RAVEN:
She's falling from the sky like a comet, engulfed in flames, wrapped up tight in a hunk of scrap metal and duct tape that has the consistency of a tin can, and earth is shrieking towards her, and she can't see for shit, and she thinks she might be laughing, a little; wild, uninhibited — as if she still had any air in her lungs— and her only thought is: this feels too familiar to be the end. I think I've fallen like this before.
CLARKE:
Over the following few days, only two things really change. The first, of course, is Finn. He comes to her in the aftermath of his humiliating outburst, head down and tail between his legs. She forgives him, painlessly, but decides to give them some much-needed space in some small attempt at sympathy. Clarke is very familiar with the concept of pining. Nothing good can come of Finn's fixation, and for that, part of her feels guilty. But when she looks at him, and sees that emptiness in his gaze, that hard wired expression of loss now that she's pushed him away—it's for the best.
("It's for the best." She's used to that, too.)
The second thing that changes is Bellamy.
With the sudden shift in leadership dynamics, and the heavy events of the evening before, the empty void at her side where Finn once stood is suddenly filled with the elder Blake. She's confused at first, because just yesterday they were at each other's throats, but she's starting to realize it doesn't really have anything to do with her, specifically. If she's honest with herself, it probably has more to do with Octavia. With his sister suddenly declaring her independence with a thoroughly called-for wild streak, Bellamy has resorted to finding an alternative outlet for his older brother protectiveness. He's been stuck to her side like a shadow for the last six hours and it doesn't really look like he plans on leaving anytime soon (Clarke can't really find it in her heart to complain—he's actually pretty easy to talk to, even if the majority of the conversation concerns camp logistics).
"It's getting dark out, we should be heading back. Do you have enough of your weeds yet?"
The man in question is leaning lazily against a tree about five yards off the riverbank where she's kneeling with Finn's satchel. It's almost full, the bright red seaweed shoved haphazardly inside, and when she looks up she realizes he's right. The sky is starting to dim and she can faintly see the stars starting to peak out behind the clouds. With the track record of the last few days, they really don't want to get caught out too late after dark.
She stands up and half-heartedly tries to wipe the mud off her pants. "Yeah, I'm good for now. This should last me at least the next week, if things stay calm."
"Because we're just lucky like that, huh, Princess," he sneers and pushes off the tree, but his voice is too tired to really make the words sting. She's started to realize that a lot of his anger isn't actually directed at her, but something else, some unknown entity. Clarke can only assume it has something to do with what he did on the Ark in order to follow Octavia to Earth, but she doesn't want to burn the fragile bridge that they've erected these recent days.
It shocks her, sometimes, how much they seem to trust each other—as if it's simply instinct at this point. Sharing secrets seems to be the only kid of trust Bellamy accepts, the only the he understands. It says a lot about him, and its probably unhealthy, but she can see the value in it. They're a team, now, and it works. Some small structure of stability; a thinly veiled comfort in the absence of all the initial chaos.
She still looking at the stars when she continues on. "Hey, did you talk to Miller about rotating the guards on the wall where the wood was rotting—"
"Yeah, I made some kids start replacing the old shit today," he answers, his long, loping strides making her rush to catch up. They're not too far from the camp, but the night is coming on fast, and she can tell he wants her to hurry. "And make sure we switch the guys watching the smokehouse, I don't want any dumbasses getting bored and—"
"Already covered, I spoke with Octavia and Jasper about it. We're gonna have to work up a shift schedule soon."
He nods, gruffly, and the silence is a little more comfortable as they finally come into the sight of the camp walls. They're about 200 yards away when they walk under a gap in the trees and something catches her eye. She slows to a stop, causing Bellamy to curse as he almost runs into her.
"—shit, Clarke—"
She ignores him and squints at the light moving across the sky. "What's that? Is that a star? A comet?"
"What are you—oh. Huh." They're standing in the middle of the path with their faces craned up at the sky, side by side, the camp forgotten for the moment in the blaze of light.
"I think we're supposed to ask for something."
She tilts her head towards him in confusion, but doesn't look away from the star. Something in her doesn't want to. It seems important. "What?"
Bellamy shrugs awkwardly. "I read about it. It's some old Earth custom. A shooting star is— whatever, never mind. Let's go."
He grabs her bag from where she must've set it aside, and goes to keep moving when suddenly the sky lights up and the star bursts into bright red flames.
"Oh my god, Bellamy—"
"That's not—"
The star, ship, whatever it is— is screaming as it hurdles towards the ridge about ten miles off. She scrambles off the path, Bellamy right behind her, and the ground beneath her trembles in the aftershock of the hit.
It fell from the Ark. It fell from the Ark.
Something in her is thumping wild, and she feels her feet fly across the uneven dirt, faster than she's run in her whole life. (One thing she will never hate about Earth: it will never ask you to slow down.)
Still, Clarke is trying to pace herself, knowing it'll be a long run to the landing site, but her blood is pulsing fast and hard and her heart is thick in her throat and Clarke doesn't want to hold back even for a second, so she looks back at Bellamy's face beside her in time to see the shutter of shock and despair in his expression before it melts into deadly focus. She doesn't have time to question it. She keeps running.
Bellamy and Clarke reach the clearing in record time, just as the sun starts to peak out over the treetops. They've been moving all night but the adrenaline in her limbs makes Clarke's forget the fatigue, especially when they break the tree line and see the lump of steaming metal half-sunken into the wet ground.
"Is it manned? Or just autopilot—?" Bellamy's voice is hushed as he slows to a stop beside her. She turns to look at him as they walk the dozen or so yards towards the ship, and her answer dries up. He looks panicked. More than she's ever seen him before, more than with Murphy or Charlotte or the panther from the rescue hunt. His hand is twitching at his side and she feels herself slow to a stop, about 5 yards back from the pod. She can't see the front yet, but it doesn't look large enough to hold a zero-G crew, and she can feel her excitement start to melt into confusion.
"Clarke. Wait." Bellamy is gripped the sleeve of her jacket, tight enough to bruise.
She feels the crease in her brow lowering at his tone. "What's going on?" His hand doesn't budge when she tries to pull away. "Bellamy, what—"
"You can't," he's looking around, frantic," you can't tell them my name—you can't let the Ark know I'm here. You can't tell them."
Clarke really doesn't like the way his other hand is lingering near the hilt of his throwing axe. He looks like a wild animal; she treats him like one.
"Okay, Bellamy, I won't. I won't tell them." Her need to see the cab of the pod is overshadowed by her gentle tone, her hands slowing prying the other man's (boy's, she corrects herself, he looks like a boy, now; not a criminal, or a king, or whatever he is—just a scared little boy) fingers off the crumpled sleeve of her jacket until she's free. But she doesn't step back.
"Bellamy. Look at me." His dark eyes are a little bit wild but he's listening. "I won't tell them. I promise, okay? Whatever you did up there, however you made it onto this ship," because she knows that guard uniform wasn't his, she can feel it, "it doesn't matter. We're a team. This is Earth. Things are different, here. " She parrots his words back at him and something in him settles, thankfully. He glances up at the ship, so still and silent in the empty clearing, where her low voice cuts through the air like a knife.
She steps away as he nods, and turns over her shoulder to raise a brow in his direction. "You should know by now that I can keep a secret, Blake."
He raises a brow in return, and exhales shakily, but when he steps forward its as if his breakdown had never happened at all.
RAVEN:
She feels the water on her face before anything else. The cold droplets on her forehead cut through the haze of pain from the crash, slowing pulling her consciousness forward into the sticky recesses of a full body ache.
Raven is about 80% sure she's dead.
That percentage number sky-rockets to 100, when she blinks against the foggy feeling in her brain and tries to open her eyes only to see a wash of color—gold and blue and green and white. It takes her eyes a minute to adjust, but she can feel her gloved hand reaching up towards the blurred shape without a thought.
Am I dead, she whispers.
She can feel her mouth shape the words, but she can't hear anything above the thickness in her ears, and suddenly the details in the shape start to shift and settle and the figure sharpens into wet curls of blonde hair and blue grey eyes and a dirt-stained hand clapped over a soft mouth, as if that alone can hold back the choked sob that is threatening to spill out.
Clarke is covered head to toe in dirt; her once-light hair mud caked and sticking to her sallow skin, with dark bags under her eyes and something that looks a lot like blood under her nails, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days, weeks, years, and she's shaking and smiling and brushing her dirty hand across Raven's jaw and Raven feels her heart make that heavy ka-clunk in her chest that she usually only hears when she fixes broken machinery.
I must be dead, then, she thinks, as she feels the hand cup her cheek. But, hey, it's not so bad. The water is still dripping onto her skin, tiny little shocks of cold that interrupt the dream.
She takes a deep, gulping breath of air— and chokes.
The dreamy quality of the moment shatters, and suddenly Raven is gasping and lurching forward out of her seat, and hands are brushing her sweaty hair out of her eyes and someone is saying something quickly in the background and she can't breath, her lungs are too thick, everything is too thick, and then another set of hands start rubbing her gently on her back as she kneels in the dirt and the fuzz in her head clears just enough for her to here:
" –arke—she's fine, calm down. Hey, calm down. It's just the oxygen. It's too pure. She must've come in too hot through the atmosphere."
"Are we sure? What if something from the crash, it could be internal—"
Raven's lungs are burning, but the dizziness is starting to fade. She grasps the hand that's holding her face and tilts her chin up to take another deep breath. Her lungs stay clear this time, but her skin feels a little buzzed. Actually, everything feels a little buzzed.
She still holding onto Clarke's fingertips when she cuts in. "'Sup, doc." Raven feels her mouth pull into a smile reflexively. "Come here often?"
Clarke's laugh sounds like its punched out of her, a whoosh of air that sounds like relief.
"Oh my god, Raven," she gasps out, and Raven smiles wider at the way her voice breaks on her name. Clarke is alive and she's smiling and the pure sunlight is catching in the waves of her blonde hair and there's real dirt under Raven's boots for the first time in her life, and Raven thinks half of the reason she couldn't breath was just from happiness.
A darker hand, connected to a darker boy, reaches down and helps Raven to her feet, where she stands unsteadily. He's watching with sharp brown eyes and Raven feels the small lingering panic that comes instinctually, something defensive that she can't help, the fear that comes with someone watching her too closely when she's watching Clarke, but then she realizes his look has nothing to do with that at all—in fact, he looks a little scared, too.
Raven's train of thought comes to a screeching halt when Clarke abruptly crushes her into a hug, and Raven can't do anything else but hold on tight and ignore the fact that she's shaking, too.
I thought you were dead, she thinks, and she must accidently say it out loud because Clarke pulls back and smiles so blindingly Raven feels like she's walked into a wall.
"Nope. Still here."
Raven wants to kiss her. God, she wants to kiss her. So, ignoring the dark eyed boy watching from the side, and the radio sitting in the front seat of the ship, and the mist starting to gather into drizzling rain, and the mud under her boots and the soot on her fingertips, Raven pushes forward again and cups Clarke's face in her hands and just—goes for it.
(She's never been known for her restraint.)