Jumping into Kabby with both feet. I just binged The 100 and am currently in love and obsessed. This is going to be a series of Kabby one-shots in all kinds of order because I'm watching and re-watching and plotting and planning. Summaries will be at the start of the chapter. Expect lots of angst and a little fluff because, damnit they need some happy moments too.


Set in Polis right after everyone wakes up from the City of Light. That hug was everything, but I wanted more. (And why is Jackson so underappreciated?)

...

Disinfect, suture, bandage, repeat.

Disinfect, suture, bandage, repeat.

She's been at it for hours. Though it could have been days, weeks, or minutes. There was no such thing as time in the City of Light and her brain hasn't caught up to it since she's been out. It was early morning when everyone woke up, when Clarke had fought through the City and disabled ALIE for good, since she filled her daughter's body with black blood, since she shot dead the people that kept coming to stop her daughter.

It's dark now. The throne room lit only by candles and torches as she keeps moving from injured to injured. They are less and less severe now. They'd treated the critical first. All that remains are minor cuts and burns that, if she's honest with herself probably don't need treating, but she can't stop. If she stops she thinks and she doesn't have room in her soul to process what she's done.

She kneels down next to Bellamy who sits on the steps next to the throne, exhaustion evident in his every feature. He'd been in and out all day, helping people find a place to sleep, bring more and more bandages and water. The last she'd seen him he had been carrying out a sleeping Clarke and promising Abby she'd be safe. She trusted him. He and Clarke had a knack for keeping each other safe and as horrible as it was to admit, she couldn't bare to look at her daughter any longer. Clarke had granted her forgiveness without a thought, but Abby will never forgive herself. "Has anyone looked at this?" she asks after a long moment of staring at the blood smeared down his face before bringing her shaking hand to his temple.

"It's nothing," he tells her with a tired smile. "I've been wacked in the head much harder. I'm sure it looks worse than it is." Bellamy takes her hand lowering it back to her lap. She stares at the unrecognizable appendages. They were covered in blood: black, bright red, and every shade in between. They had helped people; they had hurt people. People she loved. People she would die for (and almost had.) Bellamy's hand covers both of hers, pulls her momentarily from the dark path her mind was creeping down. "Take the hallway til it stops, turn right," he squeezes her hands hard enough that it should have gotten her attention. It doesn't.

Abby tries to make sense of what he was saying, she really does. She know he wouldn't be telling her something that wasn't important. They didn't have time to spare for anything that wasn't important. But no matter how hard she tries to focus, the young man's instructions won't sink in.

"I'll take her," the voice is in her ear, but feels so far away. There's a hand between her shoulder blades, one under her elbow, gently urging her back to her feet. Her legs feel like jelly when her knees lock in place. The hand stays on her elbow, the other moves to her waist holding her up more than she'd like to admit.

They have already turned before she thinks to ask or even consider where she was being taken. The hand abandons her elbow to pull back the fabric draped over the doorway before walking (dragging) her inside. "Kane?" the voice asked as they step further into the room. He leans her against the doorway, holds her there long enough to ensure she'll stay upright before venturing further inside. Jackson. The fog lifts, if only slightly and Abby cranes her neck to confirm it was her friend and colleague that brought her here. He's looking back at her with the same bright eyes he always does. The same eyes that had stared her down as he stalked toward Clarke; the eyes she had been seconds away from taking the light from.

The panic slams into her. Surely this is what it feels like to be floated on the ark: to have the breath ripped from your lungs, the warmth instantly taken from your body. There was nothing below her feet and she claws at the air seeking something to steady her. There are arms around her within seconds: Jackson is back kneeling behind her, Kane falling to his knees at her side. They are both saying her name again and again; each utterance a marker to lead her back to them.

Neither man moves until she stops gasping for air, until the numbness begins to consume her once more. "I didn't want to leave her alone," Jackson tells Kane, feeling he needs to explain bringing her here instead of one of the makeshift bunk rooms or a place of her own. He doesn't. Kane's silent nod tells him as much. Jackson removes the bag of bandages from his shoulder and hands it to Kane. "I want to look at her neck," he snaps back into Doctor mode, shifting so that he's positioned at Abby's side opposite him. "She hasn't stopped long enough to be treated herself."

Kane waits for the smart remark from Abby, her standard I can take care of myself or I'd have treated it if it needed treating. Neither come. She stares blankly at her knees, breath hitching every few moments, but otherwise silent. It scares him. He hates that it scares him; he hates that he wasn't there for her in those initial moments after the City of Light shattered around them; he hates that he clung to her, released is rage and pain and grief into her embrace and hadn't taken any of hers in return; he hates that it's Jackson that picks her up off the floor and carries her to the lone chair in the room.

"Do you have water?" Jackson asks as he sets her down. Kane is on his feet darting around the room because this is something he can do. This is some small way that he can help her right now.

"It's cooled," he says apologetically, setting the basin and pitcher on the floor at Abby's feat.

Jackson simply nods, dipping a rag into the water and wringing it out. Kane looks lost. They all do; the ones that were forced into taking the chip. He took it so long ago, willingly. Maybe that's why he's not as affected as they are? Maybe because he was under ALIE's influence longer? Maybe it just hasn't all caught up with him yet. He's sure the latter is the correct answer; he's sure when he's done with his patient's, maybe even when he's done here with Abby that he'll have to face down the same demons he sees in the eyes of Abby and Kane right now. Maybe later, but not yet. "Can you move her hair?" he gives Kane something to do. It seems to help, his eyes focus, his hands steady, as he scoops Abby's hair off her shoulders and drapes it over the back of the chair. Jackson pretends not to notice the practiced way his fingers slip through the strands. He's not blind to the ever growing affection between them, but he's not sure he's forgiven Kane for the Ark, for the lashing. People that hurt those he loves were rarely granted his forgiveness and Abby Griffin is definitely someone he loves.

He brings the rag to her neck, gently pressing against the bruised and bloodied flesh, visibly relieved when it appears to be mostly superficial. Kane has a different angle though and his brow is creased in concern. "Abby," he says gently, fingers ghosting along the back of her neck. "Abby, I need to take your necklace off." Her hand shoots to the ring hanging at her chest, the sudden movement causing both men to startle. "Abby," Kane says again, quiet, calm. It takes a moment, but she nods slightly. Kane releases the clasp, pulling the chain slowly from the side of her neck.

Jackson sees it as soon as Abby flinches; the angry red gash where the rope had forced the metal into her skin. "Wait," he tells Kane, placing the cool rag against where the chain is the deepest. It won't numb the pain, not by far, but he hopes it distracts from it if nothing else. He removes the rag, Kane pulls chain. The repeat the process millimeter by millimeter until the necklace hangs freely from Kane's fingers.

"I'll keep it safe," Marcus promises her as he watches her eyes flit from the ring to him. There's a thousand questions and confessions in her eyes that they shelve for another time. He steps away quickly, placing her necklace on the bedside table and returning to her side. Jackson is already applying a bandage to the side of her neck. He's efficient, tender. Abby taught him well. He kneels at her side again, brings the damp cloth to her split lip, dabs at her swollen eye. "How did this happen?" he asks no one in particular. The answer shouldn't matter, he holds no one responsible for their actions while under ALIE's influence, but it's Abby and that's the only reason he has. He remembers her bruised eye, the guards that threw her to the floor when he was first taken prisoner in Polis; he hadn't thought much about how it happened at the time. They never seemed to have time to think about such trivial things as where the latest bruise came from.. "She had already taken the chip before she came here," Kane muses again, gently wiping the dried blood from her forehead. He forces himself not to think too much about the fact that she's sitting here silently, letting them take care of her.

There's no accusation in Kane's voice, only concern for the woman they both loved. Jackson feels it nonetheless. Abby was hurt and he wasn't. There was barely a scratch on the young doctor's skin and those that were, only occurred in the last seconds before Clarke pulled the kill switch; in the seconds when he was forced to watch the torture in Abby's eyes at the thought of having to stop him from getting to her daughter. "ALIE wanted to trick you into taking the chip willingly. It thought it would be easier if she looked like she'd been held captive." He spits the words out, bit by bit remembering what he had let take over his mind. "It wasn't me," he tells Kane firmly, needing to say it as well as hear it. "I...I wasn't the one that hit her," his head falls as he remembers the image of Abby in the hallway with a glassed over look on her face as one of the chipped Grounders beat their fists into her body until blood flew from her mouth, until she fell to the floor then got up as if nothing happened and let them drag her to the room where Kane was being held.

The room tilts and Jackson's certain he's going to be sick as he stares and stares at the stone floor willing the memories to stop. There's a hand on the back of his neck, small, but strong, squeezing until he finds the courage to look up. "We're gonna be okay," Abby's broken voice barely reaches his ear, but the assurance in her eyes is unmistakable.

"I'm sorry," is all he can say as he squeezes her hands and lets his forehead fall against her knee. "I'm so so sorry."

"Stop," she orders in her best mother/doctor/chancellor voice, repeating what Clarke had assured her when the dam of guilt first broke. Her voice isn't nearly as firm as it should be, or maybe it's just right because Jackson pulls back, nods at her as he gets to his feet. She stands with him, grateful for Marcus' steadying hand on her back until she can get her arms around Jackson's neck. "It wasn't you," she whispers into his ear. "I don't blame you. Not for one moment do I blame you."

Kane steps away. He can't get far, the room Bellamy drug him to isn't all that spacious, but it's warm and there's a bed, a small table and a chair, luxury living compared to what he's used to. He retreats to the edge of the bed, wraps Abby's necklace around some antler decor on the table to give himself something to do while Jackson and Abby take the moment they need.

Jackson has a vice grip around her. He's probably hurting her ribs, but she's not protesting so he's not letting go. "I love you," he tells her with a wet chuckle into her bruised neck. "You do know that, right? You've practically raised me, Abby and I know I've never said it, but…"

"I love you too," she cuts him off because she does know and he has told her many times over even if it wasn't in words.

When he pulls away, he's still wiping at his eyes, still seeing the untold horrors they've all witnessed behind them. "Get some rest," he tells her, straightening his spine. And then turns to Kane, instructing "Make sure she sleeps."

Kane nods, smiles at the young doctor who is Abby through and through and takes his place at Abby's side when Jackson leaves it.

She waits until Jackson is out of the room, until the heavy fabric re-covers the doorway, until she no longer hears his footfalls in the hallway. Then she breaks. The sound she makes hurts her chest, her throat burns with the guttural sobs she can't control. Marcus is there, collapsing with her to the floor, holding her as tightly as she held him. He doesn't Shush her. He doesn't tell her it's okay. It's not okay. Nothing about what they've been through is okay. The things she'd done under ALIE's control are devastating: she'd hurt her child, she'd manipulated, she'd tortured. For fuck's sake, she'd hung herself in front of her daughter. No one should be put through that. It wasn't okay. But it hadn't ended there for her. She'd woken up. She'd been Abby again and he suspected she was having a harder time dealing with what Abby did than what ALIE did with her body.

He'd taught her to shoot after Mount Weather; he'd taught her not to miss and she hadn't. He was aware of everything around him while under ALIE's control. Even with his hands wrapped around Bellamy's neck, staring blankly into the man's (he no longer thought of any of the kids as kids) eyes, he remembers seeing the Grounder soldiers fall, one after the other as they kept flooding into the throne room. He remembers Jackson and the ever present peaceful expression on his face as he got closer and closer. She'd been a heartbeat away from having to shoot the person she loved as a son.

It wasn't okay.

She needs to cry, needs to purge the pain.

It's not long before she starts to settle. Sobs turn to hiccups that soften into quiet gasps as she slowly releases the white-knuckled grip she has on his arms. She's laying against him, her side pressed to his chest, he's got an arm wrapped around her holding to the small of her back, another cradling her neck with his fingers in her hair. She doesn't ever want to move. Except the floor is hard. And cold. And he's hurt. You hurt him surges back into her mind and she holds him tight once again, swallows down the sobs she no longer has the energy to let loose. "We should get up," she says eventually.

He sighs into her hair, "Whenever you're ready."

Never. "We're too old to sleep on the floor," she tries to joke but it just comes out sad and tired. She's so tired.

He groans as he slowly gets to his feet. He's definitely too old to sleep on a stone floor. He's too old to climb a tower, to fight with men half his age. Didn't stop you from almost killing, Bellamy the vicious part of his brain attacks. He closes his eyes against it, forces it back deep inside. When he opens them again, Abby is close to the fire, staring down at her blood stained shirt. It's stitched up the back, he notices in the firelight. A perfect little row of little stitches to repair the shirt he had ordered to be ripped off to bare her back. Had that only been a few months ago? His thoughts race back to the present when Abby pulls the shirt over her head and tosses it aggressively into the flame. When she faces him it's with a determined look on her face and everything in Kane relaxes. "There she is," he smiles holding his hand out to her. He leads her to the bed where they sit side by side unlacing boots, unbuttoning pants like this is there nightly routine and not something they've never done before.

Her pants fall off of her hips the moment she stands; they were too big before she took the chip and food and regular meal times hadn't been on ALIE's agenda. She pitches them toward the fireplace as well. They don't quite make it, ending up rumpled near the chair, but they're away and it's enough for now.

Her hand flies to cover her gasp when she turns back to Marcus. He's sitting on the bed, bare legs stretched out in front of him, bare chest on display. He's covered in bruises. There's barely an inch of skin that's not mottled or bandaged. "Oh my God," she muffles, rooted to the spot at her side of the bed. "Why didn't you say something?" she whispers as she lowers her hand. He can see her trying to force Abby back and bring Dr Griffin out. He's grateful that she's failing.

"I don't need a doctor, Abby." he emphasizes her name, reaching his hand out to her again. "Jackson patched me up earlier," he turns his pristinely wrapped wrists for her to inspect. "They'll fade. We're all bruised," he can't help stare at her. He's never seen her in this state of undress (just her tank and panties); even bruised and battered she's beautiful. Under different circumstances he would not be the gentleman he fully intends to be tonight.

She takes his hand, holds out for another minute before he's tugging at her arm and she lets herself be pulled into the bed next to him. He shifts himself down so that he's laying on his back and pulls the furs over them both. Abby lays on her side on the edge of the bed. She's stiff as a board and entirely too far away. "Come over here," he whispers because the room has darkened with the dying fire and the moment is far too intimate to disturb.

"I don't want to hurt you," she whispers back, pulling herself so close the edge that he fears she'll fall off.

She's not going to come to him, he realizes, so he goes to her. Scooting bit by bit until he can reach out to her, his hand brushing her arm and pulling until she falls to her back beside him. He shifts to his side, forcing back the grimace of pain he knows will send her running out the door, props his head up on hand and looks down at her. Her eyes are wet with tears he knows she's not ready to shed. "I need to be close to you," he whispers again, his warm breath washing over her skin. "I need you by my side."

Another stream of tears slips from her eyes at his confession. He still wants her close. After what she's done, after how she hurt him. He still needs her. Maybe the world won't break apart if she lets herself need him too. She can't answer him tonight, not in words, but he seems content with the nod she gives. He eases himself back to the mattress and holds his arm out to bring her in. Marcus sighs deeply as she settles her head against the least bruised portion of his chest, her hand resting above the steady beat of his heart.

"Marcus," she mutters against him and Kane isn't sure she's awake. He isn't sure that he is either for that matter. Still, he hmmms? in response and after a silent moment she continues in the same sleepy tone. "I want to kiss you, but I can't move. Kiss me when we wake up."

"Yes, ma'am," he smiles for the first time in longer than he can remember. She turns her head only, places a barely there peck against his chest. His lips press into hair and stay there. He makes one more lazy pass of his fingers through her hair and they still. Exhaustion wins out and they finally sleep.

Nothing is okay, but right here, in this moment he can find peace.


Please let me know what you think. Do you like it? Should I never ever write them again?