Thank you for the reviews, favourites and follows – they're very encouraging and much appreciated! I'll try not to disappoint any of you, but most of all, I'm gonna have fun This update is ready earlier than I expected 'cause I got inspired – enjoy!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own the characters, events and world of The 100 – that honour goes to Kass Morgan and the writers for the (amazing) TV show.

Chapter Two

Finn

Finn let the flap from the makeshift tent fall glumly back into place. It was the last one – he'd checked all of them thoroughly, annoying the hell out of half the occupants in the process, but he didn't care. He'd searched the drop ship – he'd walked the wall – he'd even paced the outside perimeter in ever-increasing circles – nothing. No Clarke. Finn just couldn't get rid of the ball of anxiety filling his gut. He didn't know whether it was a side effect of the guilt that'd been plaguing him since Raven landed, or a signal something else was wrong. Something more.

He worked his way towards the fire and spotted Bellamy standing a little too close to Raven for his liking. He wouldn't put it past the renowned womaniser to be making a play already.

"I can't find Clarke – she's missing." He stated, raising his eyebrows in expectation. If it was Octavia, Finn knew Bellamy would turn the place upside down to find her.

To his surprise Bellamy laughed. "Maybe she doesn't want you to find her, Spacewalker. Ever think of that?"

Bellamy rocked back on his heels, his arms crossed cockily. Finn scowled at him, feeling a tick in his jaw. "This is serious. I haven't seen her since this morning."

Bellamy shrugged his shoulders in response. "Like I said, Princess is probably avoiding you. Got a pretty good reason to from what I can see." His eyes slid to Raven. Finn glanced her way, resisting the urge to rub his aching chest. She looked worried for him.

"Come on, Finn," Raven reached for his hand and brushed her thumb over his palm, "Why don't you show me where we're staying? I'm sure Clarke's fine."

Finn pulled his hand away angrily and spoke through gritted teeth. "We should send out a search party. It's dangerous out there – she can't be wandering about alone with grounders…"

"Finn," Bellamy interrupted sharply, losing all semblance of his cool. "Give the girl some space. Clarke can take care of herself – she's not yours to worry about."

Finn took a deep, calming breath and turned to Raven. Her face had taken on a wounded look and he immediately regretted pulling away from her. She'd come down here for him, and he'd been busy betraying her. Falling…God, falling in love with someone else. He felt pulled in two entirely separate directions and it was making him crazy.

"I'm sorry, Raven," he looked at her through his hair, "I'm just tired."

He reached out, half expecting her to snatch her hand away, and when she didn't he let out a sigh of relief. He had a lot of apologising to do, and not just to Clarke.

Raven smiled at him reassuringly and ruffled the strands of his over-long hair. "You need a haircut."

He grinned at her familiar affectionate tone. "I'm glad you offered."

He led her towards his tent, glancing back and meeting Bellamy's eyes for a scant second. They nodded at each other in understanding – if Clarke didn't show her face by tomorrow then there was going be a problem.

….

Clarke

Clarke woke suddenly, vague memories of a loud commotion startling her from slumber. She tried to sit up and winced. Her head throbbed in time with her heart beat and her leg was definitely injured. Everything came flooding back in a rush – the suspicious noise, the fall, and the grounder who found her. Her eyes darted around her surroundings, but she seemed to be alone.

She was underground, that much was obvious. Someone must have moved her and placed her here in the night. Several thick strands of early morning light bled through holes in the earth packed ceiling and illuminated the mottled tree roots sticking through the walls. Various implements were stacked on shelves carved out of the dirt and hanging from convenient branches. This was obviously somebody's shelter, and she wasn't dead yet so that had to mean something. She also wasn't restrained.

Clarke shifted to a seated position and peered down at the gash in her leg – it was deep and she needed to tend to it to stop infection setting in. She wasn't going anywhere just yet. Another clatter brought her attention to a narrow corridor off the room, and the large figure moving stealthily through the darkness towards her.

As the grounder approached Clarke felt a fluttering of nerves, but she didn't bother looking for a weapon. If he had wanted her dead, she wouldn't be breathing and cogitating right now. Common sense told her he wanted something from her and for that he needed Clarke alive. Instead she eyed him warily.

He was an intimidating sight – his tall and muscular figure draped in dark clothing and furs and what looked distinctly like human finger bones. His dark eyes gleamed behind the menacing streaks of black face paint coating his tanned skin, and his skull was hair-free excepting a thick, short Mohawk strip down the centre. His expression was stoic – she couldn't get a read on him at all.

He knelt before her and she belatedly noticed the knife in his hand. It gleamed with the heat from a recent fire. Without preamble, he clasped her ankle and placed the knife against her leg wound to cauterise it.

"Ouch," Clarke gasped, blinking through her involuntary tears, "we need to work on your bedside manner."

He met her eyes briefly and grunted. A few seconds later he removed the blade and rose to place it on the other side of the room. He returned to her with a roughly hewn bowl and gestured for her to take it. She did, realising he was offering her water.

She took a few tentative sips, then started gulping it down, surprised at how fresh and cool it tasted. The cave they were in had such an earthy, musty smell she almost expected it to taste the same.

"Thank you," she sent him a grateful smile.

He looked at her – really looked at her, seemingly searching her face for something. Perhaps reassured by her calm, he folded his large frame to the floor beside her. His knees softly knocked against her side and she felt heat rising to her cheeks. She nervously looked at the second bowl he held – it too had water, but was swamped by a clean rag.

"I can do that," she said, reaching for the cloth. He held the bowl out of reach and shook his head – meeting her eyes with a fierce gaze. Clarke held still, feeling like her breath might stop at any second. He rung the cloth out and reached out to bathe the wound on her forehead. His touch was neither especially gentle nor insensitive, but very efficient. That was until he clasped her chin with his other hand and tilted her face towards the wall. He brushed away the straggly strands of blonde hair stuck to her skin and his fingers lingered.

She met his eyes and it abruptly felt decidedly intimate. He was so close – this grounder warrior who could have killed her ten times over in her weakened state. Clarke wasn't defenceless, despite her small stature and compassionate nature, but she felt completely disarmed by him.

All they'd known of the grounders so far was pain and fear, but she knew that couldn't be all there was. He was one of many, and she reminded herself they would all be individuals. Individuals she could try to communicate with – peace ever at the forefront of her mind.

When he paused his ministrations she slowly drew her face away, looking anywhere but in his direction. He made a disgruntled noise and rose, walking back down the tunnel without a word.

"Hey, wait!" she called, feeling unreasonably insecure, "Where are you going?"

He halted half way down the tunnel but didn't face her. She thought he might turn around then, and come back to her. He didn't. He disappeared, walking out of sight, but she could still hear him. Soft clatters and the sound of water being poured let her know he hadn't gone far. He'd been deadly silent before, so she thought he might be purposely making the noise. It was both confusing and strangely comforting.

Clarke sighed. She examined her wound, softly feeling at the edges to make sure it would heal properly. When her grounder didn't return she slowly rose to her knees, digging her finger nails into the soil wall to gain purchase. Once she was on her feet she tested her leg – she felt a sharp twinge, but it was more than manageable. She stumbled noisily in the direction he'd taken – a well-worn curved path that led into a larger cavern.

He was sat on an earthen ledge before a fire, stirring something that smelt a little like mushrooms and the panther Wells had killed just days ago. A lot had happened since then – the responsibility she felt for the 100 constantly pressed down on her and sometimes she thought she might scream. She was amused to find relief was the undercurrent emotion fighting for dominance – for once, the only person she was looking out for was herself.

He didn't acknowledge her presence so she took it as a sign she was free to wander. A rock wall, smooth from the passage of time, instantly held all of her attention. Somebody, possibly her grounder, had drawn the crashed drop ship using charcoal and some form of white paint. She ran her fingers over it, careful not to smudge the curved lines. The detailing was amazing and Clarke felt her lips lift into an involuntary smile.

"I'm an artist too," she turned to find him studying her closely. His eyes were so dark and penetrating she shivered. She really should have been scared, or at least wary, but there was something about this grounder. Her grounder, as she'd unconsciously started referring to him.

Feeling brave, Clarke approached and knelt before him. "Why did you help me?"

His expression seemed to intensify, if that was even possible. He was handsome, Clarke realised, in a very brutal way. The first man, besides Bellamy, she'd encountered on the ground. The rest of the male juveniles felt just that – juvenile. Though, in all honesty, Bellamy wasn't much better at times.

He didn't answer her, and she wondered if he understood what she was saying, or if he was reading her body language and analysing tone of voice. He looked away to fill a bowl with the broth and handed in to her without a word.

Clarke accepted the bowl with a smile. "I don't know if you understand me, but thank you. Thank for helping me. I know your people consider us enemies, but we don't want that."

His eyes softened almost imperceptibly, and he pointed his chin towards a nest of blankets across the room. Clarke took the hint and seated herself comfortably. His reactions could mean he understood her, but she couldn't really be sure. Not until he was ready to tell her. Despite that, a kernel of hope wormed its way into her brain.

"I'm Clarke. Clarke Griffin," she pointed at her chest, then pointed at him, "What are you called?"

He watched her with clear interest but didn't reply. Clarke decided the only way they were going to get anywhere was if she talked – the more she talked, the more he might pick up on her intentions, and the easier they might find their way to a real conversation.

She took a sip of the broth and hummed her approval. "This is good! Not many of us know anything about cooking, we've just been roasting everything until it's almost black."

He made a small grunt of acknowledgement. And so Clarke talked – she told him about the Ark, about them being prisoners and sent to earth as the last salvation for their people. She told him that she was joint leader with Bellamy and that they'd be getting worried soon – she was their only healer, you see, and they'd need her, even if they hated it. She needed to leave soon.

Gradually Clarke tired herself out talking and drifted off to sleep – through bleary eyes she felt him cover her up with another blanket. She smiled sleepily, and she could have sworn his severe face smiled back at her too.

….

Bellamy

Bellamy had been supervising the construction of an expanded part of the wall when the first accident happened. This kind of thing was becoming common place – the delinquents were always eager when he called on them, but the eagerness made them clumsy.

"Shit, shit, shit!" The boy howled, clasping his bleeding hand. Bellamy thought his name might have been Geoff.

"Alright," Bellamy sighed and raised his voice over Geoff's pained moans, "Where's Clarke? She can't keep shirking her responsibilities, she's our self-appointed medic."

Miller, who had been working diligently at his side, looked up at his agitated tone and glanced around. "I haven't seen her yet this morning, maybe she's still sleeping?"

"Clarke's always the first one up – all that Princess Mojo makes her like a sprightly, highly-demanding fairy in the morning." Bellamy responded dryly.

"Clarke!" he yelled out, searching the camp, "Has anyone seen Clarke?"

A sea of blank faces stared back at him and no one offered up her location. The canvas door to Finn's tent whipped back and he stormed out, Raven following at a slower pace. "She's still not back?" he demanded.

Bellamy raised his eyebrows. Maybe Spacewalker hadn't been simply behaving like a heart-sick idiot.

"Who was the last person to see Clarke?" he asked the delinquents, all of them having stopped what they were doing over the ruckus. Still no answers.

Geoff let out another moan and Bellamy scoffed in disgust. "It's not that bad, man up."

"No one has seen her since yesterday." Finn growled angrily, "Do you need me to say…"

"If you say 'I told you so' Geoff here won't be the only one injured." Bellamy interrupted.

"My name's Jones." The boy sniffled pathetically.

Bellamy sighed in disgust. "Alright, I need volunteers. Clarke's missing and we're sending out a search party. There are grounders out there, so don't waste my time thinking this is going to be a spacewalk." He eyed Finn, unsure if the peace-loving hippy knew how to properly defend himself.

Finn sent him a glare and walked off, presumably to gather supplies. Raven watched him go with eyes so sad Bellamy had to look away at the gathering crowd.

"I'm in," Jasper spoke up, "Clarke saved my life – I owe her."

The sentiment was echoed by Monty and Miller and just as Bellamy started shaking his head, Octavia piped up with her, "Me too."

"Absolutely not." Bellamy snapped.

Octavia sent him a foul look. "You can't control me, big brother. Clarke would do it for me."

She had a point, but Bellamy found it hard to be rational where his sister's safety was concerned.

"Finn's going to be enough of a liability," he argued, "I can't watch out for you and keep him in line at the same time."

Octavia shrugged her shoulders. "I don't need you to look after me, I can look after myself."

She had that stubborn set to her chin that signalled complete defiance. If Bellamy kept on in this vein she'd probably go searching for the Princess on her own.

"Fine," he spat, "but you don't leave my side."

Octavia raised her eyebrows and snorted under her breath.

Several others stepped forward to volunteer and Bellamy sent those nods of respect. Clarke wasn't just their medic; she was his co-leader. As much as they listened to Bellamy, he thought they really listened to her more. She was born to be a leader; he just stole the role at his first opportunity.

He turned back to the original few who'd responded and crossed his arms over his chest. They were close to Clarke, so they weren't going to like what he had to say.

"I need you two to stay here," he nodded at Monty and Miller.

When they started to protest he spoke over them. "Miller, I need you in charge while I'm gone." Miller nodded his reluctant assent. "Monty, I need you and Raven to fix the radio."

Raven started in surprise.

He met her eyes. "I know you don't like me, but I'm not a murderer. Not when I can help it."

Raven rolled her eyes at him. "It's not as easy as that – I'm missing parts."

"Monty will help you find what you need." He turned to Miller, "We'll be back as soon as we can – no one leaves camp."

"You got it, boss." Miller joked, but his eyes were serious when he met Bellamy's.

"Get your weapons," Bellamy spoke to the volunteers, "You're going to need them."