Biting her tongue in attempt to dispel the frigid harshness of the winter air, Clarke pulled the ends of her jacket down to cover her numbing fingers.
Everything was white: the ground, the trees, the tents. Even the air seemed to hold a lighter hue as snowflakes trailed from the sky to the banks.
She'd been hard-pressed to find a quality pair of mittens down here and after searching for what seemed like hours, had ended up settling for some wool socks she saw lying around the drop ship. Unfortunately, after only fifteen minutes of rolling snow and packing ice, she was soaked to the bone. Her lips were a light blue color while her cheeks had taken on a darker red. Winter was not gentle.
But unlike most mornings, Clarke wasn't out to gather ice for a med patient or dig a cave to escape a group of grounders or bury the body of somebody she knew. This was different.
Out here in the early morning, there was hardly anybody to bother her. Nobody to tell her what to do, how to act, why and when to do so. The silence was beautiful and she cherished it. Funny it always had to be him who broke it.
"Clarke?" came Bellamy's voice. She swiveled her head to see him behind her. Judging by the looks of his soaking wet hair, he'd been there for quite a while, which unnerved her slightly. It wasn't like him to stand around and watch people. Bellamy was quick-paced and impatient.
Clarke patted the snow off of her dampened pants, stood up, and turned to face him. Bellamy couldn't help but notice the smile playing on her lips, as if she was enjoying herself. Against better judgement, snow seemed to make people giddy. For what reason, Bellamy didn't understand. It was dangerous and uncomfortable and made his hands feel tingly if he touched it for too long.
Knitting his eyebrows together in confusion, he put his hands on his hips—something he often did to show he meant business (although Clarke thought looked more like an angry mother)—and stared at her incredulously.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Her forehead scrunched and she looked slightly miffed, as if it was obvious.
"Well I'm...," she pointed to the mounded snow behind her. "I'm building a snowman." She looked over at it proudly. "It's actually not too bad."
"A snowman?" He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers.
"Yes, a snowman," she said happily, turning to shave off some ice from the top to make it more circular.
She could hear him huff a breath through his nose and watched as his eyebrows began to wrinkle in con- fusion.
"What's a snowman?"
Clarke stared at him for a moment. Hadn't he ever read any books about them? Frosty the Snowman was a classic.
"Well it's a man...made of...snow," she explained slowly.
Bellamy narrowed his eyes and gave her a sideways look. He sighed. "Does this...snowperson—
—"Man."
"Fine. Does this snowman serve any...beneficial purpose?"
Clarke brought her hand to her chin as if in deep thought. "No," she said slowly. "Not really." "Will it protect us from the grounders?"
She shook her head.
"Can it hold a gun?"
Clarke poked its twig-arm with her finger. "Don't think so." "Will it provide us with food."
"There's a carrot," she said, pointing to his nose.
"Can it talk?"
"Well, there was this one story about this magical snowman who—" "Clarke!"
She flinched. Bellamy was glaring.
"I don't know what the hell has gotten into you today, but if you'd like to do something even mildly pro- ductive, I suggest you knock that stupid thing down and head to the med bay." He stomped away, leaving fresh prints in the snow. Was she insane? It was below freezing and instead of checking to make sure that nobody had come down with pneumonia, she was busy building...stacks of snow-pumpkins for personal enjoyment. Clarke Griffin was absolutely the most infuriating, sassy, stubborn, good-for-nothing—
WHAM!
The dampening chill of ice had reached Bellamy's skin in less than a second, but it took him what seemed like an eternity of dead silence to fully process it. He was only brought back to reality when the sound of her voice, stabbing across the snow, overrode the numbing pain in his back.
"BELLAMY BLAKE! YOU DISGUSTING, ASS-HATTED, HAREM-TOTING, FIRST CLASS DICK! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"
He tried his best not to flinch. He'd never seen her this mad, except when they'd first arrived and were at constant war over the rules of the camp. That was understandable. But now she was angry because of a snowman.
A fucking snowman.
He swiveled around to meet her gaze, eyes narrowing.
"I'm the co-leader of this camp, Clarke," he said lowly, as if straining to keep himself from sounding an- gry. He began taking slow steps in her direction, backtracking over the fresh prints. "We are responsible for the safety and productivity of this camp and if you want to spend all of your free time frolicking around and stacking lumps of ice together, then be my guest. But don't expect me to agree or—god for- bid—join you in your silly amusement. Because the next death is going to be on you." Bellamy was a foot from her now and his back was straightened to make himself seem as tall and authoritative as possible.
And yet the fire in Clarke's eyes had only grown. She took the last step that separated them and poked a very cold finger at the center of his chest, trying to keep the chilling shake out of her voice.
"I have been through hell, Bellamy. I've been gassed by crazy people in hazmat suits, had to deal with my father-murdering mother, lost one of my best friends, killed the other, and now have to put up with you. Every. Single. Day." She punctuated each word with a poke to his chest and he had to take a step back or they would have been too close. "And I know that everybody has their own problems and I know that mine are just a few waves in an ocean full of tsunamis, but I'm still dealing with a lot of crap. So I'm sor- ry that I'd like to take an hour out of my day, at five in the morning, to have a little bit of fun." She was glaring at him now, breathing heavily, and he could see the frost curling out of her mouth.
He shook his head slowly, leaning back to ease the distance between them. Looking over her head to- wards her...creation, he pointed lazily at it.
"You call that fun?"
She narrowed her eyes and he was afraid he was in for another lecture, when she suddenly smiled. "Oh no, that's more of an individual thing. You wouldn't really understand," she said, waving her hand nonchalantly. Bellamy wasn't sure, but he thought he detected a hint of mocking in her tone.
"If you want to have fun," she said. "You have to do it more...inclusively," and before he knew what was happening, before he could even comprehend how her reflexes could have been so fast, he was met with a blast of ice to the face.
"CLARKE!"
By the time the white had cleared out of his eyes, she was armed and ready, two snowballs in each hand. Bellamy was shaking. Not from the cold, but out of anger. What was she thinking? Did she want to be killed? Was she asking to be strangled to death?
Thwak He swiveled to the right to avoid one that would have hit his stomach. Instead, it nailed him in the ass. Perfect.
Clarke could see the frost puffing out of his nose and in the right light, he might have looked like a pissed-off bull. His eyes seemed to darken.
"You are so dead." His voice was like steel, but she could detect a lighter tone to it.
Clarke reached down quickly to make another snowball, but by the time she lifted her head to make sure he was still there, she was met with what felt like a punch to the gut. She looked up to see Bellamy smil- ing.
And she couldn't help but smile back.
"Winner gets the blankets off of loser's bed for the night," she offered.
"You're on princess," was his reply.
Snowballs flew rapidly through the air, along with a string of profanities and insults.
"First-class dick, huh?" He aimed one at her forehead.
"I thought you'd be angrier about the harem-toting part," she retorted while deflecting his throw. "That's a compliment."
"Not coming from me."
"Well of course not, you're too intimidating for any guy to even get within a foot of you." "Ass."
"Idiot."
"Twat."
She patted more spheres.
"You know, princess, you're just a tiny"—Bellamy held up his fingers in a pinch—"bit cute when you're mad."
Clarke stopped throwing. He'd crossed the line.
"Yeah?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Well I'm about to get pretty fucking adorable," and her next throw smacked him square in the pelvis. Bellamy grunted and squeezed his eyes closed. "Okay, okay, I take it back."
Clarke muffled a smile. "Ha. You just wait, Bellamy, you'll be begging for me to take it back."
It went on like that for about thirty minutes; Clarke aiming for below his waist and Bellamy whacking her in the face and stomach. After a while, they stopped yelling and just focused on pummeling each other with snow. The sun had risen fully above the horizon now and panned a glare over the frost-covered ground. The rest of the prisoners had begun to wake up and a few, after staring in wonder for a while, stood a little ways out of throwing range, watching as they became more tired and damp with every hit.
After a while, it was evident that Clarke was losing ground. To be fair, she'd been out in the cold longer than he had, but Bellamy wasn't about to let that make him feel bad about beating her. He'd pushed her to the outer ring of the camp, closer to the gate, when suddenly she shouted over the whooshing and break- ing of ice.
"Bellamy, no!" He stopped, worried for a moment that he had done something wrong before he realized that her finger was directed just a few inches to the left of him. He glanced back. Her snowman. It was closer than he'd thought—only a foot or so away and if he had reached back to throw another snowball, he probably would have—
Bellamy grinned widely, his eyes directed at her, and took a deliberate step back, hovering his open hand over the head of her ice sculpture.
Her eyes widened in horror. "Bellamy, don't."
He brought his hand down an inch farther.
"Don't," she said more harshly this time. "I'm serious. That took me an hour to build." "Tell me I win," he said easily.
She hesitated, trying to keep from shivering as she reached a hand up to wipe the hair out of her eyes. There was no way out of this.
"Clarke, tell me I win," he repeated, smiling.
God, he was such an ass. She crossed her arms over her chest.
Bellamy brought his hand to rest on the head of the snowman.
"Fine, fine," Clarke yelled in a panic. "Yes, yes, you win, Bellamy, you win." She ran forward and knocked his arm off of where it rested.
"But if you touch my snowman, you're dead and I win," she threatened.
Bellamy shrugged. "Okay. Just deliver your blankets whenever you feel like you've come to terms with
your loss."
Clarke looked a bit surprised.
"You didn't forget, did you?" he asked her, sarcastically.
She opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, but then closed it. "No."
"Uh-huh."
"Hey!" a voice called.
Clarke and Bellamy turned to see Octavia making her way towards them, mouth open. She raised her hands—palms up—to shoulder height and swiveled her waist as she surveyed the scene.
"What...how...?" she asked.
Bellamy hooked a thumb at Clarke. "Her idea."
"Excuse me?" came Clarke's response. "You're the one who insulted my snowman." "You threw the first hit!"
"I wouldn't have if you had just backed off and given me some space."
"You called me a—
"STOP!" Octavia looked back and forth between both of the leaders. "What is wrong with you two? When most people get in an argument, they usually talk it out or have really great sex. Leave it to you guys to begin World War III in the middle of a snowstorm at five in the morning!"
"It's not snowing—"
"I don't care! Clarke your lips are purple and you're about to collapse. Bellamy, you look like a wet dog. Go somewhere warm and don't come back until you can feel your toes," Octavia said firmly. Usually it was her brother who was ordering her around and worrying about her well-being, but sometimes his lack in judgement seriously concerned her and she had to take the reigns.
They stared at her for a moment, wondering at her sudden change in attitude before she rolled her eyes and gave them each a light shove to the shoulder.
"Go," she prodded, nudging them towards the drop ship.
Clarke seemed to want to respond, but instead her blue lips trembled and she just ended up nodding. Dur- ing their mini-war, she'd been able to ignore the icy stab that ate away at her bones, but now that the adrenaline had worn off, she was finding it hard to stand.
Bellamy followed her as they headed to warmth. He watched as Clarke tucked her arms under her shoul- ders and bent her head into her chin. There was this nagging feeling in his chest—maybe guilt—that made him want to wrap his arms around her shoulders and help her stay warm, but instead he rubbed his hand over the spot where his heart would be in attempt to dispel it. She'd pretty much just tried to kill him.
"Heeey!" a voice called in passing and the two leaders jerked their heads up to see Monty and Jasper waving back at them, grinning from ear to ear.
They were already a good ten feet away, but Clarke didn't miss their comment.
"Looks like mom and dad got in another fight," Jasper laughed, bumping Monty's shoulder with his el- bow. Monty looked back at them and winked. "Must be that time of the month!"
That was it. She was done. First Bellamy and now them. They might be her friends, but Clarke was sick of being made fun of. First she was some privileged, snotty bitch who lived a life of ease and luxury, then she was a princess, and now her hormones were responsible for Bellamy's ineptitude.
Without pausing for a second, she swiveled on her heals, eyes squinted in a glare, and headed straight for the two unsuspecting goof-offs. Just as she was about to lunge for them, a strong grip held her at the fore- arm and she paused, looking back to see Bellamy shaking his head slowly.
"Let it go, Clarke. Let it go."
She narrowed her eyes and struggled to break free of his hold, but Monty and Jasper were already a good distance away. She relaxed and glanced back at her co-leader, deciding to take his advice. Besides, she probably wasn't in the best state to tackle two grown men. She could barely feel her face.
Finally reaching the drop-ship, Bellamy and Clarke stumbled inside, thankful for the sudden warmth that enveloped them. Raven had figured out a way to heat the metal pod, creating what were essentially rough estimates of chimneys within the metal walls. They worked well, but had to be monitored closely. Fire could be hazardous without constant surveillance.
Glancing around, Bellamy quickly found two orange blankets from under a med table and handed one to Clarke.
"Th-thanks," she managed to say through her chattering teeth. She wrapped it around her shoulders like a cape, bunching the ends near her chest with shaking fists. Bellamy took a seat near one the ventilators and leaned the back of his head against the metal wall. Normally the drop ship would be full of patients wait- ing to be treated by Clarke, but now in the early morning, many people were still asleep. It was undoubt- edly harder to wake up in the winter.
"Here," Clarke said, and shoved a bucket of water towards him. Next to her sat another pail and she began peeling her gloves off to dip her fingers in.
"Am I that dirty?" he asked dryly.
"It's warm," she responded, trying to keep the chill out of her voice. Her fingers stung when she sub- mersed them in the water and Bellamy didn't miss the wince that passed across her face. Had she really been out there that much longer than him?
"How early were you up?" he asked. She looked tired when their eyes met.
Her shoulders shrugged up towards her ears and she patted her cheeks with the warm water.
"Well I went outside at five," she started, but Bellamy cut her off.
"No I mean, when did you wake up?" he clarified, although he was fairly sure she knew what he had meant in the first place.
"I...well, I don't really remember...maybe four," she muttered. God, she was a terrible liar. "Clarke," he said her voice in a warning.
She looked up at him innocently, but the dark circles weren't obscured by her wide eyes. "You didn't sleep." It wasn't a question.
She sighed and squinted ahead as if in pain. "Doesn't matter."
He was up on his feet in less than a second. "Clarke, you cannot do this to yourself again."
"I don't need your sympathy, Bellamy," she spat back.
"You need to take care of yourself. This camp can't survive without you."
She whipped to a stand, wobbling slightly, a humorless expression on her face.
She glared. "I can take care of myself, thank you very much. And I'm sure this camp could easily find a replacement for my medical skills, since that's seems to be the only thing I'm good for."
He stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out what she was really saying. She gazed back, trying to make him understand.
The sadness in her eyes gave her away.
"You don't think I care about you."
Clarke's expression was guarded, as if she didn't want to admit the truth. She looked conflicted. "Well...you don't," she said cautiously. "I mean, you value my ability to heal and—
"Clarke," he tried to interrupt, but she ignored him.
—"my battle strategies and—
"Clarke."
—sometimes I like to think you respect my position as co-leader, but—
"Clarke!"
She paused, as if she had finally heard him, but then her eyes welled up with tears. "Nobody can really care about me, Bellamy," she stated numbly.
He scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion. "But Finn—"
"Yeah," she nodded, laughing without humor. "And look what happened to him. And Wells. And Char- lotte. And my dad." She could barely keep the break out of her voice. "Everybody who cares about me; everybody I care about, is getting killed.
"I'm not getting killed," he said.
She looked up at him. "You don't care about me."
"Clarke, do you think I'd just let anybody pelt me with snowballs? Do you think I'd let Monty and Jasper come with me on hunting trips? Do I look like a guy who gives out free hugs?"
Clarke couldn't help but smirk. He wasn't exactly the cuddly type.
"You're probably the only person down here who understands me, Clarke. Octavia might know me and some of my friends might help me, but you're the only one who understands what I'm going through. What we're going through," he corrected. "And no way in hell should you ever worry about losing me. I'll live to be one-hundred if it means I get to annoy you that much longer."
Clarke stared at him for a moment, before grinning widely.
"You know, for an asshole, you sure have a way with words, Bellamy."
He brought his hand to the top of her shoulder. "And if I am so good at communicating, then maybe I'm not such an asshole."
She rolled her eyes. "Then I'm no princess."
They stood there for a moment in silence before Bellamy broke it.
"You never answered my question from before," he said.
She quirked an eyebrow. "No?"
"Why you never fell asleep."
"Oh," she said, and the sudden lightness in the air was dampened.
"I uh...have nightmares," she said. "Just like everyone else," she added.
He folded his arms into his chest.
"And how many times have we been through this before?" he scolded her like a child. She huffed. "Too many."
"And what are you supposed to do when it happens?"
She mumbled something unintelligible, glaring at her shoes.
"What?" he asked, cupping his hand to his ear. "Sorry, couldn't hear you."
"Come to you," she said more loudly this time, glaring at him.
"Right. And why haven't you been doing so? I remember us having a very long conversation a few weeks ago about how we're responsible for each other's problems. Besides, I know how to help you."
She stared at him stupidly, half-lidded eyes showing she knew what he was getting at.
"That was one time Bellamy, if you think I'm sleeping next to you again, you're sadly mistaken."
He frowned. "You said it was the best sleep you'd gotten in a year."
"Yes and your gaggle of girls wouldn't stop shooting me peripheral stink-eyes for weeks," she said bland- ly.
He grinned. "Don't worry princess, I'll make sure they won't next time."
Clarke rolled her eyes. "Oh, my hero. Where was your chivalry earlier, when you were throwing ice at my face?"
Bellamy scoffed. "Chivalry? That was a war. I think I'm exempt from manners when the enemy happens to be chucking snowballs at my no-no places."
"Did I aim well enough?" she grinned.
"My ass is frozen solid."
"I'm sure your heart is colder."
Bellamy placed his hand over his chest. "I'm wounded, princess." She smiled slightly in response. "You've had worse."
He stared at her for a moment. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah I have."