Drabble based off of Rashaka's prompt: When he takes her hand, his thumb slides across the back of her knuckles-it takes a moment, for her to breathe again.
Disclaimer: Just borrowing the characters and sadly don't own a thing.
When he takes her hand, his thumb slides across the back of her knuckles-it takes a moment, for her to breathe again.
But she's breathing. Clarke has a moment of dizzying reorientation. She can't remember the last time she felt like she was breathing. When she had suddenly excused herself from the meeting with her mother and the guards and the room of raised voices ignoring her and Bellamy's suggestions, she hadn't realized she hasn't been looking for space; she'd been looking for air, for a stop to that pressing pain in her chest.
Ever since she saw Bellamy walk into Camp Jaha, since she sprinted to him to hold him tight, the touches have grown more frequent and longer. It isn't just her; they are both contributing to this. Passing one another means a brush of fingers on an arm or a shoulder to check the other is alright. Comforting palms on backs. Legs or shoulders pressed together by the fire. Tugs at clothing for attention. Toes of boots and knees bumping into one another as they huddle across from one another at canteen tables, conspiring.
Physical touch is like an anchor. In the span of a mere few days she's come to look for any chance to remind herself, and him, that they are both alive. They've made it. They have survived despite all the odds stacked against them. They're both dealing with similar frustrations at the moment, and they need to be smart, be level-headed, if they're going to get the rest of the surviving members of the 100 back.
His thumb strokes her knuckles again, and her fingers tighten around his for a second. She shudders and knows Bellamy notices it, because he draws closer – it's just a bit of a subtle swaying and shifting on his feet, but suddenly he's taking up more space beside her, protecting and supporting.
Of course he followed her to this empty tent. He's always there when she needs him to be, recently.
With her head bowed, she can just see his warm, tan fingers curled around her paler ones on the cool metal out of the corner of her eye. She sees the dirt and blood under and around his nails; she knows there's just as much under and on hers as well. Their calluses aren't the same but they come from the same driving goal – all this time spent trying to survive, to live.
"I'm trying," she says quietly, voice tighter than she thought it would be. "I just – she won't listen. They aren't listening."
"They don't want to because it means the situation is worse than they are preparing for. They're scared," he tells her, voice low and close.
"We'll make them listen," she declares, a goal for both of them.
She leans closer and their shoulders brush. He's solid support while she listens to the relative quiet in the tent, to their breathing.
It's not everything she wants or needs but it's enough for now.