A/N: I know there was a significant delay with posting this time, and I AM sorry. I hope the length (and content) of this chapter will make up for the delay!

A/N2: Can we all just agree that MarinaBlack1 and Persepholily are the best, and deserve all the pretty things?

Even through the waves of nauseating pain, Indra knew something had changed. The minute she saw Bellamy's face as he emerged from the shadows, she knew. There were other clues too, of course: the gentler set to Clarke's shoulders as she bent over her patient; the half-smile sparked every time Bellamy's deep voice rolled over her; the sudden aversion to each other's touch – when before they had sought it out so compulsively. But true certainty came in the fire of the young man's eyes as he followed the blonde's every movement, every gesture. Gone was the distress that had seemed such a permanent fixture of his features. Replacing it, a surprising, youthful… hope. Indra shook her head at them, and gritted her teeth in anticipation of speech.

"I hope that little adventure was fun for you both," she panted, "Because now we are losing light." The young couple's expressions changed instantly, guilt flashing over them – lingering slightly longer on Clarke as she watched Bellamy, and Indra knew Octavia must be the cause – and all-too-easily, the pair were dragged back to the reality of leadership.

"How much farther to the desert?" Bellamy asked. "It was hard to tell when I was underground."

"When we were up there," Clarke pointed behind them at the nearest crest of lush green, "It looked like just over a day's hard hiking." Bellamy nodded and turned to Indra expectantly. Ready to lift her once again, to carry her like some weak, useless thing. She felt disgust at the thought of the impending indignity and frowned. This was the worst part of the damn snakebite: accepting assistance. At least he had the common sense to pretend it wasn't happening, and to keep conversation minimal. She was grateful to him for that.

This time, though, he seemed to have forgotten his manners. Why must young love affect everyone in its proximity?

"Were you born in Tondc?" he began, such an innocent question, and Indra felt obligated to answer despite the snake venom tingeing the edges of consciousness a bright sour green. The interview continued, question upon increasingly personal question. Somehow as the sun poured the last of its warmth across the fields in glorious yellows and roses that gilt the young man and turned him into a kind of living myth, Indra found herself sharing more than she ever expected. A childhood in the time before the Commander, when the twelve nations were at war and the Mountain Men stalked the woods. A childhood of fear and rampant death and growing up far too fast. Love, young and innocent and happy until he was yanked from her too soon; and the little life growing within her, lost that same winter. Meeting a quiet, reflective boy, his father determined to make a warrior of him. The boy, Lincoln, had become so much more than her second; he had given her reason to live through the darkest of days. Without him to train, Indra might never have recovered enough to take her place as the leader of Tondc.

"Indra, I had no idea," Clarke interjected, quiet to match the hush of dusk. In a moment the valley would explode with the noise of frogs and insects and birds singing for spring – but for now the humans traveled through a calm ghost-world of heavy grass glazed lightly in pale fog.

"We are all just a collection of wounds," Indra pointed out. "It is how we stitch ourselves back together that determines whether we are victims of our past… or survivors."

Clarke's brow knitted and her chin twitched. Indra knew she was rolling the words around in her mind, trying them out. This young leader was smart, and learned quickly. But unlike the early days under Lexa's influence, Clarke now operated more cautiously. She still observed and listened to those around her, but gone was the need to conform to the advice of others. These days Clarke weighed new ideas against her own, testing their individual merits. She had grown up so much in such a short time.

"We must stop for the night," Indra finally admitted. She was exhausted from the strain of hiding her discomfort. The couple could not find out; they would insist on a delay for her sake. Unacceptable. "Bellamy, you are injured and yet you didn't tell anyone. Why? This helps none of us."

Bellamy huffed at her as he set her down, but remained otherwise quiet. Clarke was less cavalier. She stared at Bellamy's arm, obviously noting his makeshift bandage for the first time.

"What the hell happened? … Dammit Bellamy, you should have told me! I could have looked at it before we left the caves!"

"We needed to keep moving." He sounded exhausted, too. "And it's not that bad. See for yourself."

As Clarke reviewed the angry-looking gash on his bicep, Indra scanned their stopping point. It was nondescript, nothing remarkable, nothing to remind them of the familiar woods of home. Trees had given up on this area long ago, and the grassy savannah was now their only view for miles.

"I will take first watch," she declared.

"Like hell you will," Bellamy protested, Clarke objecting just as loudly from her place at his shoulder. "You'll never get better that way. I'll cover the first watch. You need sleep."

Indra wanted to fight back, but she barely had the energy. "So do you two," she warned them, and despite herself a hint of teasing snuck in at the end.

Through the gloaming Clarke watched Bellamy settle Indra for the night, trampling the waist-high grass in a tight circle to create a bed for their guide.

Clarke knew the interrogation had been his way of making sure Indra stayed conscious while they moved; the thought of losing her was offensive to them both. She was their people now, as surely as Lincoln or Maya had come to feel like theirs. Bellamy had taken one look at Indra's swollen foot and ankle and fought back the only way he could. Watching him in those moments, trying to be the hero, battling an invisible, impossible foe… Clarke trembled in anticipation of his return to her, not even fully conscious until precisely that moment of just how much she had missed physical contact with him.

"Bellamy…" Beneath the shrill cricket song her voice hummed, rough and low, and she tried to clear her throat to soothe away such blatant desire. It was pointless. As soon as he was once again within reach, her hands sought out his skin of their own volition, hungry. Curious. Impatient to find out exactly what he felt like now that he belonged to her in some new way, impatient to see if it made a difference to her fingers the same way it did her heart.

Bellamy must have been as mindful of Indra's proximity as Clarke; he was quiet when she tugged at the hem of his shirt and slid her palms over his hips, around his waist, letting them come to rest against his lower back. For a moment Clarke's perspective shifted. As if hanging above them in the ink of night, she watched insistent hips press into hips and listened to breathing grow shallow and quick… But when Bellamy reached for her cheek and his thumb traced the shape of her mouth, touch pulled Clarke back in to herself. She leaned toward the dark shadow of his collarbone, hurting with the need to taste him.

A sudden sharp inhale through clenched teeth when Clarke's lips found the base of his throat, the closest he came to breaking their silence – and with shaky knees, with his good arm circling her hips for balance, the pair tumbled toward the ground. Halfway down mouth caught mouth and Clarke tried not to let herself go completely – but it was hard, it was so hard when he was so present and warm beneath her, when his teeth parted just enough to entice, when his tongue stroked softly against hers and continued, running a teasing line along her lower lip before he captured that lip in a gentle bite and the contrast ripped a low moan from her throat that she knew Indra had heard.

Bellamy, lying on his back in their impromptu garden bed, grinned into her mouth. She suppressed yet another moan at that sensation.

"I think she's already asleep," Bellamy whispered. It wasn't even a whisper. It was thought transformed into breath, and it tickled past Clarke's ear in a way that caused her thighs to tighten over Bellamy's sharp hips. He hissed and his right hand, still clutching the small of her back, pushed roughly at jacket and shirt to find the valley of her spine. Persistent lips wandered back toward hers, calloused fingertips traveled along her backbone, and there was no hope of rescue from this. Clarke succumbed to the chill of night air on exposed flesh, the warmth of hungry mouth over hungry mouth, the pure heat between her legs.

Parts of her wanted him. Most of her wanted him. Right now. Preferably loudly. And fuck the consequences or the neighbors. She had drawn his face too many times, had cried herself to sleep in the imagined comfort of his absent embrace too often, not to feel that desire as a violent thrumming within her body.

… But their people were in danger.

She might as well have spoken aloud, because he tensed beneath her, pulled back from their kiss, and with his injured arm brushed weakly at the curtain of long blonde hair draping from her shoulder to the ground as if to hide them from… all of it.

"It's okay, Clarke," he whispered. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "We have time. We have all the time we need. I promise."

She knew what a useless promise it was, knew death was hunting them as surely as any mountain lion or pauna. But the way he said it… when Bellamy talked about Time he made it seem infinite. He made it feel like the kind of Time that could carry them well past death, the kind of Time that bound souls together despite the impermanence of this life.

She nodded. She sat up and tilted her head to one side, watching his face as her hands slid beneath his shirt and worked their way up his torso. They settled over his heart, relishing the strong, fast beat they found.

"I want to be selfish," she confessed quietly.

He blinked in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"… No," she clarified, biting at her cheek. Bellamy frowned, but nodded.

"Yeah. I know what you mean." He squeezed her hips gently and Clarke curled forward again, laying her ear over his chest where her hands had rested only moments before. The tempo changed, the beat slowing, stabilizing, until its cadence echoed the soft endless drumming of the surf outside Luna's village. Peaceful. Safe. Soul-consuming, and Clarke drifted out over a vast dark ocean curled within the sanctuary of Bellamy's steady heart.

Octavia hugged her knees to her chest under a sky so deep black it was purple at the edges, and missed Bellamy. She knew that was a pathetic response in the moment – knew she was supposed to be stronger by now, supposed to be like Indra – but how? Monroe had basically been blown up right in her face. She had nothing to do but sit in the sand, staring at bits of cloth strewn around her (the remnants of Monroe's backpack) and actively avoiding looking at the other… bits.

Octavia understood how death worked. Hell, she laughed weakly to herself, they all got it on such a personal level at this point. But knowing what it meant, or ending someone else's life, or even watching a loved one get floated, those were not like this. Monroe wasn't even Monroe any more, there was pretty much nothing to bury or burn. And that sucked. And Bellamy sucked, for abandoning her on this shitty planet so he could chase after Clarke. That said everything, didn't it?

And Lincoln was so far away. Octavia called to him, aching for his presence as she mourned her friend and hated her brother.

"I'm here," he called back. "I'll be there soon. As soon as Monty and Jasper finish their... what is it again?"

"It's a landmine detector," Monty said from somewhere closer to Octavia's memory of Jasper's last location.

Bellamy had chosen her, Octavia fumed. He had chosen Clarke despite all the fights and warnings. What kind of loyalty was that? He'd probably say loyalty was what Clarke had done. He'd say she had knowingly sacrificed her own soul when she killed the Mountain, that her loyalty to their people had driven Clarke to do so. He'd say loyalty was the reason he had to go to her now, to bring her home. Octavia sighed and ran her fingers through the cold sand.

"Octavia, just sit tight," Raven said. "I know it's shitty to be out there alone, but it's… Hey Jasper, how much longer?"

"Not much longer, actually," he announced, slightly edgy. "Monty's the bomb."

There was a beat of silence.

"Wow, I didn't… shit, that was so – "

Someone began to laugh. A deep laugh, bigger than expected, a rumble of exhausted mirth, and Octavia looked around for Timo. "Are you okay buddy?"

"Monty's the bomb!" Octavia raised her brows at his reaction, but now Wick and Raven were laughing too, and Miller and Harper, and Octavia grinned despite the circumstances.

Jasper making people laugh was just right. Even when it was the worst possible joke he could have made.

"Guys, I really wasn't – " but nobody was listening to the gangly teen. He had provided a release valve for their stress and pain and tired despair. Octavia let a tiny giggle bubble up within her, more at the rest of them than at Jasper's words… and when it escaped she felt better. It grew, becoming inappropriate, but it felt so damn good. The tears felt good too. Somewhere in the midst of her meltdown Octavia realized she didn't actually hate Bellamy. She didn't even really hate Clarke. The truth was more complicated, but Octavia wiped at her warm wet cheeks and knew she'd be happy to see Clarke again. For their people's sake, really. But mostly for her brother.

Bellamy woke slowly, eager to stay tangled in the dream of Clarke. She felt both soft and strong as she held him close, she sighed infinite sultry promises into his naked shoulder, she coiled sun-kissed tresses into all the dark parts of his soul. What fool would let go of a dream like that?

But something sharp was digging into his lower thigh, a bite from reality to help him shake off sleep. He grunted and shifted, trying to escape the pain, and from somewhere near the hollow of his neck a groggy Clarke hummed in remonstration.

Oh… shit.

Dream Clarke disappeared. This Clarke, his Clarke – was he allowed to think like that? – was so much more important. There was a pleasant weight across his chest: her arm, gripping fiercely to Bellamy's far sleeve. Molding herself into a shield over him. As though determined to protect him from whatever they faced next. Bellamy allowed a grin at the feel of her thigh over his, the discovery of her knee digging into his leg (so she was the culprit), the warm tickle of her breath. A low dull heat was building deep in his stomach, the familiar rush of arousal singing through his veins. Bellamy swallowed hard. Self control. He could do that. Restraint. He was the fucking master of restraint when it came to her.

"Good morning," he whispered. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with them through thick fog. He took advantage of the isolation, rolling them both slightly until they were on their sides, face to perfect, tired face.

She had not opened her eyes yet. That did not stop her from stretching arrogantly toward his lips. She acted as if she deserved the kiss hanging there, as if she already knew it belonged to her, and Bellamy handed it over freely. He captured the arch of her lip and pressed for more, permitting himself this little selfishness.

Clarke's fingers, slipping up against his stomach, were warmer than he expected in the chill of morning. They wandered over his skin, flirting with the landscape of Bellamy's body. He flinched in surprise when she discovered a sensitive spot just above his hipbone, and nipped at her lower lip; his reaction pulled a quiet giggle from her. If he had ever worried laughter might break the spell of this private morning, he knew now hers never could; hers seemed built of its own rough magic.

"I'm ticklish too," she confessed, her words a caress over his chin, "But I'm not going to tell you where." Bellamy shivered at the thought of uncovering her, of finding all her secrets and making them his, too; control momentarily slipped and his vision blurred at the edges. But he recovered, and buried his face in her neck instead. Inhaled the scent of her. Kissed over every patch of bare skin currently available, tasting the salt of yesterday's exertion on her.

She sighed with her whole body. Bellamy unraveled slightly.

"Dammit," he growled. "I need to…" he choked on the words. Looked up at her face once more and found her staring at him in sympathy. He let Clarke finish the thought.

"… Need to stop." She rolled away from him, onto her back, turning her gaze to the low grey sky. "I know." And yet her left hand still drifted along his torso. Bellamy bent and kissed her again, intending to offer only a short consolation prize before they moved on… but she tasted too good. Felt too much like everything he had wanted in life but never let himself believe he deserved.

Kissing Clarke was the best thing Bellamy had ever tried to convince himself not to need. What a fucking idiot he'd been. Of course he needed it. Of course he needed her, every atom of her. She was the glue holding together those shattered bits of his psyche. She had run off because she needed to heal, without ever hearing him admit it was she who had healed him.

"I am leaving this godforsaken valley in two minutes," Indra interrupted from somewhere in the fog, "With or without you." Bellamy could hear agony bleeding through each clipped syllable, revealing the emptiness of her threat. He glanced at Clarke, who looked less sure.

"I think she'd cut off her own foot before she stayed here any longer," Clarke warned him.

He nodded and the pair stood, helped each other straighten hemlines and brush leaves from hair, then went in search of their injured guide. Indra's foot was in worse shape than yesterday, a discovery that pleased Clarke and confused everyone else.

"The bruising and swelling is still localized," Clarke explained. "The poison isn't spreading through your system. It means you'll live!" She hugged Indra, surprising all three of them.

Bellamy ran his tongue over his lips and searched the fog for a pale glow signifying the sun's location. He had a theory about that hug. About that intensely relieved reaction to yet one more death averted. "East is there," he pointed, stifling a groan of leftover pain from the beating he'd taken yesterday in the sinkhole. "We should go now, while it's still cool." He paused, waiting for Indra to chastise him for telling her how to do her job, but Clarke's embrace seemed to have warmed one layer of the Grounder's emotional frostiness. She simply grunted assent and exhaled sharply when he lifted her.

Bellamy knew he had overstepped yesterday. He had probed where he shouldn't. Today they traveled in pure silence but for the most basic instructions, his way of apologizing to Indra.

The fog took too long to burn away. It was midday before they could see more than thirty meters ahead of them… but when the haze finally lifted, the trio stopped and blinked in confusion at the new landscape.

The desert was no longer a yellow ribbon in the distance. It had tiptoed up to them, and now very nearly filled their view. The grass of the valley thinned out ahead and then disappeared completely, and a dry wind blew, depositing fine particles of sand into their eyes, their hair, the creases of their skin. A morbid promise.

"Water," Clarke said; Bellamy needed no other prompting. With Indra resting and Clarke looking after her, he set out for the stream – here at its source little more than a weak trickle from some invisible underground spring.

When he returned Clarke was standing with her arms crossed, staring intently at something near the horizon line. "Do you see that?" she asked without turning her head.

"I see… movement." Bellamy shifted in surprise and anticipation. "Sanskavakru?"

"Yeah." Clarke sighed. "I better take that handgun, after all."

What had started as an occasional epithet from Bellamy had quickly transformed into a string of unending and increasingly violent cursing as the shifting, slippery sand pulled at his boots relentlessly. Eventually he gave up on that outlet though, far too focused on keeping himself – and Indra – moving to waste energy on such pleasantries. He kept his head bowed low, kept putting one foot in front of the other, kept Clarke's feet in his field of view. That was all he had. It wasn't even hot out here, really – it was just so fucking dry. A strange hungry dryness, a kind that seemed to suck at all available moisture. Bellamy tried to remember if this was how it had felt on the Ark – it seemed so long ago.

"Holy shit. Holy shit!" Clarke had dropped behind a sand dune and was peeking over the edge at the still-oblivious desert nomads. Bellamy and Indra joined her.

"Clarke?"

"Aiolos! Oh my god, Bellamy, it's him!" She pointed one shaky finger at the only animal in the group, a gaunt skeleton of a thing, yellow-brown with accumulated dirt.

"Are you sure?" Bellamy tried to see what Clarke saw, and failed. "I'm not even sure that's a horse, Clarke."

She clicked her tongue impatiently. "The eyes! Look!"

And it was as though her drawings had come to life. Behind sand-encrusted lashes, a pair of mismatched eyes watched the world with all the wisdom Clarke had poured onto the paper of her sketchbook. Bellamy whistled low in surprise; the creature stumbled slightly and raised its head, its ears flickering toward the sound.

"We have to get him back," Clarke declared.

"No." Indra stared from one young person to the other. "No. It is almost dead already. It is nothing, and not worth the loss of our lives. Octavia needs you. Your people need you," she warned them.

Bellamy saw it in the determined set of Clarke's jaw. He shook his head and looked away from Indra as he answered.

"The thing is, Indra… Aiolos is Clarke's people now, too."

So: Is it okay? I know I made you wait, but hopefully you'll feel it was worth it.