Clarke hates crying. She doesn't let herself do it often. She prefers to channel her emotions into her work, but there is only so long she can stave off the tears before she feels like she's unraveling, her control and will slipping through her fingers faster than she can hold on to them. She runs her hand across Wells's grave, fingering the fresh dirt, thinking of the boy she had grown up with, the boy she had considered her other half, decomposing beneath the ground.

"What are you doing out here by yourself?"

She stands, hastily wiping her eyes with her sleeve, before turning to face their self proclaimed leader.

"I just wanted to… check on everything."

He comes to stand next to her by the graves, his eyes scanning the forest surrounding them. Hypervigilant, she thinks, or maybe just paranoid. She isn't watching the forest, however, she's watching him, staring at the hard, unyielding lines of his profile.

"We'll find who killed your boyfriend. It's only a matter of time."

"And you want to kill them?"

At that, he turns, looking down at her in surprise.

"Don't you?"

"Not really," she says, her eyes returning to the graves.

She can't stop imagining Wells, alone in the forest, digging all of the graves for the people who had died on Earth. She wonders who dug his.

"That's the way this world works, Princess. We have to bring people to justice."

"Maybe I don't want to live in that world," she tells him.

"You don't have a choice," he calls to her back.

But she's already gone.

There are times when she wants to forget all of the horror, when she just wants to bask in the glory of Earth, in the reflection of the sunlight through the trees, in the wind ruffling her hair, in the smell of the air, bright and fresh and so very alive, but she stops herself. There's far too much to do. She doesn't have time to indulge herself when people are sick or hungry or dying.

Bellamy, she knows, does not live by the same principle.

"Come on, Princess," he calls to her, "Five minutes isn't going to kill anyone."

"It might," she replies, but she lets the pack fall to the ground and toes off her shoes and steps into the river.

"Ah, come on, Clarke," he says, running water through his hair, causing it to curl across his forehead. She pretends she doesn't notice the way the drops run down his neck, the way his shirt clings to the planes of his chest, but she can tell from his roguish smile that he sees her looking.

"Live a little, Princess. I won't tell anyone."

She huffs, but steps towards him, further into the river. He smiles, but there's something predatory in his eyes. She recognizes his intention right before he sends an arc of water curving towards her, the cold immediately seeping through her shirt, plastering it to her skin. .

"Bellamy!" she splutters and splashes him back.

Water drips from his face, but his eyes are triumphant. He starts toward her, until he's invading her personal space.

"What are you doing?" she asks and her voice comes out shakier than she wants it to.

"Don't start something you can't finish," he says.

He smells like the forest, fresh and earthy and bright. She can feel goosebumps breaking out on her skin, the hair on her arms standing on end, almost like all of her is straining towards him. It's from the water, she tells herself, but she's never been very good at lying.

"We should get going," she says.

"We should," he agrees, but his eyes are still fixed on her.

"Then let's go," she says, shouldering by him, the water sloshing against her legs as she heads towards the opposite bank.

When she turns around Bellamy is still standing where she left him.

"Are you coming?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm coming, Princess."

"I used to be a good person," she tells him when he comes to sit by her, "I used to promise I would do everything I could to protect everyone here. And I just let you torture him. What kind of person does that make me?"

"Don't beat yourself up too much," he answers, "you weren't the one beating him bloody."

"I may as well have been," she says, running her hands through her hair.

She had washed Finn's blood from them, but she still felt dirty. Maybe that was just the guilt.

"I'm only going to say this once, so you better listen," he says, and his eyes are so intense that she wants to look away. But she doesn't.

"You're a good person, Clarke. Probably the best person on this fucking planet. You did what you had to do. Just like the rest of us. Alright?"

She nods, but he doesn't stop staring at her like he's trying to discover himself in her eyes. The moment stretches on for too long and their eyes are still locked and she's worried she's going to do something stupid like cry or kiss him or something.

"I should check on Finn," she says instead.

"Yeah," he says, but his voice doesn't sound quite right, "you do that."

"Unity day," she hears from behind her, "kind of ironic, don't you think?"

"I always thought the sentiment was nice," she says, looking up at him.

"Maybe," he says and it's almost like they're agreeing on something, "a bit unrealistic though."

"And there it is," she says, "and I thought we could not argue about one thing."

"Nah," he says, but he's smiling, "couldn't have that."

She finds herself laughing as he settles down next to her in the dirt. Laughter is rare on Earth, it feels like a gift.

"We're going to have to talk about what to do," she says, after a moment of silence, "what to tell the others, how to prepare."

"And I was almost enjoying myself."

"Bellamy," she says, catching his eye, "you know I'm right."

"Of course you are, Princess. You're always right."

She's about to say something in response, something indignant and biting, when she catches sight of a shooting star. She's thinking about stars and wishes and Finn, when she realizes that it's not a star after all. It's-

"The exodus ship," he whispers, "looks like your mother is coming a day early."

She smiles, turning her face towards him and catching his eye. She feels good, truly good, but when she returns her eyes to the sky, she feels her heart sinking.

"It's not slowing down," she whispers, "where's the parachute?'

They watch as the ship plummets to the ground, as it crashes into the valley across from them, as the explosion lights up the sky, illuminating the night trees, the flash of white burning their retinas.

Clarke doesn't know how to feel. She's frozen, immobile, unmoving. Her mom was on that ship. Her mom is dead. No. That doesn't sound right. She can't be dead. There must be survivors. They had to go. They had to find her. She had to save her. She had to-

"Clarke. Clarke. What are you doing?"

She hadn't even realized she had moved to stand. She turns back to Bellamy, sees the measured way that he's watching her, as if she is about to explode.

"We have to go right now. Get Octavia, she's good with her hands. And Raven. We might need her mechanical expertise. I have to get my supplies. We don't have enough, but it will have to do for now. We'll go collect more tomorrow, but we have to go now."

"Clarke."

"Why do you keep saying my name?" she snaps.

"No one's going anywhere tonight," he says, and she hates the way that he's looking at her like she's something fragile. Like she might be break at the slightest touch. She's used to him treating her as if she was strong.

"My mom was on that ship, Bellamy."

"I know."

"She could be out there," she says, "she could be dying."

"Or she could be dead."

She starts back towards camp, but he blocks her path.

"Clarke."

"Stop saying my name, Bellamy."

"I'm sorry," he says, and his eyes are too sad and she can't look at him with all the lines of his face filled with pity.

"What are you sorry for? She's not dead."

She feels his arms wrap around her and for a second she wants to relax into it, wants to return the hug, clench her fists in the material of his shirt, mold her body to his, cry into his shoulder, let his solidness comfort her, but she can't.

"What are you doing?" she asks, pushing him off of her.

"Clarke," he says, his voice too soft.

"She's not dead, Bellamy," she says, turning her face from him so that he can't see the tears forming in her eyes.

She doesn't want him to think she's weak

"She's not."

They all keep dying. They die with spears in their stomachs and arrows in their hearts and pain on their faces and Clarke's hands in their hair.

"You can't save them all, Princess," Bellamy tells her.

"I can try," she says, her fingertips brushing the boy's-his name might be Jeremy, it might be Josh, she's embarrassed to realize she's not even sure- eyes closed.

He looks young in death, his face softened, all the harsh lines wiped away. He doesn't look like a criminal. He looks like a child. They're all children, she feels like they've forgotten that. She pushes herself to her feet, wiping her hands on her pants. When she looks down at them she sees that they're coated with blood. How had she not noticed that?

She moves to exit the tent, but Bellamy's hand on her wrist stops her. She turns toward him and sees him looking at her with worried eyes. He looks tired and there's a smear of blood across his cheekbone. She wants to wipe it away, wants to collapse into him.

"Clarke," he says, his voice softer than she's used to hearing it. She feels like all they do is yell anymore.

"You need to sleep."

"There are people dying," she tells him,"and they need me."

"They'll still need you tomorrow," he says, "You might as well be well rested. We need you strong."

The I need you goes unspoken. He's still holding onto her wrist.

"Clarke," he says, "Can't you just be selfish for one minute?"

"I can't," she says, turning to leave.

She just feels so tired all the time, the weariness settling into all the cracks in her foundations. Her bones feel heavy, her arms languid, her head pounding. She moves to stand and everything goes black, the world spinning round and her knees buckling beneath her. She feels arms supporting her, one resting on her hip and the other curving around her stomach.

"When's the last time she's slept?" Bellamy asks, his breath ghosting over her ear.

I'm right here, she wants to say.

I don't know, she wants to say, I don't sleep anymore.

Put me down, she wants to say.

Never let me go, she wants to say.

"I don't know," someone replies, Octavia maybe or Raven.

Her eyes flicker open and shut, but they feel so heavy. She struggles to keep them open, but each time they close its harder to muster the energy. The world morphs into a blur of colors and she just wants it to stop. She wants it all to stop.

"I'm fine," she murmurs, trying to break away from Bellamy's grasp.

She manages to stagger two steps before he catches her again.

"I'm taking her to bed," he tells the rest of the group.

She feels him shift and then he's carrying her, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. Her nose presses against his collarbone and she can smell the iron tang of sweat and blood on his skin. The outside world is bright and she tries to shield her eyes, burying her face into his neck, her lips meeting bare skin. She can hear his responding intake of breath.

She feels the bend of his body as he ducks into a tent and sets her on a pallet. It doesn't feel like her bed and when she blinks her eyes open, she doesn't recognize her surroundings.

"Where am I?" she asks, her voice bleary.

"Uh, this is my tent," he answers, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks nervous, Clarke realizes. She didn't think such a thing was possible.

"No one will bother you here."

"Bellamy," she says, grabbing his hand as he turns to leave.

He looks at her sharply, his eyes flicking down to where their hands intersect. He looks tired, just as tired as she feels, and vulnerable, his eyes soft and open and she doesn't want him to leave.

"Stay," she says.

He looks shocked, and for a moment she thinks he might still leave, but then he sinks to his knees beside her, his free hand reaching up to brush her hair away from her face. His hand is calloused and rough, but ever so gentle, as it cups her face.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Stay," she whispers.

"Stay," she repeats, turning her head and kissing his hand, "stay with me."

"Alright," he says.