A/N: Just a little something to help heal the hole left by Season 7. Takes place right after the end of Season 4.

I would love to hear your reviews so far!

Chapter 1

"I don't know if you can hear me." Chuckle. Then, a bout of silent. "I don't even know if you're alive." Another long silence. A resolute inhalation. "Of course, you're alive. You have to be. You're alive. You just can't hear me." A sigh. Static. Silence. "I'm going to keep trying anyway. If only to stay sane for the next five years." Chuckle. "I'm going to keep trying."

"Clarke!" Bellamy bangs his fist on the metal table and the clang resonates unpleasantly, slowly melting into the mechanical hum of the ship.

This is her second transmission. That they've heard, at least. And they have no way of responding. Bellamy eyes the rest of the crew moodily.

Monty shoots him a guilty look. He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Bellamy. I wish I could do more."

Bellamy bangs the table again. "Do more!" He pushes off the bench and starts to pace the room. The movement does little to pacify his nerves.

"At least we can hear her," Echo offers.

Bellamy rounds on her. "She needs to know that we're alive." He shakes his head at her in disgust. What would she know, anyway? He watches the rest of them in dismay and, when nobody responds, he shouts, "Put yourself in her shoes! She's alone! She needs us."

There's a break in the conversation while everybody silently considers what he's said. It's not that they don't agree; he knows. But there is only so much they could do.

"It's Clarke, Bellamy," Raven says finally. "She's going to be okay. She always is."

Bellamy lets out a bitter chuckle and shakes his head. He wipes at his face and holds a fist to his mouth, breathing through his rage. He blinks through the tears that blur his vision when he looks back up. "She's not indestructible, Raven," he manages to say. "Not by a long shot."

…

"I don't know why I do this to myself." Silence. A light, disdainful chuckle. "It's not like you're out there somewhere listening."

Bellamy lets out a shaky sigh and clenches the fist that rests on the table by the transmitter to steady his breathing. The others have gone to dinner but, since this is typically the time that Clarke tries to make contact, he's stayed behind.

Two weeks have gone by, and he could sense the desperation seeping into Clarke's voice day by day. She sounds like she's never sounded before. Defeated.

"I miss you." A whisper. After a pause, there's an abrupt change in her voice, as she corrects herself. "All of you."

He hangs his head and waits – in case she has anything left to say.

Then – "Bellamy" – he lifts his head with a jolt. There is silence on the other end, and he shifts in his seat uncomfortably, worried that the transmission might have cut out. Finally, Clarke speaks again.

"You did what you had to do."

Bellamy swallows around the lump in his throat. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

"I'm proud of you."

Bellamy's shoulders begin to quiver. "Clarke." It comes out as a broken whisper. "Clarke," he says, more forcefully. As if she could hear him. "Clarke." The scraping of his words inside his throat feels like sandpaper. He grabs the receiver and starts to shake it. "Keep talking, Clarke," he whispers desperately. In a trembling voice, he adds, "I'm listening."

…

"Algae 2.0," Monty says with mock enthusiasm as he brings out the plate of soggy grass.

"Terrific," Murphy gives him a scathing smile. "I'd rather not eat."

"Starve, then," Bellamy grumbles without looking up.

"Now, Bellamy," Echo intervenes, "we're all friends here."

Her sarcasm is not lost on Bellamy, and he lifts his eyes to see her smirking at him from across the dining table. And while he could go off on a diatribe, remarking that she, of all people, is anything but a friend, he decides to spare her – and everyone else at the table – the unpleasantness of that conversation. Besides, Bellamy is not in the mood to contribute to much of anything. He quickly grabs the first piece of algae that his fingers touch and stuffs it into his mouth, nearly gagging on its slippery texture. Then he rises and, without another word, leaves the room.

He arrives in the communications quarters not five minutes later and takes a seat at the transmitter that should be picking up Clarke's message any minute. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and waits.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. After a half hour, he stands up and begins pacing. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he feels as though he's out of breath. Where is she? He shakes his head, attempting to drive out the thoughts that nest in the crevices of his mind. She survived the fucking apocalypse. What could possibly destroy her?

It's a stupid question, and he shakes his head at the mere suggestion. Clarke has been fairly tight-lipped about the situation on the ground, despite making contact with the ship daily. She generally talks about their past, bringing up stories from their time together on Earth – the good ones, anyway. He imagines that she is trying to lighten the mood. Hers, most likely.

He wonders what it would be like: if the roles were reversed. How would he fare on his own? Alone on the ground. Alone with only his thoughts.

Bellamy gulps. Suddenly a fear grips him, and he freezes mid-step. The one thing that could destroy Clarke – is Clarke. He rushes to the radio, crashing into the table and clutching the monitor in his hands. He doesn't dare push any buttons, lest he might lose the connection for good. The fear of not knowing whether she is okay – even for an hour – is killing him.

"Talk to me, Clarke," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Please." He tries to breathe through the pain and the fear of losing her for good. "Talk to me."

"Well, that was rough." The familiar voice plays upon the radio and instantly soothes his heart. He lets out a breathy chuckle, sets the monitor back down, and goes to wipe his eyes with his hand.

He settles deeper into the chair, releasing another sigh, and stares at the transmitter with a hint of a smile on his face.

"What can I say?" Clarke says wryly. "I'm no gatherer. Besides, it's not like there is much to forage these days."

Bellamy chuckles.

"I found berries. I had about a ton of them for breakfast."

Bellamy waits with bated breath for the continuation of her narrative as Clarke takes a pause.

"But when dinnertime rolls around, I discover that I have competition."

Bellamy's muscles tense.

"There's a girl here – in the camp where I am. And she's alive. Just like me." Clarke sounds almost giddy, and Bellamy relaxes his fists. "She tried to kill me," Clarke follows up, and Bellamy goes rigid all over again. "But that's a story for a different day. I just can't believe there's somebody else out here." He could hear the smile playing upon her lips. "I'm not alone." A sigh. A sniffle. Static.

Bellamy reaches for the monitor and curls his fingers around the frame. "No," he whispers, "you're not alone."

…

"Tell me you're not going down to comms again."

Bellamy looks over his shoulder to see Echo sprawled on the long leather couch that hugs the perimeter of the living area. She stretches out farther and her eyes have a slight spark in them, as if she's beckoning him to join her.

He turns away. "I'm going down to comms again," he says gruffly.

He hears the soft thud of Echo's head hitting the cushion in frustration. "It's been nearly a week," she said. "Maybe her radio broke."

Bellamy lingers for a moment, debating whether he should respond. Then, he thinks better of it and heads for the door.

"You know there's more to life than pain, don't you?"

He turns to look at her and she's sitting up now, with her hands clasped between her knees.

He smirks at her when she gives him a sly smile. "I'm surprised you feel that way," he says.

Echo rises from the couch and begins to approach him. "We're stuck up here for five years," she says, and then pouts, "and I'm bored."

He watches her advance in silence and, when her face is close enough to his that he can see the individual eye lashes framing her dark eyes, he says, "You know who's not bored?"

Echo's face transforms from a seductive smirk to contempt in an instant.

"Clarke," Bellamy finishes. He leaves her standing in the middle of the room as he walks out.

…

"C'mon, Clarke," he sighs, tapping on the surface of the desk as he waits, yet again, for her transmission. They've received no further communication from her since her account of the girl who'd tried to kill her.

Behind him, Monty and Raven stand with pitying expressions. He curses them for caring less than he does. Clarke is their friend too. But they've all seemed to move on in the months they've spent on the ship. But not he, not Bellamy. He still holds out hope that Clarke would reach out once again.

"C'mon, Clarke," he urges, his voice becoming rougher in his frustration. He claps his hand against the radio.

"Bellamy –" Monty begins, but Raven holds her hand out to stop him from approaching Bellamy.

Bellamy rises in a huff and turns to walk out. He nearly collides with Raven and Monty – who are standing before the door. They quickly separate to let him pass. He holds out his hand and slams his palm into the door, smacking it open.

Then – "Bellamy."

He freezes. His face pales as he spins around. He holds up a finger. "Did she just –"

"She did." Monty is smiling.

Raven begins to laugh through her tears.

"Bellamy, I have so much to tell you."

Bellamy's hands are shaking as he lowers himself into the seat before the transmitter. His breath continuously hitches as he wavers between laughter and tears.

"I'm listening, Clarke."