They were both clearly taking advantage of the privacy brought to them by the curtain. Bellamy's hands roamed Clarke's hair freely as he felt her lips part for him. He pulled her closer until she had no choice but to fully fall onto him. Just as she did, however, he turned them so that she was pressed onto the bed instead of him. She felt him smirk as he did it, and let him have his turn.

His hands roamed her body, shamelessly. She didn't object, even as he lifted her and made the decision to pull her jacket off her. He tossed the article to the ground. Clarke noticed him becoming more adventurous with time, but she also noticed his breathlessness. When he didn't stop in spite of it, she pulled away to press her lips into his neck.

"Clarke— "

"Hush," she told him as she continued, moving upward on his neck until she was just placing butterfly kisses on his cheeks and forehead. She flipped them over again, and they were soon tangled in the sheets of the bed.

As she did it she felt Bellamy relax into the mattress, bringing her down with him. His hands were stationed on her hip and her shoulder, allowing her to do as she pleased with him while he regained his breath. His breathlessness didn't cease, however, because what Clarke was doing to him was simply taking his breath away. Her lips felt amazing on his skin; her hands on his body made his heart jump.

But as soon as she allowed him a gateway to reciprocate, he had her face in his hands, and her lips crashed back onto his. He felt her smile as he kissed her, a feeling he wouldn't trade for the world.

Neither Bellamy nor Clarke were aware of how much time passed as they went at it, but they weren't planning on stopping. That is, until they heard Abby Griffin knock on the door.

"Clarke?" They heard her mother's voice call through the intercom. The sound immediately killed the mood, and the two parted. They stilled for a moment, looking each other in the eye as they tried to comprehend the interruption.

"Go," he whispered to her. "She might get worried."

Clarke nodded, pulling away from him slowly. She straightened her clothes as she came out to face the rest of the quarantine, turning on the lights as she approached the wall.

"Mom," she addressed Abby through the intercom.

Abby looked her daughter up and down with a skeptical eye. "What were you doing?"

Clarke cleared her throat slowly. "Uh, physiotherapy."

"Why were the lights off?" Her mother pressed.

"Oh, uh, I took of his bandages some time ago. It was just so he could adjust to the light."

"Huh." Abby was still doubtful, but moved on to the reason behind her visit. "I have news on the poison. I'm coming in to talk to Bellamy." Then, lowering her voice, she muttered to her daughter: "Get him decent."

Clarke's face immediately reddened as her mother walked away.

When she peeked at Bellamy through the curtain, he was smirking at her mother's words while trying — and failing — to pat his hair down. Clarke had done a pretty good job at mussing it up. She helped, as she tried to avoid laughing, by gently combing through the mess with her fingers and straightening up his appearance. Surprisingly, Bellamy allowed her to continue until she deemed him 'decent' enough.

She also straightened the bed and pulled back the curtain surrounding it by the time her mother had entered the quarantine, hazmat and all. Abby eyed the two and cleared her throat as she entered, informing them of her entry.

"Bellamy," she acknowledged the patient with a nod. "How are you feeling?"

Clarke had taken position beside the headboard, so Bellamy didn't see her unstoppable smirk as he was asked the question. Her mother, however, could.

"A lot better, thanks to Clarke. She's been taking actual care of me."

Abby struggled not to make a sarcastic remark on that front. "That's good to hear. Is… Is that a new bruise? Do you know how you got it?" With her pen, she indicated to the general area of his face.

"What?" Alarmed, Clarke came over to look at what her mother was pointing to. Bellamy himself was unsure of what she was trying to ask him. "Where?"

Clarke turned red, unsure how she missed the growing red mark on Bellamy's neck. More so, how she didn't cover it up for her mother.

Bellamy, severely amused at Clarke's face, lied easily. "No, that's an old bruise. It should be fading any time now. It's from when that grounder punched me."

"Ah. Well, anyways, Bellamy, I'm here because I have relatively good news."

Bellamy scoffed. "Well, that would be a first."

Abby nodded along, "Yes, it would. Jackson and I have determined that you have, in fact, been poisoned. However, because of its chemical makeup, and its similarity to the poison used on Murphy before we came to the ground, you seem to be immune to it. It currently has no real toll on you. You're only a carrier at this point. That's the relative good part."

Bellamy didn't say anything, only nodding and allowing her to continue.

"Well, the bad news is that we still can't allow you out of quarantine just yet. Because only the 100 were exposed to the original poison, we can deduce that only the 100 are immune, as you are. The remaining thousands of us the descended with the Ark, save a few, are not. As a carrier, you have the ability to contaminate them. You'll have to remain here until we can determine that your blood is completely free of the poison."

Everyone was silent for a while.

"I can answer any questions you may have," Abby tried.

"How long will that take?" Bellamy's voice was quiet, like he didn't know how to handle the news. Both him and Clarke were quickly sobered. Abby didn't have to specify, but they both knew that Clarke was stuck in there with him.

"We don't know, honestly." Abby replied. "But we will be taking samples every few days until you're completely clean."

"Okay. Thank you." He didn't know why he was thanking her, but he did it all the same. It seemed to perfectly relay to Abby that he wanted her to leave. She acknowledged this request with a curt nod to both him and her daughter. "Take care, both of you." She didn't say anything else before she left.

Clarke moved to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to place her hand on his. It was a futile effort to comfort him, because clearly he was out of the range of comfort. Her voice was soft as she asked him to tell her what he was thinking.

"I just hate this fucking cage," he whispered to her, because he knew she would understand. He didn't look at her, only playing with her fingers as he tried to forget about the problem as a whole.

"Bellamy?" she whispered, and it caught his attention.

"Yeah, Clarke?"

"Can I kiss you?"

He smiled, which surprised her. It wasn't the reaction she thought she'd get as she said it, but she was glad. If there was anything she could do to get his mind off the problem at hand, she was going to do it.

"You never have to ask," Bellamy said, and his eyes softened as he edged closer to her.

So she didn't.


A few hours later, Clarke was pulling herself away from Bellamy's arms to put her clothes back on. Despite his numerous injuries, the man was still stellar in bed.

"Where you off to?" He asked as he sat back, watching her.

She gave him a soft laugh, because really, where could she go? "That corner right there," she said, and pointed to the cabinet of books. "You need your rest. Tomorrow we're starting your actual physiotherapy, remember?"

She turned her back to him as she pulled her shirt over her head, and pulled her hair out from under it. He snaked his arms from behind her back and playfully pulled her against him, halting her redressing process. She turned to scold him, but before any words came out he had his lips on hers.

"How did I survive so long without you?" He whispered against her ear.

"With Bree," she said cheekily, and she pulled away from him. "Get some sleep, Bellamy, I'm serious. If you need me, I'll be in the study."

"Hey, now," he called as she disappeared behind the curtain. He saw her head peek back in as he was beginning to sit up. "You've been sleeping on that chair for days. Take the bed tonight."

"Bellamy, no."

"Clarke, yes. I've been confined to this mattress all this time. I can do with some time off it."

"You need to sleep with your back straight."

"Well, so do you. Help me up." He saw the reluctant look so on her face. "If you don't, I'll get up myself and probably sprain something." It was the only thing he could have said to make her mind up.

"Fine, you fiend." She stepped back into the curtain's jurisdictions, bending over to pick up Bellamy's pants. "Put these on," she said as she tossed it to him. It hit him in the face, and he chuckled. He did as she told him, and watched her begin to throw back the covers to expose his legs to the cold air.

"Swing your legs over," she suggested. It took him a moment to do so, and then he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached out to grab her hand, and used it to pull her to him. His hands were wrapped against the back of her thighs as he lay his head over her stomach, revelling how easy it was to love Clarke Griffin.

Her hands dug themselves into his hair as she felt him take in a deep breath against her skin, like he was trying to remember the smell of it forever. He lifted his head to meet her gaze, and they exchanged an understanding smile.

"You need to put a shirt on," she whispered to him, and she knowingly killed the moment.

"Fair idea," he replied, and bent over to search the floor for the discarded article. When he found it he put it on, ready to stand. Clarke allowed for him to hold her by the forearms, and she hoisted him to his feet. With the IV on one side and Clarke on the other, Bellamy was able to find his balance.

The two slowly made their way to the chair of the study, and Clarke gently laid Bellamy down.

"You good?" she asked, and he nodded. "Go to sleep, Princess, you look like you need it."

She was going to take his word for it.

"Goodnight, Bellamy," she leaned in closer to him, pecking him on the temple with a soft kiss. He pulled her closer and left a gentler kiss on her lips. "Goodnight."

He watches her retreat back inside the curtain, hears her flop on the bed with an exhausted sigh. Within minutes, she's still, and all he can hear is her soft breathing.

He turns to the bookshelf behind him, because he realises he's not tired. He reached out to pull down a book, 'The Guns of August'.

Curious, he turns to the first page. As soon as he does, however, a folded, flitting sheet of paper falls to the ground. He has to stretch, and it isn't comfortable, but he manages to get it in his hands. Setting the book down, he unfolds the paper.

Accumulated charcoal dust falls to his lap, and the sketched lines are blurred together. But he recognises her swift strokes, her artistic eye.

It's him. Eyes closed, candlelight dancing across his face. His broken body covered in sheets.

There's no colour on the page, but he sees what she's done with what she had. In his mind's eye, he can see the dim orange light of the candle, the dark blue of his shirt, the soft beige of the sheets.

It was the most beautiful piece of art he'd ever seen. He certainly hopes she wasn't planning on throwing it away. He refolds it and tucks it into his pants pocket.


Clarke woke with a jolt.

It was dark, cold, silent. She heard only him.

She broke the atmosphere by flinging the covers off of herself and flipping the lights on, "Bellamy?"

The screech of the curtain being pulled back didn't wake him up. He lay in his chair, head on his own shoulder, asleep, shivering, whimpering. Crying. She ran to his side, falling to her knees, placing a cold hand on his arm.

She shook him, she held his face, she kissed him, just trying to wake him up. "Hey," she whispered, "It's okay."

It was her voice that did it.

"Clarke." His hand flew to her face, bringing her closer until he had her face on his chest. He held her to him until his breathing calmed, and he wasn't so shaken anymore. She held his arms, listened to his heartbeat slow.

"You okay?" she asked when it wasn't thrumming so hard against his chest.

"I'm fine." His voice was curt, like he wanted to talk about anything but.

"It was a nightmare, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"What about?"

He was silent for a long time. Clarke was sure he wasn't going to answer her, nor did he want to. She decided not to push him on the topic. She didn't like talking about her nightmares either. It just made her live through them again unnecessarily. So when he said the words, "It was about you," she had to turn around to face him, confusion evident on her face.

"You don't have to tell me."

"I know… Come here."

He shifted to the side so that she could share the chair with him, back to chest. He gripped her hands tightly and brought them to his lips to kiss them gently.

"Somewhere in the near future, as soon as everything has a stopped turning to shit, Clarke… I want a family. Kids. A wife. And I just saw that being taken away from me. Brutally. Like what I did to everyone on Mount Weather."

"What we did. Bellamy, you don't have to carry this alone."

"Don't I deserve to?"

Clarke's head shot up to give him a scowl. "No. You don't." Then, she settled back onto him and let herself calm. "I wish you could see yourself like I see you."

"And that is?"

She turned to look at him again. She took his hands, which had been on her waist, and kissed them. "Beautiful. Loving. Gentle. Cunning. Protective." With every word she said, she punctuated it with a soft kiss, trailing up his body until she found his lips. "Abrasive. Selfless. Deserving. Strong. Rebellious." Against his lips, she whispered, "My everything."

The kiss that followed was unlike their previous ones. It was kind and gentle, rather than harsh and desperate. There was a softness in it, one that was rare to find on the ground.

When they fell silent moments later, it was comfortable.

Clarke caught Bellamy struggling to submit to sleep, afraid of what he might see behind closed eyes.

"Bellamy?"

He hummed.

"How many kids do you want? Y'know… when everything has stopped turning to shit?"

He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't have to think about it. He's known the answer for a long time, has thought about it before. "Seven."

Clarke snorted out a laugh. It's a glorious sound. "Seven?" He felt her shake with laughter against his chest.

"A nice lot to show the Ark rule who's really in charge," he chuckled alongside her, relishing the idea.

"Okay, fair. And girls, or boys?"

"The first one has to be a boy."

"I think the same, but why?"

"I've raised a girl. I want to try my hand somewhere else — what about you?"

Clarke had to think. "Not that many. Four, maximum. First one boy, because I want my daughters to have an amazing older brother, like Octavia did."

"You need to stop saying amazing things."


When they woke up for Bellamy's therapy, they were both yawning. Every instruction Clarke gave him was partially, sometimes wholly, concealed within a yawn. Bellamy tried not to make too much fun of her, especially when he started exhibiting the same symptoms of exhaustion.

They started the painful psychotherapy session with short warmups and stretches.

"PULL, DAMMIT."

This was Clarke. Physiotherapy was not her forte.

"I AM."

This was Bellamy. In a lot of pain.

It was hard to imagine that the two had bonded in any way the night before.

"WELL I DON'T FEEL IT."

Clarke was standing over Bellamy, who had taken up residence on the floor. His back was against the foot of the bed, and his hands were stationed on Clarke's forearms. She was leaning heavily away from him, the consequences of him not pulling on her arms hard enough.

They gave up with that soon after. His legs were more important anyways.

Clarke let him adjust to the cold floor before she started anything. If Arkadia had had anything to even slightly resemble a yoga mat, they would have used it. Instead, both Bellamy and Clarke were forced to keep to the concrete floor.

"Hands behind your head," she ordered. They had recently just stopped fighting. "Bend your knee— that's it. Now I'm going to try and lift it. It's going to hurt, okay?"

"What part of this entire day did you think didn't hurt?"

"Whatever."

Clarke pushed Bellamy's bent leg back towards him, trying to get the muscle to move in ways it hadn't over his week in quarantine. She put most of her weight into the job, with his knee pressed against her shoulder for optimum comfort. Just as it was beginning to strain, pulled back. With two fingers, she pressed and massaged his pressure points, until it no longer hurt. She repeated the process until she felt like the muscles had loosened back up.

"Next leg," she said, and he obeyed. He knew she was mad, and only smirked as she looked at him. She tried hard, but she couldn't resist the crack that formed in her angry armour. She hid her smile behind his leg. When she pushed his leg back, he caught a glimpse of it. The second time she pushed in, he pulled forward until his face was mere centimetres away from hers. She avoided his gaze.

"Hey."

"No."

"Clarke."

"Lay back!"

"Babe."

She only faltered for a second. "No."

He planted a gentle kiss on her temple. "Okay," and he lay back down, letting her finish her job. When she did, she held out an arm to help him up. It was beginning to darken outside.

By the end of the day, Bellamy was beginning to regain the ability to walk without support. He tried to do it as quickly as possible as he made his way back to the bed. As he did, however, there was a loud rapping sound at the door. Raven walked in with no further warning, holding out a canvas tote.

"Hey guys!" She said cheerily. "Glad to see you haven't killed each other yet."

Clarke had turned the intercom off the night before, but it was probably still pretty evident to the viewers outside how much the two had been yelling that morning.

"Abby sent me to give you guys some food, water, the likes. It's all in the bag." Clarke reached out to take the bag, grateful. As she did, however, Raven leaned in and whispered with tease, "Some condoms in here as well."

Behind Clarke, Bellamy could be heard spitting up his water.

Clarke turned red as she coughed her way through her embarrassment. "Thank you, Raven."

By the end of the day, they had already used two of them.


The raging war outside was hard to ignore.

It had already been a week of fighting, a solution yet unreached. The two tried to keep each other occupied, in a failed attempt to divert their minds to their shared uselessness.

The gunshots were rivalled with war cries. From inside their hated bubble, both Bellamy and Clarke were trying to make the best of their situation.

Bellamy was able to stand, and with Kane's permission, was giving orders to anyone who volunteered to fight. Impromptu gun lessons were given.

Clarke was always trying to help civilians treat one another. The shortage of medical staff demanded it. Many fighters were brought back from the front lines with raging fevers, wounds of the sword, and tear-gassed eyes.

With no one else around, they also had to comfort each other when an untrained nurse couldn't save lives, or when the young kids Bellamy trained came back with fatal injuries.

Sometimes, everybody was so consumed with their own duties, they couldn't see what else was happening in front of them. Even when those circumstances included an activated bomb. Even when it landed too close to quarantine.


There was smoke, and the smell of burnt skin. A ringing in his head. A raging question:

Clarke?

He turned, and there she was. On her side, unconscious.

Rubble. Pain. Blood.

He crawled over to her. Put two fingers on her neck. No pulse.

"Clarke."

He shook her.

"Clarke!"

The beginning of a stand. He couldn't.

Black.