So... I binge watched The 100 on Netflix, and caught up with season 2 just in time for 2X8. This starting bouncing around in my mind since Clarke killed Finn and I couldn't shake it, so I wrote it all out during a snowy weekend. Which means I'm posting all 6 chapters at once.
I don't use a beta, so forgive any mistakes - I proofread through twice, but I'm sure I didn't catch everything.
Most importantly, I'm not a mental health professional. I'm merely a marketing professional by day, a barre instructor and freelance writer by night. PTSD is an important part of this story and I did my best to represent this very serious topic to the best of my ability. I did my research but again, not a mental health professional.
I hope you'll read and let me know what you think - enjoy!
Bellamy Blake can't breathe.
He takes refuge behind a pile of scrap metal and fried wires Wick and Raven intend to turn into one grand idea or another. He is largely hidden from the rest of the camp. His desperation to catch his breath is surpassed only by his desire not to be seen.
Squatting in the dirt, his breaths come short and fast. His chest constricts, his lungs squeeze ever tighter. There is ringing in his ears and a thin sheen of sweat peppers his forehead. Even as his surroundings swim in and out of focus, he coaches himself to breathe, pulling in air through his nose, pushing it out through his mouth.
It takes longer to pull himself together this time. The panic attacks are getting stronger, more frequent. He keeps the attacks to himself, doesn't seek treatment in the medical bay. He can't. He can't appear weak. He knows Kane is waiting for the first sign of weakness to overthrow him.
More so though, he can't face Clarke.
His breathing slowly returns to normal. He sighs in relief as his chest loosens and the sensation of choking fades away. He rubs a dirty hand over his face, giving himself a pep talk. He wants to go back to his tent, crawl under his ratty blankets, and shut out the world. Instead, he takes a deep breath, stands, squares his shoulders, and rejoins the rest of camp, hoping he can go unnoticed.
Of course, he can't.
Not much works in his favor these days.
"Hey, Bell," Octavia greets, appearing out of nowhere.
"Hey, O," he grunts back. Their relationship is tumultuous, at best. Some days are better than others. He needs this to be a good day.
"I've been looking for you to let you know Lincoln and I and a few others are going to gather some herbs in a bit, for the medical bay." She is careful not to say "for Clarke," even though Bellamy knows what she means. "We're stocking up before the cold comes. Lincoln says there's a fall flower – chrysanthemums, I think he called them – we can use to treat colds and flus, chest pain, even. And, bonus, he swears it makes a good drinking tea."
"Sounds good," Bellamy replies, half listening to his sister. Octavia raises an eyebrow. He hadn't so much bristled at her mention of leaving the camp with Lincoln. Nor had he asked about guards, protection. That's not like him. She notices then that he looks – off. His coloring isn't quite right. He looks distracted. His eyes lack light, but there hasn't been light in them for a while now.
"Hey," she says, reaching out to stop Bellamy. He turns to look at her. "You okay, big brother?"
"I'm fine," he answers automatically. He's always fine. He tries not to twitch under her scrutinizing stare. She sighs.
"Bell, you're not," she replies. "You're not fine. You're not even close to fine." She's furious at him for the way he treats her like she's still a child, the way he treats Lincoln, and his outright disdain about her relationship with the grounder. She's furious with him for what happened with Clarke. But, she still loves him. It hurts to see him hurting.
"I'm getting by," he tells her. "Drop it, O." She sighs again and shakes her head.
"I'm worried about you," she confesses heavily. "Talk to her, Bell." It's his turn to shake his head.
"I dug my grave. Now I have to lay in it." Octavia's eyes grow wide.
"You can't say things like that, Bell!" she reprimands. "Not here. Not after what we have been through." He nods. He has to at least look like he has it together. He has to continue to be the leader, the strong one the remaining members of the 100 look up to, despite the way they have settled into life since the Ark arrived.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, without sincerity. "Be careful gathering herbs." He turns and walks away, leaving Octavia standing where she is, watching his retreating back. She chews on her lip, thinking.
Loving someone as much as she hates him is hard.
Aware of Octavia's watchful eyes, he wanders through the camp, overseeing the work being done, the preparations being made for winter. He barks orders at a younger boy sitting idle, puts in his two cents on the latest project in the works at Raven and Wick's makeshift workshop, and helps lift a large log into place as they work to expand the camp's fence. He works diligently until dinnertime, when the whole camp takes a break to gather around the fire to eat.
He goes through the motions. He accepts his plate of venison and some sort of roasted root, takes the tin cup which tonight, is full of a weak tea, a change from their usual water and proof that their supplies are sufficient, and retreats to a corner where the firelight doesn't quite reach. There are others with him, Ark survivors, Miller. He makes small talk, listening more than vocalizing as he methodically chews each bite of food. He doesn't want it. He hadn't had an appetite in weeks. But, he can't not eat. He can't waste resources. He needs his strength.
He waits impatiently for those gathered around the fire to start breaking off into groups like they do every evening, some going back to work, others to unwind after another long day on earth. When Miller mentions he needs to secure the gate for the night, Bellamy jumps at the chance to offer his help, to escape the social gathering.
He is handing his plate and cup off to a younger camp member who offered to take it, along with Miller's, to sanitary when it happens.
His eyes meet Clarke's.
Like every time, he feels the swell of hope that this time, she will give him a small smile, a gentle tilt of her head, something to acknowledge him.
She doesn't.
She remains cold and stoic as she turns away and walks in the opposite direction. He tries to cover up how much her rejection still stings, but even as he gruffly asks Miller if he is going to stand around all day or get back to work, he sees Miller's brief look of concern before the young man's normal brave façade is back in place with a nod of his head and a joke of "sir, yes sir!"
It is with immense relief when he climbs into the guard tower hours later. He purposefully takes the overnight watches when they assign shifts each week. The camp is quiet, mostly asleep. He can be alone, without anyone interrupting him, asking him questions, needing his advice, his assistance. In the guard tower, he doesn't have to face council meetings with Clarke. He doesn't have to pop around a corner and run into her. He doesn't have to check in with her for an update on one of his guards under her treatment. He can just sit, be alone.
Tonight, he lets himself reflect on the last several months.
After Finn's death, Clarke allowed herself to mourn, but she was also more determined than ever to save what remained of their people from Mount Weather. They plotted and planned and schemed, their marathon meetings tense, all aware of the high stakes surrounding what they were coordinating. Raven was a mess, but, like Clarke, channeled her anger and hurt into planning the attack, and alternating between being downright mean to Clarke and completely ignoring her.
Preparations for the invasion of Mount Weather were nearly complete when the first shout came. The guard who spied the pack moving towards camp thought them to be Grounders, but it was Bellamy who identified them as the remaining 100, Bellamy who yelled for Clarke, and together, they pushed open the gate and met their people as they marched towards the camp.
It had been a few months now, but he was still unclear about how it all went down. Monty, Jasper, and Miller put their heads together and somehow, plotted to not only escape, but to take the others with them. It was good, Bellamy decided after they were back and accounted for, to let someone else be the hero for a change. He was tired of taking on the role. He was also angry at himself for letting the rescue mission take too long. They should have saved them before they had to save themselves.
He should have saved them.
Of course, they weren't safe. The Mountain Men would attack. So, they attacked first.
Finn's death had allowed Clarke to negotiate a truce with the Grounders. Territories were drawn, fragile trade agreements were made. She was able to achieve their assistance in bringing down the Mountain Men, the Sky People and the Grounders united against a common enemy. Together, they literally blew up Mount Weather.
The work didn't end with truces and explosions, however. The 100 had been governing themselves, developing their own society. When the Ark came down, there was near mutiny as the adults attempted to view the remaining delinquents as the children they were and integrate them back into a society they were foolish enough to believe still existed.
Their attempts – complete with pardons for all crimes – didn't last long. They were quick to realize they needed help, needed the knowledge the 100 had to offer. Abby Griffin remained the Chancellor, but Bellamy and Clarke were now on her council. Clarke was her mother's second in the medical bay. He himself had ended up heading up the guard after Major Byrne proved to be more barbaric than savior. He demanded Miller be his second in command and somehow, had managed to earn the respect of his elders, as had Miller. They had been through more than enough to be deemed capable of their jobs.
Reluctantly, his mind trails to that night.
He can pinpoint the moment he fell in love with Clarke with astounding clarity. Unable to do the job himself, he watched as she promised Atom he would be okay and quickly ended his suffering, humming to him and comforting him as the last moments of his life went quickly by. He hadn't realized he loved her at the time. He was too concerned with staying alive and protecting his sister to notice his heart had been stolen.
He knew, too, the exact moment his head caught up with his heart. When she threw her arms around him after she escaped Mount Weather and he returned to camp, he knew. He knew he loved her. He knew, from that moment on, he would do whatever it took to make her his. He had bided his time, been by her side, helped her through Finn's death, fights with her mother. He started off small, bringing her lunch when she got sidetracked or constructing a canopy at the entrance of the medical bay when it was raining so people had somewhere dry to wait after she complained about the mud and grit being tracked into an area she needed as sterile as possible.
As the days passed, he grew bolder. His eyes lingered on hers longer. He sat closer. He rested his hand on the small of her back as they walked.
She grew bolder, too. She smiled more around him. He liked that. She was beautiful, but when she smiled, everything was brighter, hopeful. Sometimes, he could get her to laugh, music to his ears. She leaned against him at the campfire in the evenings, rested her head on his shoulder after a long day. She came to visit him in his guard tower often, sometimes bringing a tea concoction to help him stay awake when he was especially tired or to relax as his shift ended after a particularly brutal day. They still fought tooth and nail – they wouldn't be them if they didn't – but they were just closer.
They were mid fight when he kissed her.
He was furious at her. He couldn't tell anyone why now, but at the time, he was sure it was important. She was being stubborn and proud and contradicting everything he tried to say, and he was positive she had never been more beautiful, her eyes stormy, her jaw set defiantly. So, he kissed her.
At first, she froze. Thinking he made a mistake, he pulled away, ready to apologize, only to have her let out a gasp and pull him back to her, sealing her lips to his. He hadn't hesitated after that to pull her into his arms and show her all the things he had been feeling. He took her to his tent that night and by the time he was done with her, neither of them had been able to so much as form a coherent sentence.
The next few weeks were as close to perfect as anything he had found on earth.
They didn't hide the fact that they were together. The general consensus around camp was "it's about time." He looked forward to returning to his tent after a guard shift to find her asleep, or else slip into hers to steal a few blissful hours before the rest of the world needed them.
It was all too much.
He couldn't handle it.
With all the demands on him, all the people he had lost, he couldn't bring himself to accept that Clarke was his, and that she wasn't going anywhere. He knew he wasn't good enough for her. On the Ark, their paths would have never crossed. She would have been floated when she turned 18 and he would have continued working as a janitor until he died. On earth, their coming together had been nothing more than circumstantial.
No matter how he felt about Clarke, he couldn't let it continue. He would taint her, ruin her. She was good where he was bad, light where he was dark. He couldn't do that to her. He also couldn't bring himself to break up with her. So, he pushed her away. He avoided her, shut her out. He remained professional when they worked – that had been an agreement between them from the beginning – but he didn't come to her tent at night, didn't put his arms around her when he found her in his bed. He didn't sit with her at meals or find excuses to stop by the medical bay or accompany her when she left the camp.
She confronted him. He brushed her off. She confronted him again. He was more forceful this time. Not one to throw herself at anyone, least of all a man, she left him alone for a week, gave him space. He started to miss her. He found her waiting outside his tent after his shift one night. She looked tentative, worried about how he would react. She said they needed to talk. He pulled her to her feet and smashed his lips into hers. They spent what was left of the night tangled in his poor excuse for bedding. Later, while she slept on his chest, his fears and worries came back. Even if it was his tent, he left before she woke.
Another fight had ensued.
She knew him too well, knew what he was doing and why. She tried everything she could to get through to him. She yelled at him. She spoke softly to him. She tried to hold his hand, hold him. He kept pushing her away. With a "Bellamy, don't do this. Please," she left. He was determined to end whatever they had, yet still couldn't bring himself to let her go, no matter how unselfish he was trying to be.
When Mel presented herself, he was feeling especially low. They had lost another member of the 100 to a freak accident in the woods and he had gone another round with Clarke over his behavior. He was in his tent, drinking more moonshine than he knew was a good idea, when she turned up. Mel wanted him, had been obvious about it since he rescued her. She offered to help him take his mind off things. She was forward. He was drunk. He made a halfhearted attempt to resist her before his lips and hands were everywhere – except on her lips. He couldn't bring himself to kiss her.
Just like in the vids they used to watch on the Ark, Clarke walked in as their clothes were coming off.
The look of sheer heartbreak that colored her features in that moment would forever be ingrained in his memory.
He jerked away from Mel, the magnitude of what he had done sinking in. Clarke held her chin strong, even as it trembled and her eyes filled with unshed tears. In a steady voice devoid of emotion, she told him they were about to bury the young boy, if he wanted to attend. He said her name. Rather, he tried to. In his desperation, it came out as choked plea. She shook her head once, turned, and walked away.
She hadn't spoken to him outside of council meetings and camp business since.
Mel had loose lips and it took very little time to spread the ordeal through camp. While people still respected him as a leader, he felt their disappointment in him as a man. None of them were more disappointed in him than himself. Except Octavia, who didn't mince words as she lashed into him, letting him know she expected better of him, believed him to be a better person.
He tried for days to apologize, to get Clarke to talk to him, to listen. He made her promises, assured her it was a onetime thing, that he was ready. That he couldn't lose her. He stood over her shoulder in the medical bay one entire afternoon, whispering apologies and begging for forgiveness as she tried to make a paste out of herbs. It was downright pathetic. Finally, deciding enough was enough, she turned, slapped him soundly, and dared him to talk to her unless it was about Camp Jaha. He deserved both the slap and the silence.
It was killing him.
Losing Clarke was the straw that broke him.
He had stood strong through so much, fought so hard. He saw the faces of those they lost in his dreams. All of that was moderately bearable as long as he had Clarke by his side.
Now, as each day passes and another brick is added to the growing pile of weight on his shoulders, he finds it harder and harder to put one foot in front of the other.
With a sigh more appropriate for someone much older, he pulls himself out of thoughts about the past. He runs a hand over his face, wipes away the moisture his walk down memory lane produced in his eyes.
He focuses on what's in front of him. He remains at his post, gun at the ready, for something that never comes.
Bellamy just walked down memory lane - which is super hard to write when you're going from present to past and back again. Now, we move on to chapter 2.