Bellamy was doused in a layer of sweat and blood, his shirt stained with fear and pain. Clarke's face contorted as she gently stroked his damaged face. No doubt the Grounders had roughed him up before bringing him to this tent in the middle of their temporary encampment. They hadn't even bothered giving his wound a proper dressing. The makeshift gauze was bound with a sloppiness that made Clarke's blood boil.

The fact of the matter was that the Grounders wanted Bellamy to die. And they wanted it to be painful. And they wanted it to be slow.

They never intended to bring him along. That was why they tried to kill him. In their eyes, Bellamy was nothing but an annoyance – a bug to be exterminated. The Grounders didn't believe in co-leaders, only in a supreme commander.

The man lying in a mangled heap before her opened his eyes and lifted a shaking hand. Clarke took his into her own and pressed it to her tearstained cheek. The skin upon his hand was scarred and rough, but it reminded her of the resilient warrior who still existed within Bellamy.

"Clarke?" he asked, his voice low, for it took all of his energy just to speak a few choice words. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

To see Bellamy like this – it broke Clarke's heart.

"I won't let you." she whispered back, her thumb stroking the backside of his hand.

Bellamy shivered and, afterwards, immediately cringed. Clarke could practically see the pain reverberating through his entire body. He cried out in anguish, his body arching off the bed.

"Shhh," Clarke murmured desperately, rattled by Bellamy's current state. "I'm going to fix it, okay? You're going to be alright."

He cast a sideways glance at her, his eyes glazed and full of disbelief. He was still grasping onto her hand as if his life depended on it – which, coincidentally, it did.

"Do whatever you have to do," Bellamy grounded out. "But I swear, if you don't have any alcohol –"

"Look, we're going to have to do this the old fashioned way," Clarke began and pulled a bullet out her back pocket. "You're going to have to bite the bullet."

Bellamy's head fell down against the pillow. "Always the bearer of great news…"

Clarke rolled her eyes.

"Come on, sit up, you're going to have to help me out. We don't have much time." she explained and lifted him up. She noticed Bellamy resist the urge to scream out in obvious pain. She noticed his hands curl against the cot. She noticed the sharp intake of breath as he sat up straight.

"Take off your shirt."

"Moving rather fast, aren't we?" he teased darkly, speaking in coarse tones. "No drinks. No walk through the woods – just bite the bullet Bellamy, take off your shirt Bellamy."

"Shut the hell up before I change my mind and let you die." she snapped.

"Ouch, that one really hurt," he replied. "And here I thought Clarke Griffin actually had feelings for me."

Casting a look of imperative warning, she was able to quiet Bellamy with nothing but her eyes. He muttered something under his breath, something about Clarke being a stubborn automaton. She chose to ignore his callous statement.

He slowly brought his legs over the side of the wooden cot and faced her reluctantly. And because Clarke was sitting so close, her legs and knees touching one another, Bellamy had to spread his on either side of hers. Reaching forward, she fingered the hem of his shirt. Getting the shirt off would be a challenge, not to mention awkward, especially after their earlier escapade in Mount Weather. Clarke hesitated for a fraction a second and her knuckles unintentionally brushed his stomach.

"Here." Bellamy said, his voice husky and weak. He placed his hands over hers and helped Clarke lift up the shirt – slowly, not all at once.

Clarke chastised herself for allowing a moment of hesitation to pass. She was used to treating patients every day – shirtless patients. Treating Bellamy shouldn't be anything different. He was her co-leader, her rock, the one person she depended on. She had no romantic feeling for him whatsoever, none. Not even his perfectly mused hair or chiseled body could change that. And right now, he was a wounded soldier and she an experienced doctor. There was no time to think of them as anything else.

Tossing the discarded, filthy shirt to the floor Clarke said, "I'll bring you a new one if I can." she paused briefly, examining the exposed wound. It was already turning green with infection. "Dammit. Okay, you need to lie down and I'm going to have to clean it then stitch it back up."

"Hopefully, the infection has only developed on the surface and not underneath the skin." she continued, muttering to herself, gently poking and prodding the tender area.

By now, Bellamy was once again on his back and staring up at Clarke.

"The arrowhead is still lodged deep in there. Fucking Grounders removed just the arrow shaft without the head…" Clarke mumbled, her finger tracing the outskirts of the torn flesh.

"Princess –"

"I can't cauterize it because I don't have anything to work with…" she went on, oblivious to Bellamy's voice.

"Clarke." he said sharply.

"What?" she responded instantly, befuddled by Bellamy's sudden and loud voice. Her hands splayed across his stomach.

"Stop talking and just fix the damn thing." he growled through gritted teeth. Clarke stared pointedly at him and noticed the clenching of his jaw, the fierceness in his eyes. Bellamy didn't want to die, not today.

"Because you're in chronic pain, I won't hold that one against you." she replied coolly and went to work with the smuggled tools that she had hidden within her jacket. She set them on the cot and dragged her stool closer.

"This is going to hurt, a lot. Do you want the bullet?" Clarke asked softly. "It might help with the pain."

And, like a typical man with testosterone running through the roof, he replied with a gruff – "No."

Clarke nodded solemnly, respecting his wishes, and set to work.

Cleaning the wound caused Bellamy little pain. And Clarke only had enough alcohol to wipe away the infection – much to Bellamy's stated dismay. The abrasion already looked cleaner, free of puss and dead tissue. At least the arrow went through rather cleanly. The arrowhead itself wasn't as jagged as some of the other ones she had seen.

"I'm going to pull out the arrowhead and start stitching you up now," Clarke explained calmly and gazed down into Bellamy's eyes, hoping her composed demeanor would help relax him. "You might become unconscious, you might not."

His face inadvertently paled. "Real reassuring, Clarke."

"Hey," she murmured, her face softening. She bent closer to him and trailed her fingers along his jawline. She watched as moisture gathered in his eyes and his breathing hitched. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Bellamy shut his eyes. "That's what I told Octavia the day she was born…" he whispered.

"Well then, trust in those words." Clarke replied. "They've held true, haven't they?"

Bellamy nodded and said nothing else.

"Alright," she resolved and reluctantly brought her hand away from Bellamy's face. "Try not to move or shout too loudly."

And, once more, she focused on the task at hand. Letting out a deep, settling sigh, she reached down and readied her fingers on the arrowhead. They came into contact with the warm obsidian and tightly grasped the rocky stone.

"One, two, three –" Clarke counted and swiftly pulled out the arrowhead.

"Fuck." Bellamy shouted, clenching his fists. Every muscle in his body flexed and tensed from the immediate pain, the immediate agony. The veins in his neck pulsated to a near bursting point. His entire body clenched up and his joints locked into place.

Blood began to pour from the aggravated wound and Clarke had to stop it with some clean cloth that she had boiled earlier.

"It's done," she assured him and stroked back his hair. "It's done, the arrowhead is out."

"God, Clarke," he groaned. "You sure know how to show a man a good time."

"I'll take that as a compliment, considering it's coming from you." she replied nonchalantly and pushed him back down onto the cot, cleaning up the rest of the blood running down his abdomen.

After a moment of silence, Bellamy mumbled, "Don't they have any drugs around here?"

"Herbal stuff, yes." Clarke replied while preparing for the second half of the procedure. "I can try getting you some. Now stop talking and let me do my job."

With tools in hand, she readied herself for mending torn flesh. Clarke wasn't squeamish, but she didn't want to accidentally hurt Bellamy. She glanced over at him and found that he was staring at her intently, his eyes occasionally dropping to her hands. He gave her a crooked smile.

"What?"

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're beautiful?" he asked.

The statement caught Clarke off-guard. Bellamy, Bellamy thought she was beautiful? She had been called many things throughout her life, pretty, intelligent, resourceful, but never beautiful. And to hear it spoken from Bellamy's lips, and now of all times, made her stomach flip. A deep blush settled in her cheeks and she clenched her jaw, looking away.

The pain was probably inducing strong hallucinations with the brain releasing endorphins to battle the severe trauma.

"I'm going to start now…" Clarke began slowly, unsure of how to respond to Bellamy's declaration.

"Wait," Bellamy interrupted, his voice chortled. His reached up and caught her hand. "Will you stay? After you've finished?"

"Bell, I –"

"Please?" he sounded desperate.

Clarke paused for a brief moment.

"Yes," she murmured. "I'll stay with you."

A/N: I hope all of you who are keeping up to date with "Lost Love Found" are enjoying this story! Honestly, your support and feedback really motive me to move forward with the plotline that I have in mind. Comments are always appreciated and I would love to hear what you guys think! I cherish each and every one of my readers.

XOXO