Hey, everyone! I know I'm supposed to be writing a different thing right now, but I've had this for a while, and just recently polished it up in some of my spare time.

This is an AU story about what could have happened if Finn had not been saved in "The 48" in season 2. Anya takes Finn captive, searching for answers, and Finn ends up pretty damaged in the process. Just some Clarke/Finn sweetness, but with more whump and pain. :)

As always, leave a review and let me know what you think. Or just read it and enjoy.

He'd tried reasoning.

"Anya, this is going to help nothing." Finn protested. A grounder grabbed him roughly from behind, lashing his hands tightly above his head. Anya glared from the corner, her face hidden by the shadows.

"This won't stop the war." He said. "All this will do is cause more conflict between our groups." The grounder tested the bindings, tugging on them a few times, nodding to Anya when he judged them worthy.

Anya stepped forward. "I care not about war." She said quietly. "In fact, I look forward to slaughtering your people, one by one." She paused to let the message sink in. Finn shuddered, his bare chest cold in the damp cave.

"But first," Anya purred, narrowing her eyes, and stepping forward. She laid a hand on Finn's chest, stepping close to his face. "I need some information." She whispered in his ear.

Finn leaned back, repulsed. "Never." He snarled. "I won't give up my people."

Anya bared her teeth, and took a step back. "Fine." She relented. "You will speak. If not now, later." She smiled wryly, her eyes glinting. "And if not to tell me what I want to know, you will speak to beg my people to stop."

Finn smirked. "I'd like to see them try."

Anya laughed cruelly. "As you wish."

He'd tried bargaining.

"If you stop," Finn panted, his back screaming with pain. "If you stop, I can work something out with Clarke and Bellamy. You can still stop this war."

The whip came cracking down again. Finn groaned as it struck him, and hung his head, his dirty hair hanging in his eyes.

"Finn, you know what I want." Anya crooned. She crouched down, and took his chin in her hand, pulling his head up to look at her. The whip cracked again, and Finn gasped, the chains on his wrists going taut. Anya, her eyes never leaving Finn's face, held up a hand.

"When we arrived at your camp, Clarke created the fire, and then someone came to rescue her." Anya explained for the hundredth time. "Where are they now?"

"I don't know." Finn admitted. "But I can find her, if you let me go."

There was a tense pause. Finn looked up hopefully at Anya, only to drop in despair at her expression, how amused she appeared.

"Finn, if we let you go, we lose our only bargaining chip. Killing you would be fruitless as well." She laughed. She sombered up, gripping his chin tighter. "Looks like we'll have to bear your company until you can provide some useful information."

He'd tried pleading.

"Please, Anya." Finn cried as the molten hot end of the iron stake skimmed over the skin on his chest, leaving a blazing trail of agony behind. "Please, stop."

"Are you ready to speak, Finn?" Anya asked, circling him. "Do you want to tell us where your friends are?"

"I don't know!" Finn screamed as the grounder pressed the scorching stake hard against one spot, and the pain rose to hellish heights. "I can't tell you! I don't know!"

"Well, that's a shame." Anya deadpanned. She looked up at the grounder above him. "Why don't you punish him for another while." She looked down at Finn with pitiless eyes. "See if you can get anything out of him."

When Anya stormed out, Finn caught the guards hand with weak fingers. "Please," he rasped. "Just kill me."

The grounder laughed. "No chance." He spoke roughly, with limited knowledge of English. "We still have hour to go." He laughed, tracing the stake over his skin before digging it in again.

And then Finn stopped trying at all.

"So, Finn, how long has it been?" Anya asked as she made her way over to where he hung on the wall. "Almost a month, correct? And you haven't had enough yet?"

Finn didn't answer, hanging limply. His chin sat on his chest, rising jerkily. He drew air into his lungs through necessity alone. He would die if he didn't breathe. He knew this. So he breathed. In and out, in and out. He had to breathe to stay alive.

He was just starting to doubt that staying alive was worth it.

Anya crept over to him, looking up at him from where he hung off of chains bound to the stark walls. Her hand slid over his bare chest, pressing against countless burns, bruises, and old cuts. He felt the searing pain that slashed over his skin when her fingers encountered these wounds, but the pain was at a disconnect with his brain. There was always pain, more pain and more pain. It never ended. He'd reached a point where he found himself apathetic about the agony he experienced. After all, it would always be worse later on.

Anya's hands sneaked around his neck, twisting into his hair. She stretched up to press her face close to his, close enough that he could see the slight green specks in her dark eyes. "Finn, aren't you tired?" She whispered. "Why are you still fighting?"

Finn clenched his eyes shut, her words putting a voice to the thoughts that had been running through his head for days now.

"What have your friends ever done for you that they deserve this kind of loyalty?" Anya purred softly. "Don't you think it's time that you took care of yourself for once?"

Finn shook his head, not in refusal but in a gesture of resignation. There was nothing that he could say that he hadn't said before. He didn't know where his friends were. At this point, if he had, he probably would have given them up. He just couldn't go on anymore, endure any more pain.

Suddenly, Finn felt the hands in his hair go soft, cupping his head instead of ripping at his hair. One hand came down from his neck, brushing gently over his cheek instead. Breath blew over his lips, warm and quick. And then, her mouth was on his, pressing firmly, passionately.

He found himself pressing back, so desperate for human contact that he didn't care who it was pressed against him. Missing her so much that anything would do to take away the pain for even a second. Even if it was a grounder.

Anya broke away, pulling back with a briskness that tore at his heart. His body leaned toward her, crying out when the chains held him back. His chest burned with cold where her hand had rested, and he was struck by an emptiness more profound than he had ever felt before.

"I hope that you enjoyed that, Finn." Anya said. Her voice was low, and he couldn't read her emotions. Amused? Wistful? Regretful? "You won't feel anything like that for a very long time."

With that, she spun on her heel, and swept from the room, holding her head high with a nearly regal air of superiority. Finn shuddered in her absence, going limp against the chains holding him aloft. The desire he felt running through him sent shivers of disgust down his spine, but he couldn't shut it off. Couldn't make the thoughts go away.

Two grounder guards stomped into the room, and though he had expected it, Finn felt his heart sink with dread. He eyed the various weapons strapped to the grounders' furs and wondered absently which one they would use. Probably the clubs, he decided. They enjoyed beating the resistance out of him first, before getting to the more delicate tortures, like knives and fire. But which clubs? It was always a surprise.

This time, however, they did something he never would have expected. They walked over, untying the thick leather straps tethering him to the chains, and caught his arms as they lowered him to the ground. The grounders dropped him in a heap on the floor, where he went limp as a dead fish. His shoulder's screamed with agony, legs tight after weeks of no use.

The guards above his head growled to each other in their native tongue, rough and coarse as the bark that grew on the trees somewhere outside his personal hell. After only a moment, one single, blissful second resting on the ground, they heaved him to his feet, dragging his tired body between them like a sack of meat.

He tried to stay on his feet as they walked, but the two were strong, and fit, and ate more than one measly meal every few days. He couldn't keep up, and every time he lagged, one of the grounders yanked viciously on his arm. Eventually he gave up, opting for the ache of his shoulders and the rough scraping of stones under his feet as they hauled him along the hallways over the agony of trying to stay on his feet.

The grounders finally came to a halt next to a heavy wooden door. One of them pulled it open, and the torchlight from the stone hallway cast light on a dismal scene. The cell was damp, dirty, and dark. Water dripped from the ceiling in one corner, and the quiet drip, drip of the liquid falling into a puddle could be heard even standing outside. Chains dangled on the wall furthest from the door, and Finn's wrists ached at the sight. He heard the slight squeaking of rats somewhere in the room, and his skin crawled with revulsion.

The grounders pulled him into the room, tying his wrists into the chains tightly. Finn waited, breath bated, for the beating to begin. But it never came. The grounders simply turned, walking to the door without a second glance back at him. The light receded as they left, and Finn felt a new kind of dread choke him.

"Wait, please!" He called, his voice hoarse from disuse. "What about the light?" His voice sounded broken, desperate. He could hear the low chuckle from the grounders as they marched from the room, taking the torch with them. The door slammed shut, leaving him in the most complete darkness he had ever experienced.

He stayed on his feet, hearing the squeaking and pattering of rats crawling around the floor. The dripping of the water was constant, comforting at first, a sign that time hadn't stopped when the light vanished. Eventually, exhaustion won over and he was forced to his knees, arms stretched out above him. He fell asleep to the dripping of water and the occasional bump of a rat against his knee.

Days passed. Although it could have been years and it could have been seconds. But he was sure time was passing. Mostly sure. The darkness never wavered, always a complete and never ending black that nearly suffocated him in its thickness. The rats grew bolder, crawling over his lap and up his shirt, and though it choked off his breathing every time they did, he didn't see the point in trying to stop them. Maybe one of them would bite him, give him a disease, end it all right then. They never did. They clawed, they scratched, but they never bit. It was like they somehow knew that killing him would end all of the fun.

He was still eating, somehow. Food was brought in while he was asleep, left on the floor by his feet. He wouldn't have eaten it except he knew that if he didn't, the rats would. And any thought of giving the little pests something to better their lives was enough to drive him to stuff the little he got into his mouth, one sporadic meal after the other.

As the time stretched on, the dripping water in the corner began to sound like a sledgehammer pounding against an anvil. He began to dread every second, waiting for the drop to fall, hit the water, time and time again. His hands found themselves clamped over his ears, but it did nothing to shut out the voices in his head.

Clarke screamed, crying for him. He heard her the most, but there were others. Sometimes it was Raven, pleading with him, begging for something that he couldn't understand and couldn't give her anyway. Sometimes he heard little Charlotte, humming and singing quietly next to him in the dark. In the end, it wasn't the rats, or the darkness, or the hammering water that got to him. It was the voices that weren't really there but never left him alone.

It was odd. He wanted nothing more than to see another human face. Even one of the grounders. Torture was something he wished for, begged for in the dark. At least then there would be someone there. Other than the rats. And yet, while he was yearning for human contact, he wanted, desperately, for the voices to leave him alone. Perhaps it was the fact that they were always, crying, begging, and screaming. Never left him with any peace and quiet. He just wanted to tell them to shut up, stop talking, THERE WAS NOTHING HE COULD DO TO HELP.

So, finally, he told them so. He told them to be quiet, and when they wouldn't listen, he screamed it, tearing his throat raw, roaring the words as loud as he could. He screamed at the voices in his head, hands clamped against his ears, rocking back and forth as rats crawled over his lap.

And that was how the Mountain Men found him when they finally came to free him.

LINE BREAK

Clarke had been waiting tensely in the dining hall when one of the officers came to inform her that the rescue operation had been a success. Finn had been rescued and brought back to the mountain with minimal interference. As the officer led her to the infirmary, where Finn was being kept, he warned her about what they had discovered.

"Ms. Griffin, I don't want you to get your expectations too high," He cautioned her. "The target was-"

"Finn," Clarke interrupted him in a whisper. The officer halted beside her.

"Excuse me?"

"His name is Finn," She said with more conviction, looking the older man firmly in the eyes.

The officer's glare softened. "Forgive me. Finn-" He emphasized. "-was in bad shape when we got there. Upon inspection, it was clear that he was in dire distress and would have been a liability out in the open. We administered a sedative in order to get him safely here, and it should be wearing off shortly."

"What do you mean, he was in distress?"

"I mean that he was in a fragile state of mind. It isn't uncommon for victims of prolonged torture to experience auditory and visual hallucinations, especially in the kind of environment that Finn was being kept in-"

"Hallucinations?" Clarke echoed softly, eyes wide.

"Yes," The officer confirmed. "Just remember that he's alive, Ms. Griffin. It could have been much worse."

"It could have been worse…" She repeated dully.

"If you need a minute, Ms. Griffin, we can do this later-"

"No." Clarke said immediately. "I need to see him."

"Very well," The officer sighed, looking as if he doubted the idea was just. He led her to Level Three, and back toward the quarantine rooms that the 48 had initially been kept in. Shivers ran over Clarke's skin as she felt the cool air of the hallways, remembered the starkness of those rooms. Colorless. Empty. Inhuman.

The officer led her to room 304, the same room that Monty had been kept in, in the beginning. He flipped the latch keeping the door shut, and pulled down his mask to cover his face. Opening the door, the officer let her walk into the room first.

Clarke walked in slowly, her breath echoing loudly in her ears. Laying on the bed in the middle of the room was a pale, battered, ratty boy with long mangy hair that hung into his eyes. Despite everything that was different, those were still the same lips that had kissed her, the same hands that had held her, and beneath a thick white strip of gauze, the same eyes that had stared at her with such loyalty and devotion.

Clarke took a seat next to Finn, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. She reached up to his face, stopping just short of brushing the skin on his cheek.

"What happened to his eyes?" She asked.

"Finn has been kept in a dark, lightless room for a few weeks before we found him," The officer said. "It's hard to know for how long he was kept there, but any extended amount of time could cause some discomfort with the lights when he first wakes up. The bandages are just to help ease the transition."

Clarke nodded, distracted by the circles of padded cloth encircling Finn's wrists. The soft bracelets were fastened with leather and tethered to the sides of the bed frame. The same restraints hugged his ankles as well.

"When will he wake up?" Clarke asked.

"It's hard to tell." The officer admitted. "He was hit with a pretty heavy dose in order to keep him safe while we were exposed, but it should be wearing off soon. It's impossible to time it down to the second, of course, but those sedatives were designed to last 18 hours, and it's been almost 20 hours since they were administered. I would say he'll wake up anytime now."

"Okay," Clarke agreed, eyes back on Finn. "I'm here when you're ready," She murmured quietly, too low for the officer to understand. "I'm right here."

"I'll be stationed outside the door if you need me," The officer said, nodding his head in farewell. Just as he reached the door, he turned back for a moment. "Oh, and Ms. Griffin, it's recommended that you refrain from physical contact with the- with Finn. He has been isolated for an extended amount of time, and contact before he is ready could make his transition more difficult."

Clarke nodded absently, watching Finn and the slow rise and fall of his chest. His skin was clear, even his long, usually unkempt hair had been recently washed. Just like all of them had when they first arrived. They woke up fresh, washed clean of the horrors of the world outside. All of their worst cuts and scrapes had been fixed, covered up neatly in bandages and gauze. But they all still had scars, hidden deep within them where no one but each other could see.

A low moan jolted Clarke from her thoughts. She stared down at Finn, watching as he shifted, wrists pulling against the restraints. A pained noise rose through his lips, like a mewling kitten, and Clarke's heart squeezed.

"Finn," She called gently. "You can wake up now. You're safe. Everything's okay."

She watched as his chest rose and fell more rapidly, and his arms and legs jerked against the straps frantically, as if he had no control over his limbs. A low wheezing spasmed from his chest, and Clarke hovered helplessly, not wanting to do anything to aggravate his anxiety.

"Please, Finn," Clarke begged, near close to tears. "Just calm down. I promise, it's okay."

Finn's head shook from side to side rhythmically, almost compulsively. Clarke made out a murmur in his panicked respiration, and leaned closer, straining to make out his words.

"Not real, no, not her, can't, no, isn't real, stop, please, can't, not real, not her," He muttered tightly.

"Finn…" Clarke murmured. "I'm right here. I'm real, I promise." But she realized that her words were empty to him, fragments of a hallucination that he had lived with for days, even weeks.

"I can't-" Finn gasped, his voice raising to a shout, and Clarke found herself glancing back at the door, worried that the officer would return to subdue him again.

"Finn, please, calm down, okay? It's me! Me, Finn, I'm here!" She pleaded. Finn simply rose his voice to match hers.

"NO, YOU CAN'T BE REAL I CAN'T HELP YOU GO AWAY!" He cried, so broken and helpless that Clarke reached over, hands yearning to hold him, to comfort him. The officer's words echoed in her head, warning her against physical contact, against touching him, against comforting him because it could upset him further. And yet, Clarke didn't see how he could be any more upset.

On impulse, Clarke reached over and clasped Finn's hand in hers. She held firmly, even as he recoiled from the touch and tried to pull his hand out of her grasp. She placed her other hand on top, trying to convey a feeling of comfort rather than restraint.

"Finn, you feel this? It's me. I'm real, I swear. They have bandages covering your eyes, so you can't see right now, but I'm real. I'm here. I'm right here and I'm holding your hand and I swear to god that I won't ever let go again." All of the words that Clarke had been yearning to say for weeks came pouring out in a waterfall of emotion, and once they were spoken, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

Finn fell silent, going still against the white sheets. "Clarke?" His voice was strained, quiet, terrified to hope that what she was saying was true.

"I'm here." Clarke whispered, and her eyes watered as Finn's hand clutched hers back, holding on tightly, desperately. "I'm right here."

Finn choked, and his other hand tried to reach up and touch his eyes. It was stopped by the restraint, and his other hand gripped hers with more strength. "I need to see you," he said in a nearly strangled voice. "Please, Clarke, I have to see your face."

Clarke glanced back at the door, and then she carefully released Finn's hand. He felt her letting go, and his grip tightened, but she gently pulled against his fingers until he let her go. She placed his hand on the bed beside him, and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. His bruised, raw, scraped up knuckles.

"I'm going to be right back," Clarke whispered. "Count to ten and I will be right back at your side."

She slipped away, noticing that Finn's lips moved slightly, counting the moments slowly until she returned. Clarke crossed to the door, pulling it open, grateful to see that it wasn't locked.

"He needs to see my face." Clarke whispered to the officer.

"His eyes-" The officer began to protest.

"Then dim the lights." She shot back. "I don't care what you do, but he needs to see my face. He needs this."

With that, Clarke went back to Finn's bedside, slipping her hand inside his just as his lips formed the number ten. She felt his relief in the tight grip of his hand, and she returned the gesture, holding onto him with determination.

Clarke waited, whispering comforting nothings to Finn as she waited. Looking over, she could see the officer speaking quietly into his radio. Within a few moments, the officer looked back and nodded, and the lights dimmed so low that it was hard to see the hard edges of the monitors around Finn's bed. Even his face lost definition. She waited until her eyes had adjusted, and then reached down, placing her hands on either side of Finn's face.

"I'm going to take off the bandages now, okay?" Clarke said. "Take it easy, the light might hurt at first."

Finn nodded microscopically, his muscles tense under her fingers. Gently, she began to peel away the tape fastening the gauze in place, and pulled off the bandage obscuring his vision. She set it on the bed next to her, and Finn slowly blinked his eyes, squinting against the low light at first.

Clarke bit her lip, tears clouding her vision as she saw his beautiful brown irises, a sight that had been denied to her for far too long. Within a few moments, he was staring up at her, eyes whole and hopeful and strong.

"Hey, princess." Finn whispered, traces of his old arrogance and charm showing through the broken exterior.

Clark laughed, tears finally falling down her cheeks as she blinked, determined to see his face. His damaged, healing, beautiful face. Clarke leaned over, taking Finn's face in her hands, placing a kiss gently on his lips.

"You don't know how long I've waited for that." Clarke whispered.

"You don't have to wait anymore." Finn said, a small smile brightening his face, clearing some of the pain from his eyes.

"No, I don't." Clarke agreed, leaning forward to kiss him again. "Because you're finally home. And you aren't leaving me again for a very long time."