a/n Hello! A couple of people have requested protective Bellamy in the 7.13 red sun. This is that. Kind of. More or less. It's also Bellamy and Clarke both breaking because that's long overdue. Happy reading!
Content note: potentially triggering for anyone who is triggered by panic attacks. There's an incident that isn't a panic attack but presents like one.
Bellamy has always been overprotective. He figures that's no very surprising consequence of a youth spent fretting about an illegal younger sister.
That overprotectiveness has coloured his relationship with Clarke right from the very beginning. When she fell into that pit all those years ago, he didn't save her because he liked her, and that self-righteous attitude. He didn't even save her because he needed her or wanted her help running things. He saved her because he's never been in the habit of standing idly by while young women fall to their deaths.
Things changed a bit, in the days and months and centuries that followed. He realised he liked Clarke when they joked together at Unity Day. He realised he needed her when he walked through an army to rescue her. He realised he loved her when he left her behind to burn in Praimfaya.
He realised he was in love with her when he sat in that cave on Etherea and wondered how the hell to scale that mountain.
Of course, things have changed even more since then. The faith he found on scaling that mountain doesn't allow him to be in love with Clarke. But he figures he can still protect her, as long as he doesn't compromise his faith to do so.
That's the basis on which he tells his Shepherd the truth about the flame. He's protecting Clarke from sacrificing herself yet again. And it's why he lies to his Shepherd's face and claims that Clarke knows nothing while she writhes and screams and bleeds in MCAP. He can't just stand by and watch her in pain.
Yeah, he's crap at falling out of love with her. He has to admit it's not going well for him. However hard he tries to keep to his faith, he cannot seem to stop obsessing over her wellbeing. Nor can he ignore her voice echoing over and over in his mind, telling him that his newfound beliefs are ridiculous. And he certainly can't forget her tears, can't set aside the way she has cried over him more times since he came back from Etherea than he has ever seen her cry in her life before.
He shakes his head. There he goes again, thinking about Clarke. He should have his mind on other things right now. They're in Sanctum, trying to negotiate with the man who wears Russell's body. He needs to support his Shepherd as best he can.
He needs to stop staring at Clarke.
She's fine. She's safe. Nothing is going to get to her here, in the midst of a peace negotiation. She's absolutely safe and he needs to stop worrying about her and focus on -
There. That's a threat. That's a swarm of those red-sun crazed bugs, pouring through the open window. That's danger, and he needs to get Clarke to safety.
He jumps towards her, seizes her hand.
"We need to get out of here." He mutters, sprinting towards the nearest door, tugging her in his wake. To his shock, she follows without so much as a word of argument.
His damn robes are not designed for running from angry swarms. He can see, now, why Clarke called them ridiculous.
Who's he kidding? She called them ridiculous because she hates everything he now stands for, detests his Shepherd most of all. He could be wearing his old guard uniform and she'd still have found an insult to throw at him.
He finds a door, flings it open. This is a very small room – some kind of storage closet, if he had to take a guess. He shoves Clarke inside, locks the door behind them.
Safe. She's safe in here – at least until he loses his mind. At least until he freaks out through red sun toxin and tries to kill her. He'll make sure to leave before then, he resolves. He'll head back outside and tell her to lock the door behind her. He'll just wait for the swarm to pass and then -
"Why did you do that?" Clarke's question interrupts his thoughts.
He considers his answer. He could tell her an easy half-truth – something about the fact she has knowledge of the flame that is essential to the cause. But for some reason, he finds that he wants to be honest with her. Maybe it's the toxin already getting to him.
"Just keeping you safe." He says, shrugging.
"Yes. But why?" She presses.
"I protect you. That's – that's what I do."
She gives a slightly hysterical laugh. It reminds him of that conversation they had in her cell, and he doesn't like it. "Not any more, as far as I can see. What you do now is betray me and then look all hurt when I ask what the hell you think you're doing."
He sighs. "I was protecting you then, too. I know you didn't see it like that but he'd have killed you the moment he found out, Clarke. At least this way I can try to influence him to keep you alive."
Suddenly her eyes light up. "So you are playing a double game? I hoped, of course, but I thought -"
"I'm not playing, Clarke. There's no deception. I did see that light. But I still want to keep you alive."
She furrows her brow in thought for a moment. She's so close in this tiny room. He could just reach out and pull her into one of those hugs they used to do so well.
At least – he could if he was still allowed to love her.
"Why?" She asks. One syllable, one enormous challenge.
"Because I care about you." He tells her, tone carefully even.
"You're not supposed to care about individuals." She reminds him, almost a taunt. "Your Shepherd wouldn't like that." She smacks the wall in frustration, and he jumps in shock. He's not used to seeing Clarke all wound up and losing control like this.
It makes him realise just how much she must care about him.
That's what breaks his resolve. That's what makes him tell her the whole truth.
"I loved you." He chokes out. "I realised at the bottom of that mountain on Etherea that I was in love with you. And I was desperate to protect you – I heard my sister say something about making a deal on Bardo where she was going to tell them all about you. That's why I was so desperate to start climbing that mountain. But by the time I reached the top, I wasn't allowed to love you any more." He spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness mixed with a desperate plea for a hug. "I can't do it, Clarke."
"Can't do what?" She asks, sharp. "Can't love me any more? Or can't stop?"
He looks her right in the eyes, helpless, shaking his head. He knows he's crying – she's crying too – and he wonders whether the red sun is heightening their emotions or whether they're both really this broken.
He really wouldn't be surprised if that was the truth, after everything they've been through.
"Can't stop." He whispers at last, cautious, hurting.
He doesn't know what response he's expecting. Cold, hysterical laughter perhaps – she seems to do that a lot, recently. Maybe a slap, or a few more tears.
What he gets is a kiss. A hot, urgent kiss, as Clarke flies into his arms, presses her lips to his, grabs handfuls of his hair. She's angry and hurt, and she wants him to know it.
But she's also in love with him, and she wants him to know that too. He can feel it in every tear that rolls down her cheeks as they kiss, in the way she runs one thumb tenderly over his cheek even as she tugs at his hair with her other hand. It's somehow the most frantic and confusing yet also the best kiss of his life.
He's been waiting to kiss Clarke a long time. He always wanted to kiss her on some scenic beach with birds singing and sun shining. He feared he would end up kissing her frantically in the heat of battle, desperate to touch her lips before they both died.
He never expected to kiss her for the first time in a storage closet on an alien moon with madness lurking just beyond the door.
He decides it doesn't matter. All that matters is she's here, in his arms, on his mouth. He backs her up against the wall, presses his hips into hers. This might not have been the moment he wanted or expected, but it's the moment they've got, and he is determined to treasure it. He slips her jacket from her shoulders, throws it into a corner. She takes his hint, discards his much-hated white robe.
He's wearing a T shirt underneath, as she is. He can feel her warmth so much more nearly, can even slip his hand up her shirt and onto the bare skin of lower back. He wants to touch her everywhere, explore every inch of her skin, and as her hands start to wander he can sense that she feels much the same way.
All of a sudden, he feels the shift. Now, when he touches her neck, he's not relishing the softness of her skin and pulling her closer to deepen the kiss. Now, he wants to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze the life out of her.
He jumps back, shocked. The toxin must have got to him.
"Bellamy?" She asks, concerned.
He tries to step back even further, but he can't. This room is tiny – that's the wall. He needs to get out of here, but he can hear screams beyond the door. He can't risk letting anyone in here to hurt Clarke. He looks around the room in search of anything he can use to restrain himself or knock himself out, but there's nothing. Bare shelves, bare walls, bare floor.
"Bellamy?"
"It's the toxin." He chokes out. "I'm going to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."
"You're OK." She says, a soothing lie.
He's not OK. Nothing about this is OK. He sinks down into a crouch, presses his forehead against the wall. Balls his hands into fists so tight he knows his nails will leave marks on his palms. He can't do this. He can't keep control. He's going to hurt Clarke.
He's afraid.
He trembles like a scared child, as he crouches here and feels the cold plaster against his forehead. He's terrified because he knows he's about to watch himself kill the woman he loves, the woman he's dedicated his adult life to protecting.
The woman who loves him, too. He's only just learnt that, and he doesn't want her to die without them having chance to be happy together. Without them even saying the words outright while they look each other in the eyes.
He can feel his self control stretching, growing taut. He knows what happens when it snaps. This is like hanging from that makeshift rope over the side of an impact crater, waiting every heartbeat for the lifeline to give way. Only this time, when it snaps, it won't be himself and an innocent stranger that will die.
It will be Clarke.
He's so thoroughly, pathetically frightened.
He feels a gentle hand settle on his shoulder. That eases just a little of the tension, earns him a second of reprieve. Helps him ever so slightly to stay grounded and in control.
"You're going to be OK." Clarke murmurs. "We're going to be OK. You love me, and I love you. You're not going to hurt me."
He nods, but it's an effort.
Then the madness creeps up on him again. It seeps back in, until his mind is nothing but an angry mess of voices telling him to wring Clarke Griffin's neck.
"You love me." She reminds him. "I love you. We're going to be OK."
He can't nod this time. He can't do anything except crouch, and push his forehead into the plaster so hard it hurts, and feel his chest stinging with fear.
"We're going to be OK. Just remember that you love me." She whispers. "You love me. You can do this."
He summons his last reserves of control, spends them on something precious.
"Hold me." He begs her.
She does. She reaches her arms around him, sort of spoons him as they crouch there together. He can feel her face against the back of his neck, her warmth surrounding him.
The madness ebbs away a little.
"Hold me." He begs her again.
She tightens her arms, presses a kiss to the back of his neck.
"I've got you, Bellamy. We're going to be fine. You love me, and I love you. We're going to figure this out."
"Hold me." He breathes, desperate.
Somehow, she finds one of his hands with her own. She uncurls his fingers, runs a soothing thumb over his sore palm. Knits her fingers together with his.
"You can do this. We're going to be OK. Just hold my hand. I love you. You love me."
Maybe – just maybe – he can do this.
He squeezes her hand tight, leans back into her warmth. He overbalances, but she catches him, guides him down onto her lap.
And then she sits there, and holds him, and reminds him of what matters.
"I love you." She whispers, squeezing him tight. "You love me. We're going to make it through this."
His head hurts. His head hurts so damn much, from where he pressed it against the wall hard enough to bruise, and from the tangle of thoughts and emotions. The red sun madness is telling him to kill Clarke. Clarke is telling him he loves her.
He puts his faith in Clarke. That's what he has always done, and so that's what he does now.
They sit there for a long time. Hours, probably, but he doesn't have a great concept of time right now. Clarke carries on talking to him, words of love and encouragement and reassurance. He doesn't speak. He just breathes heavily, and squeezes her hand, and waits for it to be over.
And then, at last, it is over.
He's ashamed, so crushingly ashamed. He claims to love this woman, that he would do anything to protect her, and he's just spent quite literally hours shaking with a desperate desire to murder her while she held his sanity together with her bare hands. He can't believe he's so weak. He's supposed to take care of her, not sit here and tremble in her arms. He's supposed to protect her, not abandon her to protect herself from him, and protect him from himself.
"I'm sorry." He whispers.
"You love me." She murmurs. "I love you. We're going to be OK."
"No, I mean – I'm sorry." He tells her, voice a little stronger. "I'm back now. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She stops chanting her mantra, but keeps holding him tight. "You're OK, Bellamy. You're forgiven. That was the toxin, not you."
He shakes his head. "You shouldn't have had to deal with that."
"Yes, I should. If it's happening to you, I want to deal with it. We take care of each other. That's what we do."
He frowns, gaze fixed on the floor. He's never really allowed himself to think of it like that before – like they protect each other. He supposes that's because he's never allowed himself to think of Clarke loving him back, until today. He always had this idea that their relationship was some kind of one-sided game of never-ending self-sacrifice.
Maybe that idea was wrong.
"Thanks." He says, feeling rather small. He doesn't like feeling small and weak as a general rule, but he's surprised to find that it's almost tolerable, when he knows Clarke quite literally has his back like this. It makes him feel loved and cherished in a way he doesn't think he has ever felt before.
"I love you." Clarke whispers – not a mantra, this time, but a confession.
"I love you, too. I'm sorry – that's not the situation I would have chosen for us to say those words." He offers, with something approaching dark humour.
"It doesn't matter. It's still true." She tells him fiercely.
He nods. She has a point. He's happy that they have managed to share declarations of love at all, for all that he might have preferred rather different circumstances. But really, this could be worse. He can see that, now that he's recovering from his shame and trying to accept the idea that they can take care of each other. He can see that at least they are both alive and she is holding him. That's better than nothing. It's much better than nothing.
"What happens now?" She asks.
He sighs. He knew she would ask that. And now is the time to ask it – the crowds beyond the door have grown quiet.
"I don't know." He admits honestly. "I keep loving you. Can we start there?"
He feels her press a kiss to his neck. "And I'll still love you. You're right, that's a start. But you and I both know we need to open this door and face what's out there."
"I don't want to hurt Cadogan – my Shepherd." He corrects himself, flustered. "I know you don't trust him, and I respect that. But – what I saw on Etherea was real, Clarke. I can't just give that up. I don't know how that works alongside loving you." He wonders, helpless.
"Hey. That's OK. We can figure that out. I don't want to hurt Cadogan either. I don't really want us to hurt anyone else, if we can help it."
"Maybe I stay with him for now and play the inside man. We could take him out peacefully." He suggests.
Clarke gives a hollow laugh. "The inside man. That was always your best move."
He turns in her arms, even though that means he cannot stay so close to her. He needs to be able to look her in the eyes for what he wants to say next. "Would you trust me to do that? Would you trust me to stick with him and look for a peaceful way to take him out? Would you be able to trust that I'm still me and I love you?"
She knows why he's asking. She knows it's a reference to that horrific argument they had in her cell. He can see it in her eyes which swim with tears.
"Yes. I trust you." She tells him simply.
He sighs in relief, allows himself to lean forward for a kiss. He knows they don't have time to pick up where they left off earlier, much to his disappointment. There's a rather irresponsible and excitable part of him that would rather make love to her on the floor of this storage closet than open the door to save the human race. But this is how it has always been between the two of them – falling in love and doing their duty, hopelessly tangled together.
He pulls away sooner than he'd like, but he knows they need to get moving if they are to avoid suspicion.
"We need to get our story straight." He suggests.
She nods. "Any suggestions? You know what Cadogan will want to hear better than I do."
He reaches forward, allows himself for a moment to run his fingers through her hair. And then he gets on with what he knows he needs to do, tousles it and pulls a few chaotic tangles over her face.
"I got you out of there because you're an asset. You know where the flame is. You struggled." He suggests, grinning slightly, with one last ruffle of her hair. "I locked us in here to protect the asset. When the red sun toxin hit you came at me, but I knocked you out."
"You're going to tell it just like that? Calling me the asset all the damn time?" She teases.
"I need to convince him I'm not in love with you." He says, although the thought of it slightly breaks his heart.
"Yeah. Do you think he'll buy it that I struggled? Do you need to punch me?"
He takes a long, hard look at her lovely face. "You already look like you've had a tough time." He admits quietly. "Did I hurt you, when the toxin was getting to me? I remember falling on you. And squeezing your hand pretty hard."
"I'm OK. I have had a tough time these last few days, but none of the damage is on you."
He nods, relieved. "OK. I guess – we should get out of here."
"Yeah."
There's a pause. They're still sitting on the floor, still rather wrapped up in each other. Bellamy gets the sense that they are both feeling much the same – keen to stay here forever, but very aware that they need to leave.
"I love you." He tells her. He wants to say it one more time before they leave this place. He doesn't know when he might get the chance to say it again – if ever.
"I love you, too."
He gets to his feet, reaches down with a hand to help her to stand. That's what they do – they take care of each other, in the little everyday ways as well as the big battles.
"We're going to be OK." He tells her. "I love you, and you love me. We'll figure this out."
She smiles a cautious smile. "You're right. We'll figure it out. We always do."
They share another kiss. He's not sure who makes the move. He doesn't much care who makes the move, in fact. He only cares that his lips are on Clarke's and he feels hopeful for the first time in months.
He pulls away. He lets go of her hand. And then he unlocks the door, opens it wide, and steps out to face the future.
a/n Thanks for reading!