Hey everyone, it has honestly been months since I have posted anything at all, and I honestlyhousand excuses as to why, but they don't really matter now, cause I'm back!

So, this is my first story about The 100, and the idea came to me when I watched the season 2 finale and cried when Clarke left Bellamy. Hope you guys, like this new story!

Disclaimer: I don't own The 100.

Please read and review! :)

Chapter 1

Clarke watched the gate jerk open, blue eyes following the bodies as they stumbled through the opening, clothes clutched tightly to their bodies. She felt detatched from the world as stronger men hauled two stretchers into the camp. One held her mother. She should be happy, her mother was alive afterall. But for some reason, Clarke could feel nothing more than disgust. Disgust in herself, for what she had done.

"Clarke," a voice snapped the blonde from her self-loathing trance.

"Huh?"

Whipping herself around, Clarke found herself eye to eye with Bellamy. His eyes held something Clarke couldn't place, and yet, at the same time, it felt so familiar.

"Come on," he gestured to the open gate.

"I... I..." Clarke stuttered, her eyes flickering frantically from the gate, to Bellamy's emotional brown orbs.

"What? What's wrong?" he asked.

"I can't face them. Not after what I've done."

"Clarke."

Tear filled blue eyes rose from the ground to stare into equally wet brown ones. Their gaze was locked for a moment, and neither one spoke for a few seconds.

"Where? Where will you go?" Bellamy asked quietly.

"I'm not sure. But I can't stay here."

"You can't leave."

"Why not?" she asked, looking intently into his eyes.

Bellamy didn't answer, choosing instead to drop his gaze to stare at his filthy boots and play distractedly with the buttons on his stained white button down. He only decided to look up when he heard a light sniff.

"Clarke?"

The blonde didn't look up from her hands, but Bellamy's eyes followed as a few stray tears fell from her dark lashes, falling silently to the dirt and yellowing grass below their boots.

"I can't face them. Not after what I've done. Not with all this blood on my hands," she sniffed, watery eyes still refusing to rise from the ground.

Bellamy's hand found her armoured shoulder, his other taking her filthy chin between his equally filthy fingers.

"Our hands, Clarke. You don't have to shoulder this on your own," Bellamy whispered gently.

"I bore this so they wouldn't have to," Clarke mumbled, blue eyes staring passed Bellamy's shoulder to her mother, seeing the flurry of people rushing around her.

"You can get through this Clarke. You saved all of the people inside of that gate."

"By murdering countless others," Clarke muttered.

"There was no other way, Clarke."

The blonde didn't respond, choosing instead to avoid Bellamy's gaze.

"Give it a chance, Clarke. A week. Stay here for a week and let me show you that we can move on from this. We can get better," Bellamy pleaded, trying to get her to meet his eyes again.

"And what if we can't? What if they hate us?"

"Then you and I, and whoever else wants to come along, we'll leave. We'll go somewhere else and start over. Build a new camp and start a new life."

The blonde studied him intently, watching for any sign at all that he was lying. A sign that he was tricking her into something horrible. When she found nothing, the blonde nodded her head slightly, just enough for Bellamy to see that she agreed with him.

"This had better not be a mistake," Clarke muttered.

Bellamy pulled her close, pressing her petite body to his much larger one.

"It won't be. Trust me," he mumbled into her blonde waves.

Smiling timidly, Bellamy drew away, throwing an arm around Clarke's rigid shoulders, keeping her close to him as they trudged tiredly toward the open gate. Clarke was reluctant at times, her feet almost giving out; Bellamy had to push her lightly to keep her moving, even at their agonizingly slow pace.

As they stepped through the gates into the camp, many minutes after the rest of the returning troups, head turned to stare at the duo. Clarke could feel them almost burning holes into her body, knocking her down where she stood.

"Bellamy," Clarke whimpered.

"Ignore 'em. It doesn't matter."

So she tried. Her tired blue eyes locked onto her mother. She was on a stretcher, blankets cocooned around her, trying to keep her from going into shock, and tubes hung from an IV beside her, pumping fluids into the doctor's bloodstream. Clarke noticed that Marcus Kane sat beside her mother's stretcher, watching over her mother.

"Go," said Bellamy, nudging the blonde forward, finally dropping his arm from her shoulder.

That was all Clarke needed. She stumbled on her tired legs, tripping forward until she made it to her mother's side, falling to her knees beside her mother's head, ignoring Kane as she looked at her mother.

"Mom?"

Abby turned her head to find Clarke beside her and the injured woman's face lit up with a lightbulb. The excitement vanished from her face as quickly as it came when she took in the tear tracks on Clarke's cheeks and the red rims around her eyes.

"Clarke..." Abby struggled to push her exhausted body into a sitting position. Kane's hands flashed to her shoulders, hovering over the woman's shirt, but just high enough that he wasn't touching the fabric.

"Mom, lay back," Clarke ordered lightly, gently pushing on the doctor's shoulders until the woman was flat against the stretcher again.

"Clarke, honey, are you okay?"

"Not now, but I will be Mom," Clarke answered. Her voice broke as she desperately fought to keep her tears at bay. She couldn't cry here. Not in front of all of these people.

"Clarke," Abby said, lifting her hand to rest it against the girl's sticky cheek. "You did what you had to do. You saved them."

The young woman merely nodded, not trusting her voice to stay steady as she avoided everyone's eyes. Schooling her expression; forcing back her tears, Clarke looked up to study the camp, taking in her surroundings.

Blue orbs found Bellamy first. He was standing at the gate, dirty white shirt hanging off of him as his brown eyes watched, flickering between Clarke and Octavia. The younger Blake sibling was standing with off to the side Lincoln; the two seemed to be deep in conversation, always having a hand on the other, never taking their eyes off of each other.

Clarke couldn't find anyone else. Monty, Jasper and Raven seemed to have vanished into the Ark, or at least out of sight, but Clarke didn't dwell on that much.

She could still feel gazes boring into her back as people walked by, blaming her for what happened at Mount Weather, but all Clarke could think about what how much longer she had until she could run; leave all of the looks and judgement behind.

One week, she thought. Just one week.