December 30, 2020
A Christmas fic Half a week late? Yeah.
..
a blanket of armour
Summary:
Bellamy took the night shift, used to being alone this time of year, but Clarke brought him a blanket to keep him warm, (and to apologize.)
She had left, and then, she had come back, but would she stay?
Canon-divergence from the end of s2. No ALIE. No Praimfaya. Murphy and Thelonios stayed in Camp Jaha.
. .
There was always something lovely about when it snowed.
Of course, Bellamy hadn't really known this, but he'd always assumed so based on how the world had idolized the concept before the bombs.
It finally fell when he was doing his rounds on night shift, and it was a mystifying anomaly. The wind, on the other hand, slipped passed the cracks of his leather jacket, blowing through his hair and shooting snowing into his face. He truly despised it. He chose this shift though, and Miller was lapping metres behind him without comment.
To be fair, Bellamy was just sad, and this dark chill made it worse.
It had been a month since Clarke left him here with the ghosts of Mount Weather, and two weeks since the treaty with the Coalition that Camp Jaha had signed, changing its name to Arkadia.
All he had now were cold shifts, a buzzing wire fence, and crippling guilt. He scanned the tree line, trying to stop himself from questioning where she was, stop himself from caring. (How would she handle the snow? Would she be okay?)
He didn't succeed.
Sighing, Bellamy puffed warm fog onto his numbed fingers, hoping they wouldn't adhere to the rifle. His mind drifted as he shivered. In about twenty days, it would be Christmas. A few days ago, Hanukkah ended, and Diwali had about a week before that, if he'd done the math right. He'd read about them all as a boy. Arkers hadn't celebrated any of these up in the sky, but with the covenant, they might just.
He would spend it all alone anyway, just like this whole year on the ground, and last year on the Ark.
And all the years before that too, when his mother spent her nights with lonely clients, and his sister spent hers beneath the floor. They'd knocked rhythms to each other, and sometimes, if they were lucky, O had emerged from the floor to dance and play with him. Thirty times, they'd done that. The only times it had felt safe.
Only once, had she left the apartment.
~ • ~
One Year Later
~ • ~
He took the night shift again this year, all through December.
Bellamy was tired of loneliness, so he filled his time, chopping wood, hunting, sleeping, or guarding. Gina probably should have counted for something. They'd begun dating in January and it'd been steady and sweet for six months before she'd dumped him in July. (Clarke had come home in June. June 4th, after being gone for two hundred and thirteen days.)
This year was better, he supposed; he had fingerless gloves, not the best, but gloves. Octavia had sewn them. This log wall was better than the fence he'd had to lap last year too, and they were celebrating the Covenant in 72 hours. Grounder Day? Unity day 2.0? Miller and Murphy had been swapping suggestions but the official document labeled, The Skaikru-Coalition Covenant, and was written in English on November 20, 2150. Arkadians were taking traditions from many celebrations, uncaring because there wasn't really a specified belief.
They'd give gifts. They'd dance around the fires.
They'd light candles: all over the settlement. It had been Murphy's idea, oddly, that fucking pyro. "The candles on the Ark burnt the oxygen," he'd said.
"So light them now," Raven had questioned, "because we're no longer stuck in the sky?" She'd crossed her arms. "Idiot." But the council had ended up agreeing to it.
When Bellamy looked back into Arkadia, he saw quiet, dark wax candles littered everywhere, from railing to box top, on the cabins' porches, and in front of the few remaining tents. Everyone was preparing to celebrate.
Bellamy betted candles made up the interiors too; all those torn apart families, racing to light them. To feel that heat. Many people had families who died, on the Ark, on the ground. People die. He had killed many of them.
He blinked, looking away with a choppy swallow. His throat scrapped, and it tasted like dry air's blood. If he shook his head, flakes of white would fall. Groaning, Bellamy stretched out his legs. Seventy-one hours before the big party.
This year would be better. He believed it—he did. It had to be. It was already better, he told himself; he'd ran through all the reasons it would be. Almost.
Clarke was home, too. He'd left that out.
. .
Many had thought she was dead.
Many had thought she hopped into bed with the Commander and never looked back. "She wouldn't abandon her people," he'd argued when he first heard it. The Commander had betrayed them. Clarke wouldn't- ("She wouldn't abandon me," he'd thought, pleading pathetically with logic.)
Then, he'd remembered the gates of Camp Jaha, wondering how well he truly knew her.
There were many things he never thought Clarke would do, and she'd mastered subverting his expectations long ago. With Atom. When he tortured Lincoln; he swallowed, looking down at his plate. At that bunker—(forgiven, god, it still haunted him)—and when she left.
He never believed she'd come back.
But she had; she came back as broken as she was when she left. Maybe more so. She was some empty shell, her soul wandering in a desert. And, after that first day of panicking, and probing, and making sure she was all right, he pulled back from her completely.
Now, he sat with his sister and Lincoln, poking charred boar meat, and trying to ignore her presence, to ignore the way he had latched onto her the moment she'd screamed, "Stop! The air could be toxic," and then, never let go.
(When she'd given him forgiveness, he'd never wanted to. Let her go. She was something divine, a goddess of war, immovable.
Then, she'd left of course.)
Octavia giggled at something Lincoln said. Bellamy gritted his teeth: did they need to be so in love? And, he was her brother, so his distaste for their relationship was a normal thing. At least, that was what he'd gathered from books and fictional examples of siblings. He'd never witnessed real ones. Normal.
His gaze flickered to Clarke.
She sat alone three tables away, tensing whenever someone sauntered by her table, which was often. He felt his stare soften against the anger, soothing it. Clarke didn't fit anymore; she had been more comfortable when they'd first fallen to earth, taking her place at the top quickly, but now, she was so skittish, hesitant when she walked, overthinking every word when she spoke. Bellamy didn't like it.
Today, Jasper planted himself across from her. She flinched. His teeth ground.
Tightening on the cutlery, Bellamy's fingers ached blue as he watched Jasper nab boar from her plate. She did nothing and said nothing as he chomped her dinner, speaking words Bellamy couldn't hear; he could tell from her face though—as stone cold as it was—that the words were hurting.
He was angry, so full of bitterness, but his nerves screamed at him to protect her. Which was ridiculous. She'd killed 300 grounders. She'd irradiated a mountain with him. She'd lived alone in the woods for months over the numbing winter. She didn't need him, or seemingly anyone or anything.
She was fine.
Jasper had been especially cruel to her since she'd returned. He'd made childish comments, goading her, and had yelled at the others for defending her. "Murderer of the masses," he'd called her, "death's commander."
She'd commited a crime.
But the only difference between a war hero and war criminal was who won the war.
So he watched gritting his jaw when he thought he saw the wetness of a tear trail her cheek. There was no tear; it was a trick of the light. Finally, she responded, and from the shape of her lips, he guessed, "I'm so sorry, Jasper."
Jasper stood and shot his water into her face, soaking her from chin to hip, darkening her shirt and she said nothing.
Bellamy hated that he was on his feet already, and despised that the entire canteen watched him rush to a girl who'd left him behind: he had excuses ready though. "It's freezing," or, "she's a doctor; a hypothermic doctor does nothing," and, "she's had a long day. A long, long year."
None of them slipped past his lips, but the leather fell from his shoulders, burrowing around as she stared up at him, shocked, hands clasped at her chest. He tensed as the cool air bit at his earlobes and collar. Her shirt froze, hardening as she shivered.
Her voice was quiet. "Bellamy?"
"Get to your tent," he said. "Warm up."
Her face solidified, like the ice forming on her lashes. Again. She was stone. She nodded, turning to stride from the canteen with as much pride as she could. It wasn't much. The eyes followed her, and Jasper's trailed harsher than others, but Bellamy could tell by the look in his eye the satisfaction he had been hoping to gain hadn't come.
He realized he was standing at a table empty but for a puddle freezing over, a Jasper, and charred boar, so he cleared his throat and ignored those eyes.With his hands stuffed in his pockets, Bellamy sauntered back to Octavia, who was lifting a brow. Lincoln stared at his hands. Bellamy shivered, realizing his blue t-shirt wasn't really winter-proof. He settled down, staring at his plate as his breath fell out foggy.
"Just sit with her tomorrow," Octavia groaned.
. .
He sat with her.
He did it: because he was angry, and because he missed her. And she was alone, and he knew what that was like. He coped with loneliness through sex. He tried to, anyway.
Clarke didn't seem to cope at all. She shut down. She ran away.
It wasn't healthy.
Her gaze lifted when he sat, hands rubbing together causing friction in her fingerless gloves. Next year, they'd figure out the heat; they could be warm, and at least the mentally hurt could leave in relative physical peace.
Her face betrayed nothing though, not in expression; her lips were white, and her guilt was screaming.
It'd make it easier if he didn't care. He might have relished it, even, but he cared so much he could be shot and not feel a thing.
He scraped half his rations onto her plate. "Eat."
..
On guard that evening, the snow tasted the same.
The Hours he spent on a chair passed slowly. The stars rose in the sky, but he kept his eyes on the snow-weighted evergreens. Three hours in, Miller replaced his father. Five to go. He chatted with Miller, about nothing really, before Miller went silent.
A new voice spoke up. "Hey."
Bellamy jolted his back straight to attention, gaze flying where Clarke stood. A blanket was ratty around her shoulders, dark grey with freckles of snow all over it. The one she held out to him was the same, and in his hands it felt scratchy, but warm.
"Hey," he answered, taking it.
(He glanced at Miller and saw him already huddled into one, too. He wasn't special.)
She sat, crossing her legs on the log wall and looked out into the forest. "You're on guard every night for the next week," she muttered, exhaling fog from her lips.
His heart was angry. His pride told him to shove the blanket back into her arms; the wind disagreed."Princess can read?" He hadn't said her nickname with a sneer like that since the dropship.
She huffed into her knees, arms wrapped around her knees, tightening the blanket. She was freezing. She could be inside right now. Warm and by the fire with laughter and plans for the 20th. (She could be with Lexa, warm and sweaty under furs and above the world, but she wasn't.)
She sat on a wall, with him, in the cold.
"Why did you take every night shift?"
There were many answers to such a question. It's more productive than being home and lonely. There might have been a time he would've fallen into the truth, given her it, but that time had extinguished, (embers remained, it scared him, and he pleaded that the sparks stay tamed).
"Sometimes," he said, looking out, a truth slipping passed his walls, "I'm scared an army will appear at our gates."
He cuddled into the blanket, toeing the rifle at his boot. "These walls are a lot thicker than a dropship camp," she answered, pressing her palm into the spruce. Her digits flinched at the cold. "They'll respect the Covenant."
He gritted his teeth.
"Lexa hasn't had the best record." His tone is thick, deeply rasped from the frigid cold. He wondered if she could hear his insecurity.
Clarke tensed. "She hasn't, but no one wants war." Her eyes flickered to him. "Not even her."
He hesitated, but his heart didn't; it said what it wanted to.
"How do you know?" The thumping organ in his chest squeezed in immediate regret, dreading any possible answer. If she confirmed the rumours, he'd be hurt. (If she denied them? He'd have no more excuses; other than, "you left." He'd be too scared.)
"I spent my winter with her."
Just like all the rumours said. His lips numbed. His knuckles tightened on the blanket. Arkadia had been bitterly cold since the end of November. It had gnawed into his chest, burrowed cavities like a twisted screw.
"Oh."
"Yeah." Her teeth chattered. "But I missed my people and- and you."
He shouldn't be angry anymore, he'd told himself this again and again, but he scoffed.
Hurt spiked her features; he saw it immediately. The organ squeezed. He desired to reach out, and he didn't. "I'm sorry I left you to take care of them," she tried again, reaching out again. Again. Again. He was a flame, burning up on his own guilt. Why was she always reaching out for him when he batted her away?
"The kids weren't the hard part."
He cringed. Again. "I needed to be alone," and I needed you, his mind screamed back. He didn't need anyone. "I'm sorry," she pushed to her knees, shuffling closer to him. He imagined pulling her close, screeching at her to go away. "I'm sorry. I left you with the ghosts." His eyes wet. "You haven't taken time to heal." He tensed.
"I've been kind of busy, Clarke."
She reached out again, and he kind of wanted to let her. So this time, he did. "The culling and the mountain. I'm so sorry, Bellamy. I'm sorry I left you alone." Her head leaned against his thigh as her hand snatched his, making his numb fingers tingle with slivers of warmth. "I needed to be alone, and I'm sorry."
Could she stop saying sorry? Please. It made his anger so much harder. Apologizing just made him feel everything he buried beneath. Truly, when Bellamy looked at his fury, he knew it was just sadness, and hurt.
"I know."
He was a man of validation, A man who craved kind words, a man who used sex to run away. A man who used love to hurt himself. Love was a coping mechanism to him; if he loved someone enough, the things he'd done, the sins he'd committed, they'd wash away. He was so mad, but when her gentle warm hand brushed his cheek, he fell into it; it was like he was waiting to jump.
She whispered, "I'm still broken, too."
"I know," he answered. "I knew the moment I saw you at the gate." Her hand tightened on his. Relief flooded through him, and he shut his eyes, and he was angry, and he was so in love with her, and- and- after a moment, he tensed up again, breaking whatever it was burning by clearing his throat. "I've got guard until 0400." He wouldn't be vulnerable with her anymore. He promised himself he wouldn't be. She pushed to her feet, shrugging her blanket and hiding her nose. Fuck. She was gorgeous, bundled up like that. She hesitated beside him for a second.
"I'll keep a fire going in your tent for when you get home," her voice betrays her nervousness, "so it's warm for you."
Again, his heart squeezed, already warmer.
He nodded. Then, she was gone, and sat back, heaving. He looked over to Miller, who was as cocooned as before, his brows raised suspiciously at him. Bellamy narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore Miller's terribly hidden chuckles. He faced the forest, rigid on the chair.
Four hours until his shift ended. Twenty-three hours until they celebrated the covenant; he tugged his ratty blanket tight as snow began to sway down, twisting like ballerinas. The blanket was warm: held him tight, protecting him from the cold.
The candles were quiet, but he was ready to feel their warmth on his fingers.
He was kind of excited.
. .
(His tent was blistering when he arrived.
She was awake, sitting on his furs with a sketchbook in her lap. The domesticity made his throat clog. Clarke gave him a slight smile, before rising, and leaving, like she hadn't just tended to a fire in his home for four hours. Something in him: the part of him that loved until his knuckles bled, wished she'd fallen asleep, because then she wouldn't have had to go.
She always had to go.)
. .
He spent the night's shift staring inside the wall, instead of the unknown outside.
It looked so warm, over there.
Paths had been shovelled out steadily over the season, lining up in half a foot banks of snow. Arkadia steadily lit up orange, reflecting off the snow. Zero hours were left until the celebration as Arkadians and clan members wandered arm in arm. Some trudged alone.
Bellamy watched Octavia light a candle in Lincoln's hand, and saw Miller do the same with Jackson. Then, every candle was lit, some dim, and some vibrant, burning oxygen. Monroe was on shift with him, alone too, because Sterling was dead. She had a candle before her, and it flickered, like a piece of gold in ashes and dust.
Bellamy thought of the culling, and all the oxygen they could've used then.
. .
After his guard shift, he came home miserable.
But he wasn't expecting her there again. It was the same as the night before. The heat. The glow. The feeling of inadequacy. She smiled, standing to leave- but he snagged her wrist, before he knew what to say.
"I was so angry at you for leaving."
He had been angry with her, and above all, with himself, but those words weren't supposed to escape. "Bellamy." Her voice was so soft, so vulnerable, he wanted to dive into the depths of her trauma, and swim through to her heart. The fire had simmered down to embers, glowing orange and still so warm. The was held by the tent.
He trembled. "I don't wanna feel that way anymore."
Her hand crooked into his elbow as, "Bellamy," slipped from her lips again. Her fingers tightened, and then, he was in her arms. It brought back the relief from when this place was still Camp Jaha, the embrace that had said, "you're alive. you're alive. you're alive."
This one said, "I'm sorry."
His arms compressed around her the same as that day, like if he let go she'd just disappear. He hadn't been wrong. Her arms slid from beneath his armpits, hands threading the hair on the back of his head. Her breath tickled his collar as he nuzzled his nose into her hair, ignoring his mind's veto.
"Stay." Fuck. Why?
Clarke pulled back, eyes quiet and burning on him as her palm rested on his chest. "Okay," she murmured. Roaming to the fireplace, she threw in a log; sparks breathed into flames.
As Bellamy watched her, he realized she'd littered candles throughout his room. Thick, thin, tall and short, a dozen or so sat in groups of four.
"Take off your gear," she said, looking back at him over her. She's gorgeous in this light. He blinked. "You'll overheat."
He started with the fingerless gloves. "I didn't know that was possible this time of year." He slid his leather jacket off his shoulders, and toed out of his boots as she lit the thinnest and longest candle, hovering it over the others on his bedside crate. She pampered the flame with steady hands. One by one, the candles caught, and so she moved to the next group by the door, then to his shelf he dreamt of filling with books.
He was just relaxing down onto his bed when she lit the final group on another crate at the foot of the bed, placing the tall, thin candle next to the group.
"May this peace last," he heard her whisper to them.
His people had sayings for it all. Meeting again, dying, surviving. That was the newest one. "Clarke," he wavered out, voice hoarser than he wanted. He squeezed the fur of his bed between his dry fingers as he lay on his side, looking up at her. She met his gaze, blue eyes dancing with the flames reflecting in them. He didn't need her, "Stay," but he wanted her, "please."
In three strides, she crossed the tent, and collapsed into the furs.
His breath caught on the way she cuddled and held him like he was on the edge of a cliff and one slip would have him tumbling.
"I'm never leaving again," she murmured, promised.
He hated himself for believing her, but he was a man and validation. He was a man who used love to hurt himself, who used sex to never face his demons. She was making him face his demons, and he hated and loved her for it. "We won't heal." She rubbed his neck, pressing a kiss to his jaw. She continued, "I don't think it will ever go away." Not ready, his mind said; his body grew excited with her exploration, his mind was suspicious; his heart was weary.
"Will you be here in the morning?" he rasped, catching her wrist.
"Yes," her hands never strayed after that. "I can't do that again."
Liar, his mind said. "Why'd you go to Polis?"
"Because if someone found the commander of death in the streets, they'd kill her." It was when she said things like that, he worried. "Because of Lexa." Lexa. His tongue felt heavier and his throat was tight. Her eyes scanned him and he tried to hide the clench of his jaw. "Would you like to know why I came home?" He did, but not while he was lying in his bed, surrounded by candles and comfort. Not a word escaped though, and so she continued anyway. "I couldn't get our people out of the back of my head." He bit his tongue. "Or you-" she swallowed, eyes running away as her voice took on armoured monotony. "I needed to run and Lexa let me do that. I ran away from everything, and kept my secrets." Why was she telling him this? It hurt. "One day she asked me why I never did."
"And?" Loving until he bled, asking things he wasn't ready for.
"I didn't want to," she whispered. "She'd prompt me, and I'd think of what we did and all the kids we failed, and the mountain."
"Clarke-"
"I caught myself thinking of you." She touched his wrist. "Thinking of what I did."
"Clarke."
"And-"
He pulled her into his chest, pressing a kiss to her hair, and she finally quieted; he dropped his head into the crook of her collar. She slid her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry," he shut his eyes, "you're tired and cold and-"
"Just stay," he pleaded, voice cracking into her heart. The heat of the tent was sweltering as he turned his nose into her hair. The orange glowed behind his eyelids.
"Okay," she whispered, pushing the hair from his forehead. "Okay, I'm staying."
He hated himself for it, but he believed her, heart and soul.
..
Lmaoo. Thanks for reading!