as Bellamy stomped around the room, depositing the boxes—some of her mother's medical supplies, more than likely—onto the appropriate counters. "Are things getting done, at least?"
As if in answer, a loud shriek blew into the room from outside, the tarp draped across the door doing little to disguise the bark of laughter that followed. Bellamy rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Sure. If you consider pelting one another with snowballs 'productive.'"
Clarke sighed as Bellamy perched himself on the edge of her cot. She pulled her legs up to give him more room, but he seemed content in the space he had; perching there like someone used to leaping into action at any moment. "They are still kids, I suppose, despite everything we've been through. They deserve a little fun."
Bellamy snorted. "First off all, I never thought I would hear those words coming from your mouth. Secondly, if only it were the kids goofing around. I swear, for a group of people so hell-bent on war and sending a hundred kids to their death, they sure are morons when it comes to things like this."
Clarke smirked. "It takes all kinds."
He grinned, his eyes roving over all of the medical supplies hastily tossed about the room. Though he and the other guards frequented the infirmary often, Clarke doubted he had ever really spared the place more than a passing glance. Actually, she knew for certain that he spent each and every visit complaining, very loudly, about her inability to stitch up his wounds correctly and how she was being far more forceful than necessary (she was), glaring at her the entire time.
"You really are missing a pretty amazing sight." Clarke sat up, scooting over so they sat side-by-side on the tiny bed, careful to keep any weight off of her ill-tempered ankle. "I know. Kind of sucks that, after being witness to all of the horrors earth does offer, I have to miss out on something as innocent as snow..."
They were silent for a few minutes, the steady drip-dripping of the infirmary's lone faucet the only sound in the chilly room. She could feel Bellamy beside her, in every sense of the word; the steady in-and-out of his breathing in time with her own. How strange it was that after fighting alongside someone for so long, you could understand their silence just as much as when they were speaking. She wondered if he was remembering how excited they were when the temperature had started plummeting, each and every one of the Hundred anticipating the coming winter, despite what it would mean for the camp.
"Wanna get me out of here?"
Bellamy looked up, catching her gaze as if trying to gauge how serious she was. She could practically see his gears turning, weighing the pros and cons of her question. "I thought Doctor Abby requested that you remain in bed for a few more days? Pretty sure she hunted each and every one of the Hundred down, threatening us if we even thought about bothering you or breaking you out of here."
Clarke had not known about that last part, but she wasn't at all surprised. "She did. Of course she did, but I've humored her for a week and a half now. I feel better." She flexed her toes—and winced—for emphasis. "Besides. I think, at this point, I am fully capable of making my own decisions."
Bellamy laughed, a short, sharp sound that echoed in the small, metal room, and Clarke could feel him edging away, anticipating her reluctance to let the subject drop. Despite the part he played in the war—the fact that he managed to infiltrate Mount Weather and face down every enemy that got in his way, that he was, ultimately, the reason their friends were free—he had a thing about upsetting her mother. Tiny Abby Griffin scared him, and the thought made Clarke smile.
Bellamy was all but standing now and seemed to be looking for the nearest exit. She knew she could get out of here without him, but it wouldn't be as fun. What was the use of breaking out without an accomplice? Clarke placed her hand on his arm, trying to convey just how serious she was. He stilled, his entire body visibly shutting down at such a small, insignificant form of contact. Clarke would have pulled back if she weren't so afraid he would flee. "Bellamy."
She thought the pause that followed might be his way of trying to decide how best to let her down but, no. He was staring at her hand, a startled look on his face. It was a few moments before either of them spoke and, when he did, his voice sounded strained, despite the playfulness surrounding his question. "Are you trying to seduce me into taking you outside?" Clarke felt her face redden and quickly snatched her hand away. Screw being flighty; she now wanted him as far away from her as possible. "That is not what I was doing."
"Because you should have just started with that. Would have saved you a lot of time," he continued, as if he hadn't heard her.
"That was absolutely not what I was doing," she said again, a little louder.
Bellamy smirked, any trace of seriousness gone. "Whatever you say, Princess." His eyes scanned the small room, flicking briefly to the door in the back, leading to where her mother spent most of her day—the time she wasn't patching someone up or yelling at Clarke for falling off of cliffs—cataloging each and every visit or injury. Bellamy cleared his throat. "So where is the Warden?"
"Tending to one of the patients on bed-rest, I expect. You know, those unlucky enough to be stuck at home, in their own bed," she replied, motioning to the run-down room around them.
"She'll be occupied for a while?"
"That would be my guess, yes."
Bellamy nodded, glanced at the door and then nodded again. "Today is your lucky day then, Princess." He stood, offering her his arm. "Shall we?"
She grabbed on and pulled herself to her feet, wincing a little as pressure was applied to her ankle for the first time in days. "What are you doing?"
"Breaking you out of this bitch."
Clarke did not need to be convinced or told twice. Before Bellamy could change his mind or chicken out, Clarke hobbled over to one of the counters and grabbed a jacket that had been flung, haphazardly, over the top and then slipped on her shoes, taking care not to squeeze her ankle too tightly. She opted out of tying the laces, figuring she had a better chance of slipping on the ice (her mom would love that) than tripping over them in the thick snow.
Bellamy was waiting for her near the entrance, but pulled up short before they reached the tarp; turning to shoot her a mock-serious look before opening his mouth. "Just so we're clear, if anyone asks, you hobbled out of here on your own. We ran into one another and, being the gentleman that I am, I offered to escort you back here before you got hurt. My argument, as usual, fell on deaf ears."
Clarke rolled her eyes. "Got it."
"Especially if that someone is your mom. Really sell the 'gentleman' part, if that's the case."
"I got it, Bellamy."
"I have reason to believe she doesn't like me very much, though I have absolutely no idea why. I can be quite charming—"
"Are you going to take me outside, or not?"
Bellamy grinned as another shriek echoed through the empty, metal walls. "Alright then. Lets go be idiots."
x
Clarke stifled a gasp as the two of them stepped outside of her temporary home and into the dazzling brightness of a winter's day. Where there was once brown, dying grass, pure-white snow now lay, reflecting the sun's light into their eyes and making her squint. The snow was everywhere; on top of tents, being pushed along the ground by shovels and wind, stacked up near the gates like a wall. It was no longer falling, thank goodness—what was on the ground currently looked just shy of three feet—but the gray clouds above them held the promise of more to come. She stood there, clutching Bellamy's arm in the frigid air, completely enraptured with the sights, smell and feelings this new experience had to offer.
After a few moments, Bellamy tugged on her arm, pulling her into a slow hobble around the back of the infirmary. Quite a few people were milling around back there, away from the prying eyes of the general public, and Clarke was startled to see more than one pair making out in the jagged and secluded corners of the building's structure. She couldn't help but imagine how chilly they must be and wondered whether their spiked body temperature was enough to keep pneumonia at bay. Bellamy smirked at her over his shoulder, sensing where her gaze had landed. "I think it's safe to say that Monty's moonshine was involved in their decision-making process."
Clarke laughed; her first real expression of joy in what felt like ages. Bellamy's eyes flicked to her face again, a small, pleased smile gracing his lips before he turned away, leading her through the trenches of snow that must have taken some poor soul hours to create.
Clarke attempted to listen as Bellamy explained the measures they were taking to ensure that their people survived the coming months—what they were doing with their crops, things they were trading with the Grounders to stay alive—but, really, she was just so happy to be outside that she found it very difficult to focus on anything other than what was going on around her. It was strange to see her people acting carefree and happy; the complete opposite of their first few months on the ground. She was so engrossed in the sights around her that it took a few moments for her to realize that they had stopped moving, and she turned to see Bellamy watching her with amusement. "What?"
"Nothing," he replied. "You were so concerned with how we've been holding up, I figured you would want to know every single move we've been making in your absence. But you're not listening to anything I'm saying."
She huffed. "I'm just having a little trouble focusing right now."
"Too much pain medication?" Clarke swatted at his arm, but he was already stepping away, chuckling at his own joke. Without him standing beside her, Clarke struggled to remain composed and balanced; two things she didn't usually have a problem with, under normal circumstances. She could see Bellamy watching her out of the corner of her eye, waiting to jump in and help if she gave the signal, but she wasn't willing to admit defeat. She held her head high and hobbled a few feet to the left, taking care not to slip on the thick slab of ice coating the ground beneath her. She stepped on a shoelace once or twice and was rewarded with a snicker from Bellamy.
"You doing okay over there, Princess?" He called as she tripped again, and her hands inched toward the nearest pile of snow. "Just fine."
"You sure? Because you seem to be struggling a little with the whole walking thi—"
THWACK.
Clarke watched in detached wonder as the snow splayed sharply across Bellamy's shoulder and chest, sliding down his coat and onto his pants. Her ankle hadn't helped her aim, but she was satisfied, nonetheless.
When he finally turned to face her, Bellamy's eyes were closed in mock-exasperation. "You did not just throw a snowball at me."
Clarke shrugged innocently. "Must have been a side-effect of the pain medication."
A slow, cocky grin made its way across Bellamy's face; the same smile Octavia had worn a few days earlier, after breezing into the infirmary. It was a Blake smile, one that meant trouble (or certain death), and Clarke knew that she was done for.
Before she could scoop another missile into her red, raw-from-the-cold hands, Bellamy had fired a shot of his own, making contact with her arm. It was painful in the good way—sharp and thrilling—and Clarke had little time to prepare before she was hit with another, and then another after that. She managed to lob a few of her own, but he was too quick and her sprained ankle set her at a serious disadvantage.
"I. Am. Injured!" She shrieked, as another snowball made contact with her hip. She scowled as he doubled over laughing.
"That was to numb the pain," he finally replied, wiping at his eyes. His cheeks were tinged the same color as her hands and the look did weird things to her stomach.
Clarke cleared her throat. "Yeah? You're going to need something to numb the pain, once I shove my foot up your—"
"Hey, now," Bellamy warned, dismissing her threat with a wave of his hand. "That's not how a Princess should talk."
She threw another snowball in reply. By now, the two of them had attracted quite a crowd. Most of the Hundred were standing around the clearing, laughing and shouting pointers at their two leaders, placing bets on which would come out on top (perverted jokes included). It didn't take long for a few of the more adventurous onlookers to step forward and pick up a handful of snow, tossing them into the frenzy. Clarke noticed, with a quiet satisfaction, that the majority of their friends had chosen to pelt Bellamy rather than her, though whether this was because she was injured or they just really enjoyed throwing things at him, she couldn't tell. Either way, Clarke's team, if you could call it that, was winning.
By the time half of the camp had joined in the fun, large, fat snowflakes were falling from the sky and Clarke had fallen back, shouting commands at the others as Bellamy and his team advanced. Though there were tons of moving targets, he seemed intent on tracking her, forcing her to hop out of the way every now and again when she became too confident. The others took notice and had surrounded Clarke, but a giant ball of ice from Miller sent them scattering. Bellamy ducked as Jasper and Monty took aim, taking advantage of the confusion and charging at her from out of the crowd. She shrieked, leaning to the side as he pulled up just short of a collision, laughing. The ice surrounding them had other ideas, however, and he slipped at the last minute, tumbling forward and taking her down with him. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to throw out his arms, hovering just above her on the ground, elbows framing her face.
They lay there, in the snow, wheezing with laughter and shaking from the cold; two bodies tangled together in the center of a full-on snowball war. It took several long moments for her breathing to regulate and, when it did, she was still gasping from the hilarity of it all. Bellamy shifted on top of her, his stubble scraping against her cheek, and it was then that Clarke become painfully aware of their proximity. She stilled, afraid to move and break whatever it was that was happening.
"What's wrong," he breathed beside her ear. Goosebumps danced across her skin. "Does Her Majesty admit defeat?"
Absolutely, one hundred percent yes. Bellamy was too close; her skin, where it touched his (both of their jackets had ridden up in the fall) was on fire and she couldn't breathe. Though Bellamy didn't say anything, she knew he was struggling as well. The snowballs continued to fly overhead, their friends completely oblivious to what was going on at their feet.
Clarke flinched, more from the awkwardness of it all, less from the pain, and Bellamy pulled back, concern etched across his sharp, angular features. "Sorry! Did I hurt you?" Her reply was a handful of snow to his face. Clarke Griffin, everybody: her inability to handle awkward situations as pathetic as ever.
He leaned closer as she laughed, allowing the snow to fall from his face and onto hers, his warm breath stirring her frizzy hair. Despite the cold of the snow on her back and the fact that she was worn out from hobbling around and tossing snowballs back-and-forth, Clarke found herself perfectly content in this moment. Bellamy watched her, his chocolate brown eyes darkening with something that made heat pool in the pit of her stomach and a flush to creep across her skin. She was reminded, once again, just how handsome he was. Had she always been so attracted to freckles and dark hair, or was it just Bellamy that caused the odd fluttering in her stomach?
"Clarke—"
"Clarke!"
Bellamy scrambled upward, pulling Clarke to her feet as Abby Griffin made her way into the clearing. All thoughts regarding what Bellamy had been about to say fled as her gaze met the angry, simmering stare of her mother. If looks could kill, neither one of them would stand a chance.
"Hey, mom," Clarke tried weakly.
"What exactly did you think you were doing, leaving the Infirmary? I specifically told you that you were to remain on bed-rest until I said otherwise." She glared at Clarke and then turned to Bellamy, who visibly flinched. "Bellamy, please tell me you had nothing to do with this."
"It was her idea, ma'am."
Clarke shot him a venomous look behind her mother's back, earning a twitch of his lips and flash of his middle finger, expertly hidden from Abby's dagger-eyes behind the folds of his jacket.
"I am extremely disappointed in the both of you." Clarke cringed. The irony that she was being scolded after everything she had been through was not lost on her. Based on Bellamy's sheepish grin, it had not managed to slip by him, either.
"Bellamy."
He straightened. "Ma'am?"
"Aren't you supposed to be on guard duty?" No, actually, but Clarke knew he wasn't about to admit that he didn't have somewhere else he needed to be.
"Yes, ma'am," He nodded toward her, lips still twitching. "Clarke."
She made a face as he retreated, jealous that he had received such an easy out. Based on her mother's expression when she turned her attention back around, she knew the lecturing had only just begun. "Let's go, Clarke. Back to bed. Where you will stay."
She stalked off after that, snapping at a few of the shrieking teenagers along the way, and Clarke turned, preparing to follow Abby back to the infirmary when she heard someone call her name. Before she even had a chance to glance around, she was greeted with the wet THWACK of another snowball spattering across her upper body, knocking her back a few steps.
"For the road!" Bellamy called, taking off at a run a moment later, his laughter echoing in the cold air as Clarke flashed two fingers at his retreating form.
End. x