THEN
Everything was white.
White walls, white ceiling, white door, white clothes. It surrounded Clarke, suffocating her with its starkness. It reminded her of her time as an inmate on the Ark, locked in her cell. Back then she had thought nothing could be worse than the dull grey of her prison, so murky and dreary. But she was wrong: this white, this bright, unyielding white, was blinding in its absence of anything.
She had no idea how long she'd been there. Food was deposited through a slot in her door at regular intervals, and the lights in the room dimmed when it was time to sleep, so she had some semblance of a schedule, but she had lost track counting the days she'd spent in that room.
Sometimes she'd look through the window in her door and see Monty across from her, and they'd mouth things to each other. More at the beginning, with Clarke asking him how he'd ended up there after leaving with the search party (he had no clue), and Monty asking Clarke what he'd missed at camp during his absence, who was still alive (as far as she knew, that was), and what had happened during the final showdown with the grounders. Neither of them knew anything about their captors, other than Clarke's fuzzy memories of figures in gas masks emerging from the smoke, the lasers on their guns sweeping across the masses. But after they'd covered those basics, it was hard to find anything to discuss. Occasionally they'd bounce theories off one another, try to figure out what they were doing there, but oftentimes trying to find something to talk about only made them feel more depressed about their lack of power and knowledge about the whole situation.
She realized after some time that they were testing her, or experimenting on her, or something. She'd notice sometimes when she awoke that her mind was fuzzier than normal, her limbs slightly sore, and then one day she saw a tiny pinprick on the inside of her elbow that hadn't been there before. Clarke realized that they were pumping her room with some sort of sleeping gas, slowly enough that she wouldn't notice its effects (and waiting until she was already asleep), and then coming in and poking and prodding her like an alien specimen. She didn't know what for, and when she'd asked Monty about it, he'd told her he had no idea either.
And then, when she wasn't communicating with Monty or speculating about the people holding her, she thought about that last day at camp. She thought about running out of the drop ship and seeing Bellamy, so close but so far, and how he burst out into the midst of the fighting (and how her heart had stopped for a few moments). She thought about the grounder pummeling him to the ground, and how he continued to fight back. She thought about Finn, who had been safe at her side, grabbing that gun and rushing out to help him. She thought about his face when he'd looked back at her, just before she'd turned her back and let the door close on them, sentencing them to burn with the grounders. She hadn't had a choice—she knew that, she knew she couldn't have waited any longer for them—but still she felt their deaths weighing heavily on her. The boy she'd forged a connection with, who she thought she might grow to love over time, and the boy who'd been her rock, her steady presence of strength and motivation. She needed them, but she'd let them both die, and it killed her.
Her days passed like that: surrounded by whiteness, drowning in guilt, falling asleep, being drugged into a deep sleep and experimented on, waking up and repeating it all over again. The same empty routine, day after day.
That is, until the day everything changed.
It started with a soft noise. A click. Clarke sat up from her bed, where she'd been laying, and took a few tentative steps toward her door, brow furrowed. For a few moments, there was nothing but silence, and she began to think she'd imagined it. Then suddenly, the door swung open, and she stumbled backwards in shock, eyes darting around the room, searching for something, anything she could use as a weapon. Of course, there was nothing, but Clarke moved back and grabbed onto her IV drip as a figure moved through the doorway, wanting at least to feel like she could defend herself (even if she knew the idea of wielding an IV drip was beyond ludicrous). But she was glad she had, because she needed something stable to hold her up when she looked up into the intruder's face. A face she knew; a face she never thought she'd see again.
"Bellamy."
The name slipped through her lips on a breath, and her hand slid down the metal pole as the room began to spin. How was he here? How was he alive? Bellamy had crossed the room in two quick strides and was at her side, crouching down to her eye level, his own eyes narrowed as he quickly looked her over.
"Come on, Princess, we're on a bit of a tight schedule."
His hand closed around her elbow, pulling her forward, and all she could do was whisper his name again, disbelievingly, as she stumbled along with him out into the hall. He looked over at her, one eyebrow cocked (and God, but she had missed his smug attitude).
"Glad to see you missed me," he quipped lightly. "Now let's move."
LATER
Everything was blue.
As far as the eye could see, stretching out endlessly in front of her. The sky, its daytime robin's egg deepening into a star-spotted indigo of night. The water, its fathomless sapphire depths rising and falling with the movement of the tides, looking like a blanket stretched across the ground, rippling with the wind. It was everything she imagined from the Ark and more.
Clarke stood at the water's edge, her bare feet dug into the sand as the waves lapped gently against her ankles. Her hair was down, the sea breeze lifting it from her neck and playfully blowing strands across her face. A content sigh escaped her mouth as she breathed it all in.
She felt his presence without even looking, the heat of his body at her side. For a few moments, they stood together in silence before she turned her head slightly to look over at him, blue eyes meeting brown. She never would understand how one shade of brown could be so cold and closed-off at times, and then seem as warm as golden honey at other times, like right now (probably because they'd had a relaxing night at camp).
"I still can't get used to it."
"What?" Bellamy asked. "The ocean, or the peace we have here?"
Clarke shrugged her shoulders. "Both, I guess."
She glanced over her shoulder back to the camp. When Bellamy had told her where they were going after she and the rest of the drop ship survivors had been broken out of Mount Weather, she hadn't quite believed it at first. The ocean people, the ones Lincoln had told them about—Bellamy and Finn had actually managed to find them after escaping the camp before the rocket fuel ignited. Even more miraculous was the fact that Lincoln had already taken Octavia there when the boys had arrived. And once Bellamy and Finn had told them what they'd seen when they'd crept back to the camp after the explosion—the red smoke and the laser-pointed guns and the men in gas masks—the ocean people had known exactly who had taken the survivors: the Mountain Men. The rescue plan had been meticulously planned and executed as soon as they could, and now they all were here, living in an established, well-guarded camp next to the sea.
And perhaps the most miraculous feat of them all was that, since arriving at camp, they'd experienced greater peace than any of them could have dreamed of since arriving on Earth. Of course, Clarke wasn't naïve—she realized that it had only been a week and she knew this sort of harmony wouldn't keep up forever (especially since there was growing tension as the ocean people and the 100 tried to figure out how to coexist)—but she still reveled in the respite from fighting and the simple pleasures of plentiful food, regular bathing, and, of course, the ocean being just steps away.
"I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop," Bellamy confessed. She cut her eyes back over to him. "It's like everything is too perfect, too peaceful. I know it can't last, and that makes me uneasy."
Clarke bumped her shoulder against his. "Just enjoy it. You deserve it."
"So do you."
Clarke smiled softly, noticing that Bellamy's lips twitched up into the slightest of smiles in return.
Her eyes drifted back over to the camp, seeing Monty and Jasper sitting together on a hunk of driftwood, drinking some of Monty's now-famous moonshine and laughing. Quick movement caught her eye and she glimpsed Octavia stealing across the ground from her tent and slipping into another—presumably Lincoln's—and couldn't help but think how lucky the girl was that Clarke was the one who'd seen it, and not Bellamy, who seemed to be in denial about just how friendly she had become with the grounder.
Finally, she saw Finn helping a still-recovering Raven into their tent. When they'd made it here, she'd seen how torn he had been between the two of them, so Clarke had told him to go back to Raven and try to make it work, whatever it took. She knew those two had a lot to work out, but in the end, they also had a lifetime of memories holding them up. She and Finn had one night together, and despite the fact that it hadn't been a meaningless hook-up, it couldn't hold a candle to what he had with Raven. And even though it still stung just a bit when she saw them together, it was becoming less and less painful with each passing day (and sometimes, at times like this, she barely felt it at all).
"Come on, go get some rest," Bellamy urged her.
"What about you?"
"Just going to do another sweep of camp."
"You know, there are actually a few dozen guards stationed around the camp, watching for any threats," Clarke teased, nodding to at least five men within eyesight. "Take a break; get some rest."
"Careful, Princess. If I didn't know better, I'd think you're actually worried about me." Bellamy's eyes glinted with amusement, and Clarke rolled her eyes in response.
"I just don't want to have to patch you up later when you get injured because you were sleep deprived," she retorted.
"Whatever you say." She raised her eyebrows at him and he lifted his arms in mock surrender. "Okay, I promise I'll go get some rest—happy?"
"I would be—if I believed you." She shook her head and started off towards her tent. "Good night, Bellamy," she tossed back over her shoulder.
"Night, Clarke."
NOW
Everything was a blur.
People rushed past, jostling Clarke as they ran in through the gates. Some were wounded, clutching their hands to their arms or their sides, blood streaking their faces, and she knew she should head back to the makeshift hospital the ocean people had built for her to work in. They had reached a sort of agreement with the ocean people, giving them overall control while she and Bellamy remained the unofficial leaders of the remaining members of the 100, and Clarke's medical knowledge was a major reason why they were afforded even that much autonomy. She knew this, and she knew that meant that she couldn't waste any time—she needed to start treating the injured—but she couldn't move. Not yet.
It had started out as a simple hunting party, a half dozen people heading out in the morning, but then only two had returned, covered in blood, explaining how reapers had found them and they'd gotten away to get help, but one guy was dead and the other three had been chased off in the other direction. A group of a few dozen fighters had quickly been assembled and set off to search for the three missing people. The proverbial other shoe had dropped a few months prior, just a few weeks after Clarke and Bellamy's talk by the ocean that night, with the reapers launching an attack at a small group of people who had gone out hunting. Ever since then, the familiar buzz of uncertainty and subdued panic had permeated the air around camp. Today was one of the bad days, when the panic exploded into full-blown chaos.
Her eyes shifted continuously, searching the faces as they passed her by, and her heartbeat slowed with the beat of each second that passed. Her mouth opened, but she couldn't even form words. She could only stand frozen in place, her mind running the same thought over and over again: he has to be okay, he has to be okay, he has to be okay. Please, let him be okay.
The gates were being pulled shut then, and Clarke wanted to scream at the sentries guarding it to leave it open, because he wasn't back yet, and he would be back, if only because she needed him. She couldn't do this without him.
"Clarke!"
She turned immediately at the sound of her name being called, spotting the source a few feet away. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribcage as it picked up its rhythm again, even quicker than before. Her feet were moving before she even could think, and then she was colliding with him, arms locking around his neck as she pressed her face into his chest.
"You're okay, you're okay," she mumbled incoherently into his jacket, breathing him in and clenching her fingers into the fabric of his jacket collar.
A bark of a laugh rumbled against her. "Yeah, Princess, I'm okay."
Clarke pulled back and looked up at Bellamy. He was grinning down at her, his face covered in dirt. She couldn't help her own mouth from stretching into a wide smile.
"Mom and Dad are definitely not fighting."
Jasper's voice brought Clarke crashing back down to reality, and she stepped away from Bellamy quickly, feeling heat rushing to her face (from Jasper's ridiculous comment) and hoping that her face was dirty enough (something she never thought she'd ever say) that it wasn't obvious. It was then that her eyes scanned over the rest of his body, zeroing in on a tear in his jacket, on his abdomen. Her hands pulled the material aside, and Bellamy winced as her probing fingers uncovered an open wound (a knife wound, she cataloged, taking in the clean edges of the cut).
"What the hell, Bellamy?" Clarke grabbed his arm and forcefully directed him towards the medic building.
"It's just a scratch," he grumbled from her side, wrenching his arm free.
Clarke huffed as she stepped into the building, Bellamy following at her heels. "Just a scratch? You'll be lucky if it didn't hit any major organs. Now come on, let's have a look at it."
Bellamy gestured around to the other injured people waiting inside. "There are people in much worse shape than me—take care of them first. I'm not going to bleed out from this scratch."
Clarke glared at him, but couldn't deny that he was right: there were others there who needed more immediate attention than Bellamy (and besides being her co-leader, it wasn't like she had any reason to give him special treatment, anyways). She grabbed a clean rag, tossed it to him, and pointed her finger threateningly at him. "Sit down somewhere here, keep pressure on it, and just wait for me, okay? Don't leave; don't walk around—just stay still."
"Yes, Your Highness," Bellamy teased, bending in a mock bow that left him grimacing from his injury, and Clarke groaned in exasperation.
"You're only proving my point here," she muttered before turning and moving onto the first of the many injured needing her attention.
For the next half-hour or so, she traveled from one patient to another, removing arrows lodged in shoulders, disinfecting and stitching up knife wounds, and checking them all for head injuries or poison infections (after Finn, she was almost paranoid about that). Finally, she wiped her brow with her forearm and turned to see Bellamy sitting on the ground by the entrance, long legs stretched out and eyes watching her as he held the rag to his side. She looked around for an empty cot for him, but they had run out, unprepared for so many injured people at once (which was something they really needed to revisit, since obviously a mass attack was becoming increasingly possible now).
Instead, she nodded to the door. "Come on, I'll patch you up back in your tent."
Bellamy pushed himself to his feet with a groan that he quickly stifled and followed her outside and over to his tent. Once inside, she pointed to his cot expectantly, and Bellamy let out an exasperated sigh as he flopped back onto it. Clarke, with Bellamy's assistance, gently tugged his jacket off, and then she pulled at the hem of his shirt, carefully peeling the blood-soaked fabric off of his skin and over his head (and if she stared at his chest, it was purely for medical reasons, making sure he didn't have any other injuries).
The cut wasn't huge—maybe four inches across—but Clarke probed at the wound, trying to determine how deep the knife had gone. It was fairly deep, but she let out a sigh of relief as she determined that the knife hadn't nicked any organs. She grabbed a bottle of alcohol, wetting a clean rag with it, and then handed the bottle to Bellamy.
"You might want to drink some of this—numb the pain a bit."
"I think I'll be fi—augh!" His words cut off as Clarke began to clean out the wound, and he let out a muffled curse, taking a long pull from the bottle. Clarke poured some water over the wound as she continued to clean it as gently as she could manage.
"Sorry," she mumbled. She looked up at him with a slight gleam in her eyes. "But I did warn you."
"Yeah, well…I…" Bellamy trailed off.
"You were trying to look like a badass," Clarke finished for him. "You do realize it's just me here, right?"
Bellamy shrugged, and Clarke could have sworn his cheeks darkened a bit as he looked down and took another long swig from the bottle (of course, he was just flushed from the alcohol). Clarke finished cleaning the wound out, and then proceeded to secure some gauze over it. Her hands smoothed over the now-bandaged area, her fingers brushing against the skin surrounding it, and she felt his stomach muscles clench beneath her hands in response to her feather-light touch (a purely instinctive reaction, of course).
"Thanks, Clarke," Bellamy murmured. She looked up to see him watching her through hooded eyes, the now-empty bottle of alcohol dangling from his fingertips.
"Just doing my job. And really?" she asked, plucking the bottle from his hands and waggling it in front of him.
"It's not every day we leaders get to drink—figured I'd make the most of it."
Clarke laughed softly, sitting down on the edge of the cot. They fell silent for a minute, and then Clarke looked back up at Bellamy. He was still watching her, cautiously, curiously.
"I was worried about you today," she admitted quietly.
Bellamy's eyebrows shot up and he struggled to push himself into a seated position, despite Clarke's protestation ("If I'm going to bleed out, might as well do it when the doctor's at my side").
"You were worried about me?" he finally asked, once he was up.
Clarke nodded, looking away, suddenly embarrassed and wishing she'd never brought it up. But Bellamy remained silent, watching her expectantly, and she sighed, nervously wringing her hands.
"When everyone was coming back inside, and I didn't see you…my mind just…I didn't know what to think." She paused as one of Bellamy's hands covered her own, stilling her movements. "I meant what I said, back at the supply bunker that night. I need you, Bellamy. This camp, these people looking to us, I can't do it without you."
"We need each other. You're the brains, I'm the brawn."
"The heart," she corrected. "I told you, you inspire people."
Bellamy chuckled. "So do you. You mean more to them—to us—than you think. You don't give yourself enough credit, Princess."
Clarke looked back up at him (and she didn't make anything out of his use of 'us'). "Neither do you," Clarke pointed out. "You've proven yourself here, Bellamy. As more than the devil-may-care guy you were when we first landed. You've become a real leader."
Bellamy tilted his head. "Couldn't have done it without you."
Clarke's eyes drifted around the room before returning to his gaze. "I'm really glad you're okay."
"Me too—sorry I worried you so much." Bellamy paused, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "I didn't realize you cared so much, though."
Now Clarke knew the flush flooding her cheeks would be plainly visible. "Well, like I said…you…you're…we're partners here," she stammered. "Besides, I wouldn't want to see anyone here hurt."
Bellamy laughed as he slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into him. "Relax, Clarke, I was just kidding. But if it had been you out there, and me in here? I would've felt the same way."
"Yeah?" she mumbled against his shoulder.
"Yeah," he affirmed, his lips ghosting over her forehead (accidentally, of course).
(And if they stayed like that—his arm around her and his lips against her hair, her hand snaked around his bare waist and her breath brushing over his shoulder, leaving goose bumps in its wake—well, they were both just tired, is all. It's not like it meant anything. Really.)