Clarke heard the door open, and she closed her eyes, not in the mood for reprimands.
"Mom, can it wait—"
"Clarke," he inhaled, and her eyes shot open.
He was standing there in the doorway, sporting the same old guard's uniform and a gun. Hair that fell into his eyes.
Eyes that swelled with emotion.
"Bellamy," she said, and his name tumbled softly off her lips. A sigh.
Because Bellamy was her best friend, and his presence always came with a sense of relief. Like they had finally outrun the storm and had a moment to feel the sunshine, to dry their clothes. Just before the rain returned.
Bellamy put his gun in its holster and walked toward her slowly with measured steps, as if forcing himself not to dash to her side.
Clarke stood and reached for him, feeling his arms envelope her, lift her up.
Her nails dug into his jacket, and she pressed her nose into his shoulder, breathing for the first time since they'd parted.
It was strange, how they would separate, and somehow, she'd be able to put his survival (mostly) out of mind. She'd be able to focus on the task at hand. Only when he returned to her did she consider all of the things that could have possibly gone wrong. The probability that this time, she could have lost him.
Bellamy stepped back, offering that feeble grin.
It didn't last long. He looked down at her hand, taking it in his own.
She'd wrapped the cuts haphazardly.
"What happened?" he said. "Looks like oil…"
Clarke huffed, smiling a little as he observed the bandage. "It's not oil, Bellamy. It's…nightblood."
She met his gaze, noticing the immediate change, the hardness.
"What did you do?" he said, grim.
She withdrew from him, turning towards the balcony.
"Clarke."
She sighed deeply. No use lying. Not to Bellamy.
"I injected myself with Luna's bone marrow."
She wasn't looking at him, but she could imagine the way his eyes closed, the way he shook his head angrily.
"And then?" he said, voice low and cautious.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Then I tried to take the flame."
He clenched his jaw, sending ripples up his temple.
"I didn't," Clarke amended weakly.
"But you would have," he said, stepping closer. "If no one had stopped you, you would be the commander right now, wouldn't you? If you'd survived?"
She nodded, waiting for the outcry. For the list of consequences. For the irrationality of her decision.
But he just stood beside her, shaking his head.
"Dammit, Clarke."
She gave him a watery smile, feeling the warmth pool in her chest at the concern and tender exasperation in his gaze. They'd come so far that they could understand each other's motives without asking. They could forgive each other so easily, because there was no time to hold grudges, to resent each other for dangerous choices. They needed each other, so they rolled their eyes and moved on.
Still, she wanted him to know she wasn't trying to break their promise. She wasn't throwing herself to the flames. She wouldn't leave him behind.
"I'm sorry. I know it was reckless," she said. "But I was out of options."
Bellamy nodded, because he knew all too well what that was like.
"Thirteen," he said.
"What?"
"Thirteen of the kids stayed behind. Refused to live in the bunker. Harper. Jasper…"
Clarke watched his face crumple with sadness and regret.
"It's not your fault. Jasper was never committed," she assured him.
"It still feels like I failed them."
She shook her head. "If anyone failed our people, it was me," she said, looking out over Polis, up at the stars. "Now we have to fight for the bunker we found. It's like the fighting never ends."
There was pause, a heavy silence.
"You think it ever will? End?" he asked her.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
She sure hoped so. Someday, she wanted to sit back and watch the storm recede.
"Yeah. I do. And we'll both be there to see it."
Bellamy glanced at her, that sarcastic and morbid smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"I like the sound of that."
Meh. Just needed a proper reunion after waiting a month for squat.