Guts

by PenguinofProse

S4 time jump AU. In which Clarke gets shot, Bellamy feels guilty, and Octavia never becomes Blodreina. Angst with a fluffy ending.

a/n Hello and welcome to another time jump request! This prompt was for Clarke getting shot in "The Other Side". Huge thanks to Stormkpr for betaing this. Happy reading!

Content notes: gunshot wound, injury, depression.

Bellamy sees Clarke raising the gun, pointing it right at him, and feels the force of her action as a punch to the guts. She won't shoot him, surely? She's not seriously going to go through with it?

She doesn't.

She lowers her weapon, backs away from him, visibly horror-struck at what she nearly did. Bellamy breathes a sigh of relief and reaches back up to open the door. He's still angry at her – obviously he's still angry at her – but they can sort that out later. Right now he needs to let his sister in.

But then he sees Geoff Hardy dash into the room, wielding a pistol. Bellamy recognises him right away – he's a dangerous man, willing to do anything to save his own skin and protect his son. He's caused plenty of violent trouble before, as tensions have been running high in the build up to the end of the world.

This is, in short, a disaster. Hardy will shoot. He has no reason not to, no reason to put down the gun like Clarke did.

Bellamy opens his mouth, fishes desperately for anything useful to say.

"Geoff, I -"

He gets no further than that. He falls silent, abruptly, as gunshots ring out in the enclosed space. Bellamy braces, expecting to be hit. Expecting to tumble, mortally wounded, to the floor.

It takes him a heartbeat too long to realise he is not the one who has been shot. Hardy is lying still on the floor, head in a pool of his own blood, obviously dead.

Clarke is staggering back towards the foot of the ladder, hands clutched to her stomach. And then she's falling, tumbling to the floor, crying out in pain.

"Clarke! Clarke, no!" Bellamy knows his words are too little, too late, but he's not exactly thinking straight right now.

"Get that door open." She bites out, with audible difficulty.

Right. Yes, the door – the door she got herself shot so that he could open it.

He makes short work of it, calls out to his sister to enter. But he doesn't even go to greet her properly, because Clarke is bleeding all over the floor, and that's his priority right now. The second the door is open, he jumps from the top of the stairs and dashes to Clarke's side. His ankles don't thank him for it, but a little painful impact on his joints is a small price to pay for getting to Clarke sooner.

"O! Clarke's hurt! Get help!" He cries as he moves.

Clarke is seriously injured – so much is clear right away. He tugs his T shirt off over his head and presses it against the wound in Clarke's stomach. That's better. He can't see the blood, now, and he can almost pretend she's just resting here.

"Clarke. You'll be OK, Clarke. O went to fetch your mum and Jackson and they'll fix you up."

She doesn't say anything in reply, and that's the most frightening thing of all. Clarke Griffin, silenced, is not something he thought he would ever have to see. Instead of words she just chokes out pained gasps, interspersed with the occasional groan.

"You're going to be fine, Clarke. Just keep your eyes on me. You just need to hold on for me, OK? You hear me? Just hold on."

She gives a weak nod, but her eyes are glazing over.

"Hey. Keep looking at me, Clarke. Look at me."

She tries to refocus, but he can see it's a struggle. Is this it? Is she going to bleed to death before his very eyes? He risks a look at her wound, still covered by his shirt, and notes that the black blood is oozing through the fabric, seeping between his fingers. It's more horrifying, somehow, for being such an unaccustomed colour. It makes the whole situation feel more scary and unfamiliar, not like wounds he's come across in his time as a guard.

It makes him feel like she's going to die.

He ought to tell her he's in love with her. That's the thought that strikes him, as she blinks heavily up at him. Yeah, sure, he was angry with her less than a minute ago, but that was before she went and took a bullet for him. And if she really is going to die on him, he wants her to know how he feels.

She deserves that much, at least, he figures.

"Bellam-" She chokes on his name, can't quite finish shaping the word.

"I'm right here. I'm staying right here, Clarke. Just keep those eyes open for me, you hear me? You're going to be OK. And then I'm going to spend the next five years complaining that you ruined my shirt."

She gives a short gasp, a bite of panicked laughter.

"Clarke. I need you to know that I – I -" He pauses, tries again. "I – I need you to hold on, alright? I need you to be OK. You have to keep fighting."

She nods a little, gaze unfocused. He's not really looking at that, too busy hating himself for his weakness. Even in this moment, as her black blood slicks over his fingers, he cannot tell her how he feels. It's pathetic, he's pretty sure.

She's sliding out of consciousness now, he thinks. He's not a doctor, but he's not convinced she's seeing him any more.

"Clarke? Clarke, can you hear me?"

No response.

"Clarke?"

At that moment, a handful of people burst through the door. He sees Abby at the head of the group and sighs in relief.

"He shot her. He was going to shoot me and he shot her." He babbles. "I don't – I can't – he shot her. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Abby shoves him aside and takes over. Jackson joins the scene. Bellamy can't quite make sense of what's going on, the people coming and going, the noise and the commotion. He can't see Clarke's face any more, and that's a worry. He's pretty sure being able to look at her living eyes was the only reason he was vaguely holding it together, there. In fact he can't really see Clarke at all – he's only a couple of feet away but medical staff are crowding round her so tightly that his view is restricted to the occasional glimpse of her boots.

There's nothing wrong with her boots. They're a little scuffed, because they're old boots, but they don't look like the boots of a woman who's been shot.

No. That's a silly thought. Clarke. What can he do for Clarke?

"Bellamy." Miller's soft voice interrupts his panicked thoughts. "Hey, Bellamy. Come on. Let's get you out of here and cleaned up."

Bellamy looks down at himself, then. He knew his hand was covered in Clarke's blood, but he's surprised to see smears of it on his bare torso as well.

All the same, he doesn't want to get out of here. "I can't leave her." He protests weakly. "I can't – I can't leave her."

"Bellamy -"

"She was protecting me." He swallows down a sob, the tears finally coming as the truth sinks in. "I'm supposed to protect her. I have to stay and take care of her."

Miller actually puts an arm around his shoulders, then. That's new, Bellamy notes. They've become close friends, in recent months, but hugging is a new development.

Hugging is mostly a thing he saves for Clarke.

"The way you take care of her now is by getting out of the way so the doctors can do their job, OK? Jackson asked me to come here and walk you back downstairs so they can work without worrying about you. Trust me, getting out of here is the best thing you can do for Clarke."

He nods. He can work with that. He's pleased to have an instruction to follow, really, while his head is spinning and his world is falling apart. Miller's clear advice gives him something to hold onto until he can find steady ground beneath his feet once more.

He wonders if he'll ever find that steady ground again, if Clarke dies. She keeps him centred, and he's not very good at coping without her.

…...

Bellamy has showered, now, and found a new shirt. But that's about all he's managed to do – he certainly hasn't managed to get his feelings back on an even keel.

He's less in shock, he supposes. He's no longer hyperventilating. He's just walking through the bunker in an odd sort of detached bubble, totally preoccupied with Clarke, unable to really engage with the conversations and behaviour of those around him.

He makes it back to Octavia's office. His baby sister has an office now, seeing as she has taken the bunker for the twelve clans and therefore leads the remnants of the human race. He supposes that would be the headline news of the day, on any day when Clarke hadn't been shot.

Octavia lurches to her feet the moment she sees him, runs over and pulls him into a hug. That sets him panicking all over again. Why is she hugging him? Is this a sympathy hug? Is this a hug of support because Clarke has died in the last fifteen minutes while he was getting cleaned up?

Has she died without him there to hold her hand as she slipped away?

"O -"

"She's in surgery." His sister says, before he can even ask the question. "They said it's touch and go. I'm sorry, Bell. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault." He says, confused.

"I don't mean like that. I mean – I'm sorry it happened. I know what it's like to watch the person you love get shot." She comes right out and says it, and that startles Bellamy, has him jerking away from her and stepping backwards. He never expected them to manage to have a civilised and sympathetic conversation about that.

"She doesn't know." He admits to the carpet somewhere near his left boot. "I never told her, O. Not even just now. She was bleeding out in my arms and I still couldn't tell her."

"She wasn't bleeding out, Bell. She's going to be OK. She's a fighter."

He nods, but his heart isn't in it. Apart from anything else, Octavia herself said it was touch and go only seconds ago.

"And I'm pretty sure she knows, anyway. Just like you know she feels the same."

He shakes his head. He can't be thinking like that. He's not sure about any of this conversation, really. He's struggling to process the idea of emotional openness with his sister, hot on the heels of the shock of Clarke's injury. And he's certainly struggling with the idea that he and Clarke have some perfect mutually adoring relationship.

She just took a bullet for him, seconds after threatening to shoot him herself. If that's not the very definition of dysfunctional, he doesn't know what is.

…...

He drives to the island to fetch Raven. He needs to get out of here, needs to be doing something other than pacing holes in the carpet of his sister's office while he waits for news of Clarke.

OK, sure, there's more to it than that. He's also hoping to outrun some of his guilt, leave behind the weight that sits heavy on his shoulders at the knowledge that it's all his fault she's on that operating table. If he can save Raven, today, he figures that might go some small way towards balancing out the fact that he got Clarke shot. He doesn't love Raven, of course, so it's not the same. But it's better than sitting here and doing nothing.

He tells his sister to call him on the radio the second there is any news about Clarke. He takes Murphy and Emori with him – he knows they have some scheme of their own in mind, but he's too wrapped up in his own concerns to care.

And then he steps over Geoff Hardy's dead body and walks right out of the bunker.

He hopes someone will have removed that monster's corpse by the time he gets back. He's not normally one for thinking ill of the dead, but that man shot Clarke, and if the body's still there when he returns he thinks he might be in serious danger of kicking him in the guts as he walks by.

…...

Bellamy keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the way ahead as he drives. He needs to complete this mission safely and effectively so he can get back to the bunker, where his sister will be waiting for him, and where Clarke will be waiting for him, too, he prays. But even as he's watching the road his mind is still partly on wondering what's happening in that operating theatre. Of course it is – that's only to be expected, he figures.

He jumps to attention every time the radio fizzes into life, hoping against hope that it's his sister telling him that Clarke is awake and asking for him, dreading more than anything that it might be bad news about her surgery instead.

The first time the radio splutters out noise, it is neither of those things. It isn't even his sister's voice at all – it is Monty, telling him that he and Harper have broken down with their rover en route to Polis and begging for a lift.

He goes to pick them up. Naturally he does – even though it wastes precious time, and even though he doubts they will make the final cut of a hundred Skaikru any more than Murphy and Emori will. He can't just leave them there. They explain that they plan to head to the island and the small bunker there, too. Bellamy thinks that sounds very crowded, and very hungry, and altogether a terrible idea.

He also wonders if he ought to join them anyway. These are his people – some of the last of the hundred – and he cannot help but feel it is his duty to share their fate. But Octavia and Clarke are back in Polis, and they are more than just his people – they are his family.

That settles it. He's going to drop his friends off, and wish them good luck, and get back to the two most important people in his life.

The second time he hears a voice over the radio, it is Octavia, but it's not about Clarke at all.

"They're going to use the list." She announces. "The one Clarke wrote and you – you helped with. That's how Skaikru are choosing their survivors."

He's not surprised at all about that – not even at the fact that his sister worked out it was him who wrote Clarke's name. She knows her own brother's handwriting, after all. He simply makes a humming noise and waits for her to get to the point.

"So there's no space for Murphy and Emori here. Kane suggested Miller can stay because we lost one of the guards in the black rain. But we can't squeeze anyone else in." Octavia explains, tone neutral. Bellamy knows that Murphy and Emori are not her favourite people in the world, but it's good to see that a little humanity has already started to return to her, since he opened that door for her and Clarke took a bullet to the guts to make sure it happened.

Maybe something good has come of this horrific day after all.

"They already worked that out, O. They have a plan. It's not a good one but – yeah." He glances behind him in the rear-view mirror, and sure enough Murphy is squeezing Emori's hand and nodding in resignation.

"Can we say hello?" Monty calls from the back of the rover.

Bellamy nods, invites him forward to the front seat. And then he spends the next ten minutes listening to his little sister say hello – and goodbye – to Monty and Harper, and tries very hard not to cry.

He can't afford to cry. He needs to keep his eyes clear and on the road, so he can get home to Clarke.

…...

He makes it another couple of hours before he caves and calls his sister again.

"Is there any news?" He asks, abrupt, urgent.

"I told you I'd call if there was." She doesn't sound impressed, but she does sound sympathetic, he thinks.

"O -"

"They're still in surgery. That's good news, right? That means they think they can save her. That means she's not already dead."

"Yeah." He's not that convinced, but it's better than nothing, he supposes.

"Just focus on driving, big brother. I'll see you soon."

"Bye."

He hopes to remember how to hold a rather more fluent conversation again, when Clarke is not hovering at death's door.

…...

It's an odd bittersweet feeling, picking up Raven from the lab. On the one hand, his good friend has chosen to live, and will be coming safely home with him to the bunker.

On the other hand, he's leaving four of his people behind. It's funny, he thinks, how quickly he has come to consider Emori one of his people, simply by her association with the hundred teenagers he found himself leading all those months ago.

The worst thing is that they don't even have time for protracted goodbyes. He hugs all of them – even Murphy – and then wonders what to do next.

"Good luck." He wishes them pointlessly. "May we meet again."

Murphy snorts. Harper is crying silent tears, but her face remains firm with determination. Monty is deep in thought, evidently calculating whether there is any way they can make this work.

Raven speaks up.

"There's some of Abby's experimental nightblood serum in the lab. The same stuff Clarke took. We have no idea whether it works but – yeah. It has to be better than giving up, right?"

Harper nods, firm. Bellamy's happy for her, that she's found her will to live again. Monty's thoughtful expression becomes a little brighter.

"Thanks, Raven." Monty offers. "Maybe we'll give it a try. Either way it's – it's been a privilege, trying to survive Earth with you two."

His statement is greeted with much nodding and another round of hugging. And then Bellamy and Raven head out of there, because they have a time limit to work with. Bellamy wonders if maybe they're so eager to leave for other reasons, too. Reasons like the guilt of being the chosen, and the grief of leaving good friends behind to die.

…...

Raven sits up front in the passenger seat next to Bellamy on the drive home. It's pleasant enough, as she chatters away about everything and nothing. He has a sneaking suspicion that she's trying to keep his mind off what's going on with Clarke.

They're almost home when they get the call. It's Abby, which must mean Clarke is out of surgery. And she doesn't ask him to pull over and brace for difficult news, so he begins tentatively to hope that Clarke might have pulled through.

"Bellamy. I knew you'd want to hear from me right away." Abby says by way of introduction.

"Yeah. How did it go? Is she -?"

"She's alive." He lets out a loud sigh of relief at the news. "The surgery went OK. It's too soon to say much more than that. We've got her in a medically induced coma for now."

"Thanks. Thank you. I'm so sorry I -"

"Stop it, Bellamy. I don't want to hear it." Abby chides, somewhere between tired and strangely maternal, he thinks. "You can come see her as soon as you get back. I'll be getting some rest but the nurses know to let you in."

"Thank you." He swears he knows other words, but none seem to come to mind right now amid this dizzying wave of relief.

"Drive safe."

With that, she is gone, and the rover descends into stunned silence. He stares at the track before him, tries very hard to concentrate on getting home to Clarke as quickly and safely as possible.

Raven makes a tutting noise. "Slow down, Bellamy. She wouldn't want you to have an accident. That would be poor repayment for her saving your life, don't you think?"

He knows Raven means the words kindly. She means to encourage him to keep calm and drive safely, and take care of himself, and reunite happily with Clarke.

But that's not the effect her words have on his heart. For the whole of the rest of the way home, he fixates on that idea of poor repayment. And by the time they arrive in Polis, he's reached a firm conclusion.

He will never be able to repay Clarke for what she did for him. He will always be in her debt, now. He already owed her a thousand times over, he's pretty sure, and her taking a bullet for him only makes that worse. He will never be able to repay her, never make things right, never claw his way up to being her equal in any way.

He will never deserve her, and that thought makes him feel sick to his stomach.

…...

He's not sure what to say as he sits at Clarke's bedside. He doesn't have a lot of experience of watching the woman he loves lie in a medically-induced coma, and knowing it's all his fault. It's an unfamiliar scenario in the worst possible way.

He starts with letting some of his guilt spill out.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Clarke. I'm supposed to protect you. I knew he was dangerous – I should have been the one to step in front of the bullet."

She doesn't reply, of course, because that's how comas work.

He continues. "I need you to pull through, OK? I need you. And I know it's selfish but I don't think I could live with myself if I got you killed."

The silence is broken only by the bleeping of medical machinery and Clarke's too-quiet breathing.

Bellamy inhales deeply. There's something he didn't have the guts say to her, earlier, when she was bleeding all over his fingers. Something he spent the whole rover ride to the island and back regretting. And it's something he doesn't deserve to say, not while he's so deeply in her debt, but as she's asleep and can't hear him he figures it's not such a problem.

"I – I need you."

No. That's not what he was aiming for. He tries once more, steels his courage.

"I love you." The words taste sweet on his tongue, so he says them again. "I love you, Clarke. I love you. So you have to stay with me, OK?"

The only response he gets is that damn monitor, its steady bleeps reassuring him that she's still hanging on, still breathing, heart still beating in time with his own.

…...

Bellamy visits Clarke a lot while she's unconscious in med bay. OK, maybe visit isn't quite the right word. Visit implies that he leaves and returns, whereas in reality he more or less moves in.

He still does his duty by his sister, of course. He is here to support her as they get the bunker up and running and she finds her feet in her new role. So it is that he is by her side during the day, but he camps out in med bay each night.

Abby knows all about it. She throws an exasperated smile at him, the first morning she finds him there. The second time, she suggests that it would be healthy for him to get a good night's sleep in his own bed.

The third time, she tells him to wheel in a spare gurney and at least make himself comfortable.

He takes that for permission to stay, and essentially takes up residence in Clarke's room. He has a bed allocated outside of this place too, of course. He's in a dorm of six, shared with Octavia, Raven, Jackson, Miller, and Clarke herself. But he hasn't spent more than ten minutes there so far, and he has no intention of living there full time until he knows Clarke is on the mend. Abby and Jackson tell him that she's doing really well, but he finds that pretty hard to gauge, given he's no medical professional and she's still out cold.

He keeps talking to her. Abby says that helps, but it's not clear whether she means that it helps Clarke or it helps him.

"I found you some art supplies." He tells her today. "There's a load of stationery in storage on the third floor. My sister says we have to ration it, but she agreed to let you have a notepad and a couple of pencils as a get well gift. So you have to wake up so you can use them."

She doesn't wake up, of course. He knows she's still sedated.

"OK, well, when it's time for you to wake up you can use them. Until then I guess just keep breathing."

She does. She's getting good at that, he likes to think.

"I love you."

She never says it back, of course. That's the thing about confessing his feelings to someone sound asleep. But he's pretty convinced she wouldn't say it back even if she were wide awake, because that's how debt and guilt and bullet wounds work.

…...

He has plenty of time to think, as he sits at Clarke's bedside – too much time to think, perhaps.

Unsurprisingly he finds himself dwelling on her choice to step in front of that bullet. He's felt guilty right from the moment she did that, of course, a horrified visceral reaction to the idea that she felt the need to sacrifice her life for his. But the more he thinks about it, the more the guilt piles up, and he realises it's not just saving his life he owes her for.

She saved Octavia's life, too, in effect, by buying him the chance to open that door. His sister is supposed to be his responsibility, but he failed her, and Clarke protected her. And by doing so, she saved the lives of over a thousand grounders, for all that she condemned some of Skaikru to be locked outside.

In short, his debt to Clarke is even deeper than he first realised.

…...

Abby has grown used to seeing him at Clarke's bedside, now, one week into their time in the bunker. She doesn't bother telling him to get some rest any more, although she does occasionally comment that he looks tired. He doesn't need her to bother – he knows he looks tired, between helping his sister all day and staying up anxiously watching over Clarke until he finally succumbs to exhaustion each night.

This morning she doesn't want to talk about him, though. As she catches him on his way out to join his sister for the day, it transpires that she wants to talk about Clarke.

"We're going to be waking her up today." Abby informs him.

He feels his heart grow lighter at the news. "That's great."

"She'll probably be awake by the time you get back here tonight. Or do you want me to send for you as soon as she comes round?"

He swallows, not sure how to go about negotiating this particular challenge. "Could you send a message when she wakes up?"

"Sure I can. I know she'll be happy to see you."

Bellamy's not so sure about that, but all the same, he nods at Abby until she gets on her way, bustling around the other couple of patients in med bay. And then he creeps back to Clarke's room, somehow instinctively feeling the need to escape Abby's notice as he does so. He has a feeling she'd ask difficult questions if she caught him.

The thing is, he needs to move out, if Clarke's going to wake up. He needs to take his few belongings to his dorm and start spending the nights there instead. Because there's no way he can let on to Clarke that he's been sleeping here – that's far too much like shoving his love in her face, he thinks, and he has no right to do that. Not when he's done nothing to pay his debt, nothing at all to deserve her.

So it is that he packs his bag. He wheels the gurney away, and strips the sheets, and hopes that chucking them in the laundry is the right thing to do. And then he pauses, just for a second, just because he thinks this might be his last chance to tell Clarke the truth.

"I love you." He whispers, almost drowned out by the sound of that damn monitor bleeping.

And then he leaves her, walks out of the room, and prepares to pretend that the last week of camping out at her side never happened.

…...

Bellamy is half way through a sentence about water rations when one of the nurses runs into his sister's office and announces that Clarke is awake.

He doesn't bother finishing his thought. He just throws Octavia an apologetic glance and starts jogging to med bay. He knows he has no right to be too obviously in love with Clarke, and he knows that running to her side the moment she wakes up probably looks distinctly lovestruck. But his self-control only stretches so far.

Her room looks the same as it did this morning, only without his belongings strewn about the place. It still feels like home, somehow, and that hits him as a shock and has him stumbling a little on the threshold.

But then Clarke looks up at him, and smiles, and he gets on with crossing the distance between them and taking a seat by her bed.

"You're awake." He states, rather unnecessarily.

"Yeah."

"I'm so sorry I didn't -"

"Save it." She says – almost snaps, he thinks. "I still feel like crap, Bellamy. I don't need to listen to your damn apology."

"Sorry." He says again, feeling small. That's technically another apology, but she lets it go.

"I actually wanted to thank you for what you did that day, putting pressure on the wound and – and giving me hope, I guess."

He snorts. No way is she thanking him for dealing with a wound he caused her. "Clarke, I really am sorry."

She doesn't snap at him this time. She's frowning, still, and she looks tired and distinctly grumpy. But her voice is soft when she speaks. "I forgive you. Now can we put it behind us?"

No. No, he can't do that so easily. But he nods, because Clarke did say she still felt awful, and he doesn't want to cause her any more trouble than he has already caused her this week.

He lets his gaze wander around the room while he fishes for something to say. It was a hell of a lot easier to speak to her while she was asleep, he finds himself thinking. In fact, he's finding it harder to know how to talk with her now than he thinks he has ever found it in his life before. Maybe he ought to say something about how they're getting on with setting up this new society in the bunker, he wonders. Or perhaps he ought to tell her that Raven made it – has anyone shared that news with her yet?

Then his eyes fall upon the sketchbook and pencils he took from that storage room for her.

"How are you liking your get well gift?" He asks, gesturing at it.

"Oh. Oh, that." She frowns a little. "I haven't actually tried it yet."

"Right. Sure. You've only just woken up." He reminds himself, as much as her. There is no reason for him to feel hurt that she hasn't made use of his present – yet somehow, he finds that he does feel hurt all the same.

"No. It's not that." His heart sinks. "I've been reading."

He nods, not entirely trusting himself to speak.

She continues. "I'm on the technical specs for the hydrofarm at the moment. I figure I ought to learn how everything works down here, right? If I'm going to be any help to your sister I need to figure out as much as I can about what we're dealing with."

He relaxes a little at that. She's not really rejecting his gift – she's just being Clarke, putting her perceived duty to her people above her own health and happiness.

He sort of thought that getting shot might convince her to quit that, but apparently he was wrong.

…...

Clarke stays in med bay a couple more days, and Bellamy visits as often as he thinks he can get away with, without his behaviour starting to look obsessive. He visits each morning, before he spends the day with his sister. If he has a moment's free time at lunch or in the early afternoon, he pops by then as well. And best of all, he makes a good long visit every evening.

Yeah, maybe that does look a little obsessive anyway.

They get better at sustaining a conversation between them, as Clarke grows less drowsy and Bellamy grows less shy, for want of a better word. Shyness is not a quality he normally associates with himself – he's always been particularly confident when it comes to talking young women into his bed before now – but that's the only way he can think of to describe how sheepish he now feels around Clarke, how overwhelmed he is by thoughts that he doesn't deserve her and by the awkwardness of everything left unsaid.

He's running late this evening. He got distracted by breaking up a petty fight in the supper queue. So it is that Abby is on her way out of med bay when he arrives.

"She's already asleep." Abby informs him gently. "She's still pretty tired."

"Is that OK? Is it normal?" He asks, worried.

"Yes, it's fine. She's doing well. She can go back to your dorm tomorrow."

He nods. "Can I go see her anyway?"

"Sure you can. Just don't wake her up – she needs her rest."

He thanks her and gets on with walking to her room. He certainly knows his way around med bay by now, and he's beginning to think he could probably find Clarke's room blindfolded.

He arrives at her room, and finds that sure enough, she's sound asleep. It doesn't bother him, really. Sure, he likes talking to her, but the main purpose of all these visits is to reassure himself that she's still breathing, so he doesn't need her to be awake all the time.

He sits in the chair at her side and watches over her for a few moments. He's struck by the sudden thought that it might be easier to talk to her like this, when she's not awake to hear him. If he keeps his voice down, maybe he could finally get some more of his guilt off his chest. He still hasn't managed to do that with her awake, since she's always cutting him off and saying she's not interested in apologies.

"I'm so sorry, Clarke. I should have protected you, I should have taken better care of you. And I should have been the one to put my life on the line to save my sister – she's my responsibility. But thanks for saving her, I guess." He sighs. "At least you're doing OK now. Your mum says you can come home tomorrow. I've made your bed for you, don't worry. It's the bunk beneath mine so we can talk to each other when we're falling asleep. Or maybe we could do that just as soon as we remember how to talk to each other properly again."

He sighs a little louder this time, then catches himself. Panicked, he looks at Clarke's sleeping face, alert to any sign that he might have woken her up.

Nothing. She's still snoring softly, eyes still closed.

"I love you." He tells her, because he loves to say it even thought he hates the thought of her hearing it.

And then he stands up and walks quietly from the room.

…...

Clarke moves into the dorm the following evening. It's all very anticlimactic, just Abby walking her to the door, and Bellamy is the only person inside. He's not sure where the others are – it's as if they mysteriously absented themselves and left him to greet Clarke alone on purpose, he wonders.

"Here you go." Abby announces, holding the door open.

"Welcome." Bellamy says, hands gripped tight on his hips so he can't be tempted to reach out and touch her.

"Thanks." Clarke walks in, takes a look around. "Where's my bed?"

"Here." He points at the carefully made bed with her few belongings neatly stacked on the pillow.

"Thanks."

There's a beat of silence. Abby looks between the two of them, eyes narrowed.

"I'll leave you to it." Abby says, unnaturally perky. "I'll see you at breakfast, Clarke."

With much nodding, and a hug or two, she leaves. Bellamy watches, mesmerised, as Clarke sorts through the things he left on her pillow. She puts a couple of drawings on her bedside cabinet, finds drawers for her few spare clothes. There are more clothes in the storage room on level two, and Octavia has said each person can take a set. Perhaps he ought to mention that now – it might give them something neutral to talk about.

Clarke speaks before he can act on that thought.

"My mum said you visited me a lot while I was in the coma." She offers, tone neutral.

"Yeah. I guess." He wonders why Abby didn't tell her the truth. It seems odd, he thinks, that she would break his trust and tell Clarke anything at all, but not go all in.

"Thanks for that."

"No problem." He swallows. "I was really worried about you."

She looks at him for a long moment, a thoughtful expression on her face. He wonders whether she's trying to puzzle out his clingy behaviour, or whether she's just confused by the absence of their dorm mates.

It's neither of those things, it turns out in the end. She steps forward, still looking thoughtful but perhaps also determined, and pulls him into a hug.

It's a surprisingly firm hug for someone so recently at death's door, he thinks. Her arms are tight around him, and she's pushing her face right up against his neck. He can hear her breathing deeply, and then she lets out a long sigh and it tickles his skin.

It's so good to have her in his arms like this, warm and safe and alive, that he actually cries, a couple of hot tears rolling down his cheeks and onto the crown of her head.

If she feels them, she doesn't say anything. She just stands there, steady, and holds him.

…...

They quickly fall into a routine, in the days that follow. Clarke joins Bellamy and Octavia in running things in the bunker, however much Bellamy tries to convince her to get some rest.

They eat meals with the rest of their dorm mates, as well as Abby and Kane more often than not.

They hug, more often than Bellamy thinks he deserves. He's not really sure why they hug so often, but as long as Clarke wants a hug he is never going to turn her down.

And through it all, he is no closer to figuring out how the hell to repay his debt to her.

…...

It's getting late, and Bellamy and Clarke are still in Octavia's office. Octavia herself has long since left – originally to an evening training session with Indra, but Bellamy very much hopes his little sister has gone to get some sleep since then.

He only wishes Clarke would do the same.

"Why are we still here?" He asks her, moderating his tone so the question won't sound so abrupt.

She frowns. "You don't have to stay."

"I'm staying." He says, because obviously he's staying. "I just think you should get some rest."

"I will as soon as I'm finished here. I just need to understand how the air scrubbers work. Will they need repairing or replacing if we're stuck here longer than the five years? What if we -?"

"Clarke. You don't need to stay up late worrying about air scrubbers."

"I do." She insists, firm. "I do need to. I need to understand this. I have to be able to take care of everyone." She sounds a little panicky, he thinks, and it scares him.

He sighs. He could point out that she's a doctor and a leader, but not an engineer. He could probably just scoop her up and carry her back to bed – she's hardly heavy, and he's far from weak. But he senses that there is something else going on here.

"Why do you say that, Clarke?"

For a moment, he thinks she will brush the question aside. He thinks she will evade the issue, perhaps make some silly joke, or else pretend he never asked at all.

But then she sucks in a loud breath and speaks. "I got them killed, Bellamy. Monty and Jasper and Harper and Bree and Murphy and everyone else. And I was supposed to protect them. They were my people. So – so the least I can do is take care of these people, now."

He doesn't know where to start. He doesn't know whether to remind her that Bree and Jasper chose their deaths, even if the circumstances were most definitely no one's choice. He doesn't know whether to mention the nightblood serum, and the vague chance that Murphy and Monty and Harper might have made it.

He doesn't know whether she just wants a hug.

In the end he goes with gut instinct, wraps an arm around her shoulders, and tells her his truth.

"They were our people, Clarke. We led the hundred together, so I'm sure as hell not letting you carry the guilt for their deaths alone."

That was the right thing to say. He knows it, because Clarke gives a gasping sob and collapses deeper into his arms. He doesn't like that she's crying, of course he doesn't. But to his mind, it's been a long time coming, and if letting it all out now will help her process her feelings and encourage her not to stay up late doing other people's jobs in future, that will be well worthwhile.

She cries for a long time, burrowing into his chest, gripping his shirt in her fisted hands. He holds her tight, whispers what he hopes are encouraging words, sometimes even rocks her a little in his arms.

When she is all cried out, she tries to pull away.

"Sorry." She says, fidgeting and edging back from him. "I shouldn't have – I'm sorry."

"You're OK. You're OK. It's fine. Stay here until you've calmed down properly." He offers, still holding her, albeit more loosely now.

She is still for a moment. And then she gives way, sinking back into his embrace.

"Thanks." She murmurs, somewhere near his collarbone.

"Any time. Just stay here and catch your breath." He recommends, rubbing a hand up and down her back in a motion he hopes is soothing.

She goes quiet, then, just breathing and trying to relax in his arms. He keeps holding her, keeps rubbing that hand over her back, keeps breathing deeply and calmly in the hope that it might encourage her to do the same.

It's only a couple of minutes later than he notices her breathing has lengthened out into soft snores. He's hardly surprised – she's been looking absolutely exhausted.

He could wake her up and suggest it's time for bed.

Needless to say, he doesn't. He scoops her up in his arms and makes his way back to their dorm. She feels good in his arms, warm and soft, but he manages to keep his mind on his task rather than on quite how frighteningly beautiful she is, and quite how frighteningly close.

Everyone else is already there when they arrive, already sound asleep. He sets her gently down on her bed, takes a moment to brush her hair back from her face with gentle fingers.

"I love you." He whispers, quiet, taking care not to wake her.

His only answer is the steady sound of her breathing.

…...

It is Raven's idea for the residents of the dorm spend some social time together.

"I never see any of you." She complains with spirit. Bellamy suspects there's more going on here, that no one can switch from nearly killing themselves to sudden joy without a bit of lingering insecurity. He suspects that this is something of a cry for help on Raven's part, notice that she needs more friendly support in her life.

He therefore agrees cheerfully. "Sounds great. Maybe it'll force O and Clarke to take a break for an hour or two." He suggests, glaring playfully at both of them.

"You can talk. You're as bad." Clarke teases, kicking his foot playfully under the table.

That kind of thing has been happening a lot recently – casual passing touches, nudging his foot with hers. It all started that night he carried her home, he thinks. But he's sure it doesn't mean anything in particular. He still hasn't even begun to repay his debt to her yet, after all. So she's just being friendly, and that's that.

"So we're agreed." Raven concludes, and he recalls that there was a conversation going on here, once, before Clarke started teasing him.

"What do you want to do?" He asks.

"There's a TV in that rec room on the fourth floor. We could watch a movie?"

"Sounds good." Clarke agrees.

Yeah. That sounds very good indeed, actually. He wonders whether they might turn the lights out, and whether he might manage to sit next to Clarke and guiltily enjoy the feeling of her leg pressed up against his. He wonders whether she might even lean into him, or want another of those lovely hugs.

He has no right to be in love with Clarke, and yet it seems that his obsession is only growing stronger.

…...

Bellamy realises he's in serious trouble about a third of the way through movie night. Yes, the lights are off. Yes, he is sitting next to Clarke. And yes, her thigh is most definitely pressed up against his.

He manages to keep his cool more or less, though. He concentrates on the film very carefully indeed. When that starts to fail, and he can feel his arousal creeping up on him, he tries other tactics. He thinks about the fact that his little sister is right there, the other side of Clarke, and that proves a very effective turn-off. He tries to think of other embarrassing things, too – that time he slept with Bree when the world was ending and called her by Clarke's name, for example.

No. That was definitely the wrong thing to think about, just now.

It gets worse when Clarke shuffles a little closer to him and leans her head against his shoulder. He doesn't know why he's so affected by it tonight – they share personal space all the time. But something about the context, the dimmed lights and the romantic implications of snuggling together in front of a movie have him very hot under the collar. He wonders if she can tell that there's a bit of a bulge starting to form in his pants, or whether he will get away with it in the darkness.

He heads for the showers, the minute the credits roll. He intends to take a cold shower, and forget about his inappropriate feelings. He doesn't deserve Clarke. He has no right to have lustful thoughts about Clarke.

He doesn't end up having a cold shower. He ends up having a pleasantly warm shower, and grasping the length of his hard cock in his hand. And then he ends up rubbing it slowly, because really, what else is he going to do?

And then he ends up jerking off to the thought of his best friend resting her head perfectly innocently on his shoulder in front of a movie.

If he didn't hate himself already, he certainly does now.

…...

He tries very hard to forget that night.

He does not succeed. It's like now that he has opened the floodgates the idea is always there, at the edge of his consciousness, taunting him. He finds himself spending a lot of time in the showers, a lot of time lusting over a mental image of Clarke's face or butt or breasts.

He knows what's going on here. He has always used sex to distract from his problems before now, too. But whereas previously he was using women's positive reactions to boost his self-worth, now he's pursuing a fleeting moment of physical pleasure that leaves him hating himself even more.

Maybe he ought to find himself another actual woman to sleep with and take the edge off it. No, that wouldn't work – it's Clarke he needs. And it wouldn't be fair on the woman, would ultimately make him feel even more low.

It's Clarke he needs, but he can't have her. He still doesn't deserve her – will never deserve her, if he carries on like this – and that's that.

…...

He tells Clarke he loves her even more, these days. He thinks probably there's a correlation between how poor his own opinion of himself is and how desperately he whispers the words to her, but he doesn't care to analyse it. He doesn't see how that would help.

He always makes sure she's asleep, of course. It wouldn't do to have her hear him. And it's easy to wait until she's asleep, because he has to admit he's not sleeping so well since they locked the door of this bunker. No, perhaps it goes back further than that - to their arrival on Earth, or even his sister's birth. Maybe a good night's sleep is just another thing he doesn't deserve, he wonders.

"Clarke?" He whispers, cautious, testing the waters.

No response.

"Clarke? You awake?"

"Yes, Bellamy? What's wrong?"

He starts in shock. She isn't usually awake this late. That was a close shave – he was right there, right on the verge of saying the words to her.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

There's a beat of silence. He wishes it wasn't dark in here, wishes he wasn't lying on a bunk above her, because he'd really like to be able to read her face right now.

"Can't sleep either?" She asks, soft.

"No. I'm not sleeping too well at the moment." He offers, as if it's no big deal.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I've mostly been OK but today – today is Wells' birthday."

He hasn't the faintest clue how to even begin to answer that. Wells was her best friend, and Bellamy was nothing but awful to him. Any words of condolence he offers will surely sound distinctly inadequate.

"Do you want a hug?" He asks in the end.

"Please."

He gets out of bed as quickly as he can, barks his shin slightly on the ladder as he goes. Clarke has already hopped to her feet and is welcoming him with quite literally open arms, throwing herself right into his embrace.

He doesn't get to tell her he loves her, that night. But he does get to mouth the words silently against the crown of her head, and that feels even better.

…...

Occasionally Bellamy allows himself to wonder whether his friends and family are conspiring against him. It all started that first day Clarke moved into the dorm, when everyone else was mysteriously absent. And since then, he finds, his sister is increasingly fabricating reasons to be out of her office in the evenings.

He's not sure what she hopes to achieve by that. She knows he loves Clarke, but she knows their situation, too.

In the end, he confronts her about it.

"Why do you keep leaving your office for no good reason like that? Am I crazy for thinking you're trying to force me to be alone with Clarke?"

She looks at him like he's lost his mind. "Of course that's what I'm doing. There's not a lot of privacy here, is there? I figured you needed somewhere private to hook up."

He chokes on thin air. "Hook up? We're not hooking up, O."

She appears genuinely shocked. "You're not? But it's been months since she got shot and you realised you needed to tell her you love her." He feels his jaw grow tight with frustration at that.

"I can't tell her that, O. I can't. I don't – she took a bullet for me. She saved you. I owe her."

"That's the biggest load of crap I ever heard." She informs him robustly.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that. He's self-aware enough to realise that he's not in a great way, at the moment. His identity was built on protecting people and taking his responsibilities seriously, and he failed at that, the day Clarke got shot. He's still trying to work out where that leaves him.

All he knows is that it doesn't leave him ready to tell Clarke how he feels.

While he's grappling with his distress, his sister speaks up once more.

"I get it, Bell. Being in love is scary. And I get that Earth has been hard on all of us and maybe you need some time to deal with that. But don't try to tell me that you owe her, or that you're not worthy of her, or whatever else. She thinks the world of you, big brother. There's a reason she took that bullet for you."

He frowns, confused. He's not used to having emotional conversations like this with his sister. He is supposed to be the one taking care of her, for a start, not the other way around.

"Thanks." He offers weakly.

"I'm sorry. I'm not great at all that. Do you think maybe talking to Clarke about how you're feeling would help more?"

"It might."

It might well help, he thinks. But he's not entirely convinced he has the guts to go through with it. Clarke Griffin seems to have made him a coward, where even armies have failed to do so.

…...

Octavia keeps leaving them alone in her office, but he gets it, now. She's trying to be kind, trying to help him work through his self-loathing in the only way she knows how – by giving him space to be with Clarke.

She's right. Talking to Clarke would help more. He just needs to summon the courage.

They're working on the reports from the hydrofarm, tonight. Clarke has this theory they ought to diversify and ensure they have multiple plants available for each key nutrient, in case of any kind of disaster with one of the crops. So they are currently trying to figure out what the most efficient way to achieve that would be.

Bellamy is half way through reviewing a spreadsheet about tomatoes when he takes a deep breath and forces the confession out.

"I still feel guilty for you getting shot." He almost chokes on the words, but he makes it through.

"I know." She says, to his surprise. "Don't you think I know you well enough by now to have noticed that? But I don't blame you at all, Bellamy. Blame Hardy, he was the one who actually shot me. And I take full responsibility for the choice I made, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"You would? Even though you were pointing a gun at me yourself only seconds before that?"

"Yeah. Because there's no way I could ever have shot that gun. I need you to live, OK?"

"OK." He says, even though it's not entirely OK. He thinks he might need to talk about it more, but he has no right to take up her time with this rubbish.

She's looking at him, sharp, perceptive. "You sure?"

"I don't know." He admits, honestly.

"That's fine. Just remember that we can talk about it any time you need to."

He nods. She's being so kind and understanding, and it makes him fall in love with her even deeper.

It makes him hate himself even more, later that evening, when he falls back on old habits and jerks off in a lonely shower.

…...

They've made a regular weekly routine of those dorm movie nights. Bellamy always starts the evening sitting next to Clarke on a couch, always ends it trying to remember the scent of her as he pleasures himself in the shower. It's screwed up, but he's beginning to think it's no more screwed up than the rest of his life to date.

"Can I sit with you tonight?" He watches Raven ask Clarke the question over the dinner table. "I love Miller but he always laughs at the sad parts."

Bellamy fidgets a little in his seat. He knows that Raven doesn't mean to ruin his evening, but she's in serious danger of doing just that.

"As long as the couch is big enough for Bellamy too." Clarke says, with a casual shrug, as if it's only obvious that he has to sit next to her for movie night.

He takes a risk, and nudges her with his foot under the table. She looks at him, brow arched, smiling.

He smiles right back. Maybe he does deserve the odd moment of happiness, after all.

…...

Clarke doesn't work late quite so obsessively as she did in those early days, but it still happens. Likewise, there are some nights when he is simply unable to complete his to-do list for the day much before midnight.

Tonight is one of those nights.

"Are you about done?" Clarke asks, setting aside her data pad with a yawn. "I think I'm finished for the day."

He's nowhere near done. He still has to look over the inventory of the weapons room, because if he doesn't do that today, then Indra cannot lead her training session tomorrow.

"Sorry. I'm going to be a while. You go back to the dorm and get some sleep."

She shakes her head firmly. "No. I'm not leaving you."

She's being a little daft, he thinks. It's not like the world is ending – they already survived that. She doesn't need to stay by his side and watch over him just now. But it occurs to him, then, that they do spend a lot of time together these days. Maybe that overprotective need to stay close to her that he's been feeling cuts both ways.

"You should get some sleep." He repeats.

"I can sleep here." She decides, looking about her.

Without waiting for him to comment on the idea, she heads for the couch and makes herself comfy. The sight of it brings a smile to his face – it reminds him of that time he took a restless nap on her couch, when she was pestering him to get more sleep as they prepared for Praimfaya.

"Wake me up when you're done." She requests, as she snuggles into a cushion.

He has no intention of doing that, of course. He's already decided he will carry her home. But he makes a humming noise she must take as agreement, and then he gets back to his task.

It's not exciting work, but it is necessary. And there's something about listening to the sound of Clarke's soft breathing as she takes her nap that makes the atmosphere more pleasant, he decides.

"I love you." He whispers at one point, just because he's not said the words in this room yet. They still sound good, and she doesn't wake up, so that's a success, he decides.

He finishes his task and goes to scoop her up in his arms. He's hit by a problem right away, though – he's not carried her like this since he started jerking off in the showers to the thought of her all those months ago. And so this time round the closeness of her causes a huge rush of blood to his groin, almost as if by indulging in his guilty pleasure he's accidentally given himself permission to think of her like that.

He tries to will his erection away. He's only carrying his good friend back to bed because she took a nap. There's nothing intrinsically erotic about the situation. She's fully clothed, and sound asleep, and he's a creep for getting off on this.

But damn, she feels good. She smells good, too, and then she stirs a little and wraps her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his chest.

He's completely and utterly screwed.

The journey back to their dorm is at once far too short and far too long. By the time he gets the door open and sets her on her bed, he is both far too wound up and nowhere near done. He just can't win, it seems to him – being in love with the best friend he owes a thousand favours, including his life, is such a bundle of contradictions that he never knows which way is up.

Everyone else is sound asleep, and Clarke hasn't woken up on the journey either. She stirs slightly when he disentangles her arms from around him, but within moments she is snoring softly once more.

"I love you." He whispers, because it always needs to be said.

He frowns and wonders what to do about the tent in his pants. He could head for the showers. But it's late, and he can't be bothered, and people might talk if they caught him going there at this time of night.

He undresses down to his boxers, as he does every night. And then he climbs into bed and wills his erection to subside.

It doesn't. It just won't. However much he tries to focus on the weapons inventory or the hydrofarm, or the thought of all his friends and even his sister sleeping in this room, he just cannot seem to stop coming back to Clarke. He can hear her breathing, can practically smell her from here, can still feel the weight of her in his arms and the way she clung to him as he carried her.

That's the problem, really. He never tends to notice who else is in the room as long as Clarke is here.

He reaches a hand into his boxers. Not because he's planning to take this anywhere, obviously. He's not totally insane. There's no way he's going to jerk off while Clarke's right there. But he just needs to stroke himself a little, just hoping to relieve some of the pressure.

Yeah, OK, that doesn't work. He's not relieved anything – he's harder than ever. Clarke's still breathing, soft and steady, only a couple of feet away.

He spits on his hand and strokes a little more.

He likes being able to hear Clarke, he decides. Having her so close and being able to hear her makes him feel like he's not totally alone, here. He can screw his eyes tight shut and pretend that she's with him right now, that it's her hand working his cock, that her breath is rough not with sleep but with arousal.

He ought to be worried she might wake up and catch him. That ought to be scary, he's pretty sure – heaven knows he'd be humiliated if she did. But somehow that adds a whole new layer of excitement, a sense of risk and tension, rather than just one lonely guy and his own right hand. And besides which, what if she caught him and wasn't angry?

What if she were to wake up and join him?

He's rubbing his hand along his cock in earnest, now, no longer pretending that this is just a gentle exploratory stroke. He's moving faster, harder, boxers bunched low around his hips. He's in danger of growing loud, he fears, between the soft slapping noises of skin against skin and the way his breath is growing harsher. What if he lets out a groan? He can't let out a groan, he mustn't get caught.

He rolls over, somewhere between lying on his front and on his side, flattens his face into the pillow. That ought to smother the noise, he decides. It makes for an awkward angle for his hand, but he can work with that. It's not going to take much more, now, anyway. He's teetering on the edge, still listening out for Clarke sleeping just below him. Still remembering the way she felt, clinging to him earlier.

Clinging to him as if maybe, in his dreams, she could love him too.

He comes, then, spilling all over his bedsheets and boxers. And it feels good – it feels so very good – until the moment when it hits him like a punch to the guts.

What has he done?

Has he honestly just let himself lie here, jerking off over his best friend while she sleeps on the bunk below him? With his friends and family sleeping on the other side of the room, no less?

And he's made such a mess of his bed.

He's ashamed of himself. That's not news, of course – he's been feeling that way for months now. But this is a whole new kind of guilt, and disgust, and utter horror.

First thing in the morning he needs to change his sheets. But he can't do that now, so it looks like he's going to have to spend the night sleeping in his own come.

He deserves that and worse, he figures.

…...

He can't meet her eyes, the following morning. Of course he can't. In fact, he's struggling with the breakfast table in general, because all of these people were there last night, although he's certain that they were all fast asleep.

He can't meet her eyes as they inspect the hydrofarm together that morning, nor as they grab lunch together before heading to a training session with Indra. He can't meet her eyes when they eat supper, and Raven wants to know what movie they are watching tomorrow.

He most definitely can't meet her eyes as they sit in his sister's office, just the two of them, and he tries not to remember where a rather similar scene ended up last night. Tonight they work in silence, each dedicated to their task. They walk back to the dorm together, not talking much, and say goodnight with a brisk hug.

Bellamy lies there for hours. He waits for everyone else in the room to fall asleep, whispers Clarke's name into the darkness just to check, just as he always does.

"I love you." He whispers, when he's certain she can't hear him.

And then he gives into the inevitable, and reaches a hand into his boxers, and gets to work.

…...

He snaps out of it a few weeks later because Clarke needs him. That's always how it works, isn't it? Her troubles are always enough to get him to put his own to one side.

She's crying quietly on the couch in Octavia's office one evening when he walks in. Octavia, of course, is nowhere to be seen.

"Clarke?" He murmurs, soft, approaching and sitting at her side.

She jumps as if shocked. "Hey. Sorry. Didn't want you to see that." She explains, flustered and damp.

That hurts. He knows it's hypocritical, given what he does almost every night, but it hurts that there are things in her life she doesn't want him to see.

"It's OK. I'm not judging." He reaches a cautious arm around her. "Want to tell me about it?"

"Do you want to hear it?" She challenges. "We haven't talked a whole lot recently." She reminds him, harsh.

"Of course I want to hear it. I'm sorry – I know I haven't been the greatest friend."

"You're the best friend." She reprimands him firmly, and that makes his guilt all the sharper. "I just – I'm sorry. I guess we're both allowed to be a bit of a mess, after everything that's happened."

He makes an agreeing noise, but his heart is not really in it. She might be a bit of a mess, crying softly in a deserted office. He's pretty sure that he's a lot more than a bit of a mess right now, though.

She continues, explaining what's on her mind. "I wish Monty was here. I caught myself thinking that earlier because I bet he'd be great with the hydrofarm. You know that problem with the soybeans? We think we have it figured out, but I'd feel much more confident with him here. But then I found myself thinking that, and I realised I was only thinking it because I wanted his help, and I felt awful. Does that make any sense? I should want him here because he was my friend and I wish he was alive, not because he could help."

"That doesn't make you a monster, Clarke." He assures her, pulling her tight against his side. "You've had too many other things to worry about to grieve properly, but I know you're a good person and would want all your friends safe and well if you could."

"Thanks, Bellamy. You always say the right thing, you know? That's why I've missed you these last few weeks."

"I'm sorry. I think – I'm not doing so well. That's no excuse, I know. But – yeah." He's not sure how to even begin to talk about such complicated ideas as hating himself, and the fact that he thinks he might be addicted to jerking off. It sounds silly, put like that, and it's something so shamefully private he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to get the words past his lips.

"I'm here any time you need to talk. Or even if you can't talk about it." She tells him softly, turning to nuzzle her nose into his neck and reaching her arm about his waist, so they're hugging even tighter than before.

He doesn't deserve her. He's known that for a long time. She's good in the truest sense of the word, and he's utterly in awe of her.

But maybe, if he can begin to do better, he might start to deserve her, one distant day in the future.

…...

He redoubles his efforts to help run the bunker, determined that Clarke will not be left to worry about the hydrofarm alone. He checks in on how she's coping, regularly and often, with a little "You doing alright?" on the way back to the dorm each evening if he has not found another moment to ask earlier in the day.

Most of all, he tries to break that habit he's so ashamed of, because he knows he's only dragging himself deeper into darkness every day he keeps it up.

He has a go at keeping it to the shower once again, but it doesn't really work, now that he's got a taste for being in Clarke's presence, and for feeling close to her while he touches himself, and for the thrill of wondering what would happen if she caught him. None of those things are there in a shower – there is no chance of her walking into the men's bathrooms.

Very early one morning when he is failing to sleep, he tries something new. He heads for the office where he spends so many hours with Clarke, sits himself on the couch they often share. Clarke's not here, and he can't hear her breathing, and he doesn't feel so totally disgusting. But it does feel almost like she is present, because they spend so much time here, and although she's clearly not going to interrupt at three in the morning, it is at least theoretically possible that she might.

He tugs his boxers out of the way, spits in his palm, and gets to work.

It feels really good. Logically he knows it's only his own right hand, the same as every night. But it feels better now that he's not hating himself for being such a creep, and now that the threat of interruption is an alluring idea rather than a disturbing likelihood. Most of all it feels good because this is truly a space he shares with Clarke – it was on this very sofa that she held him tight, and told him he always said the right things, and he determined that he would do better.

It feels like, if Clarke walked in on him now, she might offer to join in rather than cursing him for his inappropriate behaviour.

That's the thought he holds onto, as he feels his pleasure building. Clarke joining in, Clarke replacing his hand with hers, Clarke kissing him and telling him he's doing OK, that he says the right things, that he does the right things, that he's not a monster.

He comes, hard, and he doesn't even get anything on the couch – he manages to catch it all in the towel he had the foresight to bring with him.

He's proud of himself. That's a stupid thought, of course – jerking off to the thought of his best friend in an office at three in the morning did not ought to be a source of any particular pride. But it's a step on the road to doing better, to deserving Clarke, and to working up the courage to tell her how he feels.

…...

They've been in the bunker about three years now. It's all working more or less smoothly – their food supply is stable, the rules are mostly followed, and Octavia has a network of friends and family and advisers to support her. Bellamy has to admit that his personal life is still a walking disaster, but apart from that, he can acknowledge that things are going well.

One of the features of Octavia's rule is that she likes to hold meetings with her most trusted unofficial advisers and ask for their input. Today she's called such a meeting because she is keen to anticipate how they might need to prepare for the transition out of this place.

Bellamy is proud of his little sister. He always knew she was strong and brave, but recently he's had cause to learn that she's wise, too.

"I figure we can never start preparing for the next step too early." She says, by way of introduction to the meeting. That's met with nods of agreement from everyone.

Indra speaks up next. "Our weapons skills are as good as ever. We'll be prepared to catch food if any prey survives up there."

"That's good." Octavia agrees. "Cooper? How would you suggest we prepare for farming?"

"We should save the biowaste from the sewers and the hydrofarm for fertiliser." Cooper suggests.

Bellamy allows himself to smirk at Clarke ever so slightly. He finds it kind of funny that they're now talking about sewage rather than war. She rolls her eyes at him in response, nudges him with her knee under the table.

Yeah, has he mentioned he's completely besotted with her?

"Bellamy? Something to add?" He sister asks him sharply.

"Not at all. Cooper's idea is good." He tries to sound smooth, and more or less succeeds, he likes to think.

Apparently Clarke doesn't agree, based on the way she nudges at him with her knee again. She does seem to do things like that a lot, give him little signs that she thinks their friendship is a bit different from her other friendships.

Maybe he's not so crazy to be holding onto the slightest shred of hope.

He stops daydreaming about Clarke very abruptly when Kane presents an unexpected idea. "I think we should consider encouraging an increase in marriages, in preparation for childbearing when we get back to the ground. We'll want to increase the population as quickly as our supplies will allow. And marriages between people formerly from different clans could be a powerful force to ensure Wonkru stays together beyond the bunker and avoid power struggles."

"You want to force people to marry strangers?" Octavia asks, audibly shocked. Bellamy doesn't blame her – he's struggling to keep up, too, sidetracked by the horrific notion of watching Clarke marry some big guy from Azgeda, or some pretty young woman from Sangedakru.

Or basically anyone who's not him, now he comes to think of it.

"Not force them." Abby steps in. "Just encourage it, perhaps. Maybe hold more socials and mixers. Or even track the number of marriages and whether any of them are between people formerly from different clans."

"That does sound reasonable." Octavia agrees.

Bellamy sighs, too loud to be discreet, too relieved to care. It seems he won't have to watch Clarke walk away from him any time soon.

…...

For all that he's doing better, Bellamy is still in the habit of getting himself off over thoughts of Clarke. He figures that's not necessarily such an issue, though, as long as he's sort of respectful about it and it's not ruling his life or making anyone uncomfortable. And it's not like he's objectifying her and considering her physical attributes only – he's in love with all of her, not just her body.

This morning he's left it a little later than usual, but he thinks he'll get away with it. He's by far the earliest riser in the dorm. So it is that he takes a comfortable seat on the office couch, and remembers laughing with Clarke over supper last night, and wraps his hand decisively around his hard cock.

He's barely got started when he hears the footsteps outside. And damn it, the door of this room doesn't lock, and he's about to get caught. Sure, he's had fantasies about getting caught, but that doesn't mean he wants it to actually happen.

He pulls frantically at his clothes, gets them back in place. His cock is still hard, but going limper by the second with the humiliation of all this, so he grabs a cushion and sets it on his lap, and then places a data pad atop it.

He's still flushing, but there's nothing to be done about that. He just has to be grateful that his skin tone will more or less disguise it, and hope for the best.

It's Clarke who opens the door.

"Morning." She greets him, somewhere between a smile and a frown. "I saw you were already gone again when I got up. You're really not sleeping so well, huh?"

He shrugs, still not sure he's up for a coherent conversation.

She crosses the distance between them and seats herself at his side, then leans in and reaches around his waist.

He hugs her back, willing his face to cool down. Despite her closeness, he's not hard any more – his embarrassment has made sure of that – so he pushes the cushion out of the way.

"Thanks." He mutters, somewhere between moved and guilt-stricken.

"Any time. You can always wake me up if you need to talk, you know."

He still doesn't deserve her. But he'd like to, and he's going to keep trying.

…...

The problem is that he still hasn't paid that debt. And he's beginning to get the hang of the idea that thinking of it as a debt isn't useful or healthy, but there's something which persists in bothering him. She's saved his life, she's been helping him work through his guilt, she's been there for him through everything. And what has he given her in return?

Absolutely nothing.

Even if he's trying to convince himself not to view it as debt specifically, that still makes for an unbalanced relationship, he's pretty sure. He loves Clarke too much to want her to be stuck with him while she's giving everything, and he's only taking.

He sometimes wonders if she might even feel obliged to try to love him back, if he told her the truth of his feelings. She's not a liar – as a general rule she's almost brutally honest – but she does seem to like to cheer him up.

He pushes that thought aside. He's supposed to be helping her take inventory of the medical supplies, not thinking about his feelings. He's not clear on why he's helping out – the med bay is her territory more than his, and in fact he's scarcely been here since she recovered from her wound.

He mentions that – just a light comment to pass the time of day.

"I don't think I've really been here since you got shot." He tells her.

"Apart from all the hours that you spent here the week after I got shot." She corrects him smartly.

"Yeah, there's that."

There's a pause. He hands her a jar of something, she makes notes on a pad. He wonders whether maybe mentioning the shooting was a bad idea, and has reminded her that she's made some pretty poor life choices to protect him, before now.

"Were you ever going to tell me you stayed the night?" She asks quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"In med bay when I was in the coma. Were you ever going to tell me that you literally moved into my room?"

He gives a sticky swallow. "No."

"Why not?" She sounds hurt, he thinks, and that's not what he wanted.

"I guess I didn't want you to think it was weird. And I didn't want you to feel obliged to be grateful to me or anything when it was my fault you got shot in the first place. You're always doing things for me as it is, and I can never make it up to you and – yeah." He runs out of steam, stares in rapt fascination at his boots.

He feels her hand slip into his. "That's what you think?" She asks softly.

"Yeah."

"For starters, I don't think it was weird. It's exactly what I'd have done for you. I didn't step in front of that bullet by accident, you know? We look out for each other, you and me, and that's how it is."

He allows himself to look up and meet her eyes. She's smiling at him, tentative but true, as she continues to speak.

"As for the rest of it – you're only seeing it from your point of view, aren't you? You're looking at all the times I help you out, but you don't see all the things you've done for me. I'm not just talking about the big things like pulling that lever at Mount Weather with me or writing my name on the list. I'm talking about the way you always seem to sense when I need a hug, and all those times you've told me a bad joke at the end of a long day or carried me home when I fall asleep in the office."

"You mean that?" He allows himself to hope, just a little.

"Of course I mean that. You're letting your guilt convince you that you don't do great things to take care of me all the time, and it's not true." She says, more firmly than he thinks he has ever heard her speak before.

There's only one answer to that. He pulls her in for a hug, wraps her tight in his arms. Their hugs have only got better, these last four years or so they've had to practise, and as she nestles her face into her usual spot in his neck he shapes some particular words, lips hovering over her hair.

"I love you." He mouths, silent.

He's going to find the guts to tell her out loud, one of these days.

…...

It's been a long day. They had a meeting of Octavia's closest advisers this morning, and Kane decided that it was time to bring up the question of encouraging an increase in the marriage rate once again. He and a couple of former grounders are beginning to think that arranged marriages between the different former clans might be the answer, apparently.

Needless to say, Bellamy's not a fan of that.

There's no point worrying about it, he tries to convince himself. Nothing has been decided yet. He ought to concentrate on his work rather than fixating on it.

He stares at Clarke instead. He does that a lot, when she naps in the office. She's fast asleep now, breathing softly, but with a small smile playing about her lips.

He hopes she's having sweet dreams.

Sighing in defeat, he abandons his work for the day. He's clearly not going to get anything done, and Clarke needs to go back to bed. He lifts her up, cradles her close to his chest as he walks the familiar route down the hallway.

She's been napping in the office a lot recently – this is the third time he's carried her home inside of a week. He hopes she's not sick or something. Fingers crossed she's just learning to get enough rest at long last. He's been doing a little better at sleeping of late, too, and has even managed to cut down the number of early morning visits he makes to the office to relieve his sexual frustrations.

They arrive at the dorm, and he sets Clarke gently down on her bed. He kneels at her side, just for a moment, and strokes the hair carefully back from her face.

"I love you." He whispers, as he does every night.

For a moment, he thinks she's heard him. Her breathing stills, and her eyelids flutter slightly, and he wonders if this is the moment where his world falls apart.

But then she lets out a soft snore, and he sighs in relief and heads to bed.

…...

Bellamy is more or less having a productive morning. He's doing a decent job of putting what Kane said yesterday about the marriages out of mind, and planning the school curriculum is always a task he finds interesting. And any moment now Clarke and Octavia are due back at the office and then the three of them will go to lunch together.

Clarke arrives first. She's frowning a little, and he wonders why.

"How was med bay?" He asks. She doesn't usually frown about med bay.

She never answers his question. Rather, she says something most unexpected.

"We should get married." She declares firmly.

He simply blinks at her, stunned. Is this a dream? Has he been spending too much time fantasising about scenes like this, recently?

She continues in a rush of words. "It makes a lot of sense. We're good friends – wouldn't you be more comfortable if we married each other rather than complete strangers? Kane's right about re-population, and he's right about securing the alliance but I don't think I can do it."

He sighs, disappointed. She only wants to marry him to get out of marrying a stranger. Never mind that Kane's idea has in no sense been approved yet – clearly she has started spiralling over this quite badly.

But if she's going to marry him under any circumstances at all, he decides, they're going to do it properly.

"All good points." He agrees, fighting to keep his tone level. "Come over here." He invites her, patting at a spot on the couch by his side.

She approaches him, a nervous look in her eyes. Why does she look so anxious? Surely she realises he is going to be more than happy with this scheme? Surely she is not so frightened of Kane's idea?

She sits on the couch. He squeezes her thigh briefly in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture.

And then he gets down on one knee on the floor before her.

"Clarke. You're right. We're really good friends and – and you mean a lot to me." He sighs. This is surely the worst ill-planned proposal speech of all time. All he needs to do is find the courage to say those three little words he's been whispering to her while she sleeps for years. He takes a deep breath and tries again. "Clarke. I want to tell you that -"

The door bursts open, and Octavia strides into the room. She takes in the scene before her and freezes abruptly.

"Finally!" She exclaims, grinning.

"Finally?" Clarke asks, audibly puzzled.

"This is what I think it is, right? This is a proposal? This isn't some weird new friendship thing you two have invented?" Octavia asks, urgent.

"It was trying to be a proposal before you walked in here." Bellamy grumbles, annoyed.

"It's about time, big brother."

"What do you mean?" Clarke asks, eyes flickering between the two of them.

Bellamy senses the danger a moment too late. "O, please don't -"

"He's been trying to tell you how he feels for years. You know, I could swear I even heard -"

"Octavia. Could you give us a minute, please?" Clarke asks, tone making it abundantly clear that no is not an acceptable answer.

Octavia nods, and in her surprise and excitement she quite literally reverses out of the room, staring at the two of them as she goes. It would be almost comical, Bellamy thinks, if he weren't quite so busy fretting about his relationship with Clarke.

He kneels there, waits for the door to close. He ought to try again with that proposal speech, have yet another attempt at getting a love confession past the lump in his throat.

He never gets the chance. The second the door shuts, Clarke's lips are on his as she leans forward to kiss him urgently, almost hungrily.

Well, now. He should maybe have seen this coming, in retrospect. There he was thinking that they were very close platonic friends and that he was ruining it all by dreaming about Clarke's lips, and it turns out she likes his lips, too.

He kisses her back, hard, cups a hand about the back of her head to keep her in place. But he only kisses her for a few seconds – he has a question to ask, after all.

He pulls back, panting, utterly happy for the first time in years.

"Clarke Griffin. I love you. Will you marry me?" It's hardly a flowery speech, but it serves the purpose, he likes to think.

"Yes." She seals the promise with a quick kiss. "I love you." Another kiss. "Bellamy Blake."

Yeah, she's going to have to stop saying his name like that. It's getting him rather hot under the collar, and they have a lunch appointment to get to.

…...

They get married the next day. There's no reason not to – there's hardly much need for ceremony or planning in a nuclear bunker. Gaia officiates the ceremony, and their friends and family gather round, and then they all go to lunch in the dining hall together and talk too loudly about their happiness.

It's all a bit overwhelming, recently. It's barely twenty-four hours since he found out Clarke actually feels the same way he does, and that's a substantial shift of worldview he hasn't entirely processed yet. On top of all that, they lead busy lives and have been trying to pull together an instant wedding to boot, so he hasn't actually managed to spend a moment alone with Clarke since they got engaged.

That's fine, he reassures himself firmly. They have the whole of the rest of their lives to spend time together – as long as she quits her unfortunate habit of stepping in front of bullets.

"You doing alright?" He whispers to her, while Octavia and Abby bond over laughing loudly at their relatives' mutual obliviousness.

"I'm doing great. We just got married." She informs him.

"I know." He laughs, and she nudges him with her foot under the table.

Huh. Maybe he understands why she's always doing that, now.

He lowers his voice to an even softer whisper. "When do you think we can get out of here and spend some time together?"

"And how do we go about consummating a marriage in a crowded bunker?" She asks the question he was really thinking, and he presses a soft kiss to her cheek to thank her for it. He's allowed to kiss her cheek whenever he wants, now – that's how marriage works. Obviously consent is important too, but that doesn't seem to be a problem right now, based on the way Clarke keeps sidling into his touch.

He still can't believe she's married to him.

He returns to the point at hand. They need a place where they can be in private and get to know each other's bodies, and he has a location in mind.

"The office tonight? Midnight?"

She nods, and nudges him with her foot once more for good measure.

…...

He doesn't wait for midnight. He gets there a few minutes early, just for old times' sake. He discards most of his clothes, until he's wearing only his boxers pushed low around his hips.

And then he takes his cock in his hand and starts taking long, slow strokes.

He doesn't want to get too far along before Clarke arrives. He wants to be excited, more than ready for her to join in, but not close enough that they don't get to have fun together before he comes. For one self-conscious moment he wonders if it's maybe silly that he's here, doing this tonight. Clarke's married to him now – he has a ring on his finger to remind him of it. She loves him. He probably doesn't need to be sitting here playing with his own cock.

But he wants to. Just for tonight, he wants to live out that fantasy of her walking in on him and joining the fun. He has a sort of idea that it might offer some closure on that period of his life. But more than anything else, it's an idea he finds pretty damn hot – there's a reason he's been fantasising about it for years.

She opens the door and sees him there. For a moment she is frozen to the spot as her jaw drops open and she stares at him.

And then she crosses the room towards him, a smirk playing about her lips.

"Can I help you with that?" She asks, as if she has walked here straight out of one of his fantasies.

"Please." He mutters, somewhat overcome by the moment.

She settles on the couch at his side, curls her hand about the length of his cock. It feels so good, her hand replacing his own, the warmth of her by his side where she was always meant to be.

He leans over to kiss her, deep and slow.

"Can I touch you, too?" He asks.

She nods. "Touch yourself for me while I get undressed." She instructs him, so he does. Not because he takes orders from her or anything – the two of them established that long ago – but because he's always found her decisive leadership style something of a turn-on, if he's being honest.

When she's wearing only underwear as he is, she sits back down at his side, and takes over on stroking his cock again. He looks down, fascinated by the sight of her pale hand against his dark skin, and feels a thrill of possessive desire at the fact she's wearing a wedding ring on the same left hand she's touching him with.

He doesn't know how he got so lucky.

He gets back to kissing her, then, soft but a little more urgent. He needs to make this good for her too, needs to bring her pleasure before he can relax and let go. He allows his hands to start exploring, tugs at her bra to expose her breasts, pulls a nipple into his mouth and teases it with his tongue.

She gasps, uses her free hand to clutch his head against her breast. He takes that to mean she's a fan of that, then.

He gets bolder, when he thinks she's had a few moments to get in the mood, and slips a hand into her underwear, then eases a finger inside of her. It feels so good to touch her like this – she's wet and warm and crying out in want.

"Two fingers?" He asks lightly.

"Two fingers." She agrees, so he adds another.

He's dreamed about this a lot, in the last few years, so he thinks it says something that the reality is even better than his fantasies. He already knew Clarke pretty damn well, but this is the first he's learning of the breathy moans she makes during sex, of the soft contours of her hips, of the frankly obscene way she writhes against his hand.

His wife is pretty incredible, it turns out.

She's doing almost too well at jerking him off, and between that and just how long he's been wanting this, he's worried he's going to come embarrassingly soon. He supposes she probably won't mind – he's done worse by her, before now – but all the same, he wants to show her their sex life is going to be good.

"I'm close." He gasps, because it seems only fair to warn her.

"Me too. You're OK." She heaves in a shuddering breath. "You can let go."

He does. Damn it, but he does, spurting all over her hands and his lap, some of it even ending up somehow as high as his chest. And then he sort of hangs there for a moment, trying to concentrate on bringing Clarke pleasure, but feeling distinctly dazed.

He snaps out of it when she gasps his name.

"Bellamy." She seems to be having difficulty getting her mouth round all those syllables. "So good. I'm there. I'm there."

Sure enough she comes then, clenching around his fingers so hard it almost hurts. It's a long orgasm, and he teases her through the last of it, before slipping his fingers gently away.

They cuddle in silence for a few moments. He's perfectly content with that – his brain is an odd muddle at the moment, between how much he enjoyed that, and how annoyed he is with himself for finishing so quickly, and how hopelessly in love he is with his new wife.

"I love you." She murmurs, at length.

"I love you too." It's amazing how much easier it is to say it, now that he knows he's not pathetically lusting after someone he doesn't deserve. Now that he knows it's nothing to be ashamed of.

"That was fun. Good call on suggesting we meet here – it was a better idea than locking ourselves in a shower together, which is what I was going to suggest."

"The shower?"

"Yeah. I guess it just came to mind because – because that's where I used to think of you." She mutters, head buried in his chest.

"You did?" He checks, stunned.

"Yeah. Sorry – is that creepy? I didn't mean to -"

"I used to, you know, think of you in here. That's why I suggested it." He cuts her off to explain, wondering why he cannot quite find the right words to admit to it.

"That's why you got started without me." She concludes, with a knowing smirk.

"Yeah."

There's a pause. He wonders whether she's truly OK with all this, or whether she's just trying to be OK with it because she loves him.

And then she breaks the silence.

"Would it be OK if I got started without you sometimes, too?" She asks, sounding rather nervous. "That's – you know – that's an idea I'm into. You walking in on me."

He kisses her for that. He's pretty sure that kissing is the only possible response, in fact.

…...

It becomes a game they play. Bellamy quite likes the revelation that they can be playful, now that they are more relaxed and happy. The game is that they pick a meeting time, when they know that the office will be deserted, and then they try to one-up each other in arriving there first and getting started. The winner gets to be interrupted – that's the prize.

Tonight, for example, Clarke arrives in the office before him. Bellamy catches her red-handed and red-cheeked, stroking herself with urgent fingers over the top of her soaked underwear.

She's got her eyes closed, ostensibly oblivious to his arrival.

"Bellamy." She gasps. "Yes, Bellamy."

He wonders how often she used to do this in the shower. Maybe one day he'll summon the courage to ask her, but it doesn't seem like an urgent problem right now.

No, what's urgent in this moment is joining her.

"Let me help you with that." He offers, voice low and almost hoarse with desire.

Her eyes snap open. "Bellamy?"

"I'm here, Princess. I'm going to use my mouth for you today, that OK?"

She nods, whimpering slightly. He pulls aside her underwear, settles between her legs and gets to work. She's already desperate for him, bucking her hips up to meet his face.

He ought to get here even earlier, next time.

He loves going down on her, loves being completely overwhelmed and surrounded by her. It's not just the smell and taste but even the way that noises sound different, while he's nestled between her legs like this.

He reaches up to grasp her hand and plays idly with her wedding ring with his fingers. It's some effort, but he can just about concentrate on doing that whilst coaxing her to the edge with his mouth. And it's well worth it, because a streak of possessiveness has his groin heating as he feels the cool metal beneath his fingertips.

"Yes, Bellamy. I'm all yours." She tells him, as if she can hear his thoughts.

He clasps her hand tighter at that, takes her ever higher. Until all of a sudden she's grinding against his face and sighing loudly as she comes.

He pulls away and grins up at her.

"OK?" He checks, although he knows full well that the answer is yes.

"Great. Your turn?"

"Do I get a turn? I thought I lost." He says, a mock-sad frown on his face. "I need to get here earlier next time."

She giggles. "Your sister is going to walk in on us one of these days."

"No she isn't. She knows what we get up to in here and she's determined to avoid seeing a thing." He informs her, utterly certain of it, because he had that rather awkward conversation with her the day after the wedding.

"In that case, it's your turn." Clarke informs him. "Think of it as a consolation prize."

He grins, pulls her in for a sound kiss. He still doesn't know what he did to deserve this woman, but he's determined to enjoy every minute with her.

…...

Their joy extends outside of their sex life, too. Everyone in the bunker is healthy and more or less happy. Running this place is not so stressful, now they are familiar with it, and so Bellamy and Clarke spend most of Octavia's meetings nudging each other with gentle toes beneath the table. They eat meals with their friends and family, and enjoy the movie nights Raven continues to organise for their dorm, and look forward to finding themselves out in the fresh air again in just a few short months.

Only then the day that marks five years rolls around, and they cannot get the door open.

…...

"Will you stop pacing?" Bellamy asks, aware that his words are abrupt.

He thought he was coming to the office to sleep with his wife. He didn't realise he was coming here to listen to her rant at length about problems they cannot solve.

She ignores him and keeps at it. "What if we could build a drill? Raven's smart, she could build a drill."

"Clarke. I love you. But this is not helping anyone."

She ignores him again. "Or explosives? Would explosives help?"

He walks over and takes hold of her shoulders, gentle, but refusing to be denied. And then he looks her right in the eyes.

"Clarke. I love you." He repeats. "Stop and breathe for a moment and talk to me."

She sighs. He's a bit worried about her, all things considered. He can understand her preoccupation with getting the door open – they are trapped here, and it's been almost six months since the ground was safe with no sign of progress. But he cannot understand why she's freaking out about it. She's usually a calm woman, able to think straight in a crisis. And apart from anything else, he feels no great rush to get out of here. Sure, fresh air and exercise and boar meat are good things. But he likes to think they have a pretty good life here, safe and well in this bunker, and he's a little hurt that she's so determined to get out of the place where they have found happiness.

"I love you too." She says, wobbly but determined. That's progress of a kind, he supposes, but it doesn't really explain why she's so worked up.

"Come sit with me and let's talk." He suggests, leading her to the couch. This couch has been good to them, and he likes to think that the happy memories associated with it make it a calm location to have this conversation now.

He sits down, pulls Clarke into his lap. And then he wraps his arms around her waist and urges her to relax back into him.

She does. She leans right up against him and takes a couple of deep breaths.

"What if I can't save them?" She whispers, quiet. "What if this time I can't do it? It's been so many years, Bellamy. I'd forgotten how frightening it is, to feel like everyone's lives are my responsibility. And it's been rushing back to me recently. I don't know how to do it."

"They're not your responsibility, Clarke. We share them – me and you and O and Kane and all the rest." He squeezes her tight. "Is this still about Monty and Harper and the rest of the hundred?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. It's still about them for me, too." He admits, because he thinks that there will always be a substantial slice of his guilt and grief dedicated to those of his people he failed to save.

"Maybe we name our first child after them." She suggests, and it is apparent from her tone that she's not joking.

"Maybe." He offers, noncommittal. He doesn't much fancy naming a child through death and guilt, but if the idea is helping Clarke through this moment, that's good enough for him.

"Thank you. I'm sorry about earlier. I could swear I used to be stronger than this."

"Sometimes admitting what's really on your mind takes more courage than anything." He thinks he's pretty well-qualified to speak on that subject, after everything he didn't dare say to her for all those years.

"You're right." She decides, snuggling deeper into his embrace.

She falls asleep there, not much later. He carries her back to their dorm – something he's not had to do since they got married, now he comes to think about it. He wonders that he didn't see the signs earlier, didn't realise that she was aching to be close to him every bit as much as he was desperate for her, back before they told each other the truth.

He sets her down on her bed, presses a kiss to her brow.

"I love you." He whispers, for old time's sake.

He wonders what to do next. They don't often try to share a bed for the night – these bunks really are tiny. But they've made it work on occasion, when one of them particularly wanted a hug.

He scoots onto the bed at her side. He's half hanging over the edge, but as long as he has Clarke in his arms he really couldn't care less.

…...

Clarke is somewhat calmer, after that conversation, and she becomes ever more honest and open about telling him what's really on her mind. Mostly that means that she talks about stress, about the pressure she feels bearing down on her regarding the blocked door, about the guilt of more deaths than they can count between them.

But increasingly often, it means talking about happier things, too. It means being vulnerable with each other when they discuss their feelings, and looking back at the story of their relationship.

"I still can't believe it took us so long to get together." She says tonight, as they sprawl curled up together on the couch. It's a frequent refrain, but for the first time, Bellamy finds himself feeling brave enough to follow it up.

"I didn't think I deserved you." He admits, cautious.

"Love doesn't work like that." She informs him, brusque. "But for what it's worth, you're a good man and I feel really lucky."

He hums in acknowledgement. "There were so many other issues, too. I'd spent my whole childhood thinking I could never have a long term relationship because of my sister, for starters. And I had myself convinced that you saw me as a close platonic friend, not a lover. Not the way you saw Lexa."

"You compared our relationship with that? With Lexa?"

"She was the only person I ever heard you say you loved." He says, thinking back to that cellar in Polis.

She presses a kiss to his cheek. "It was different. I did love her, but I wouldn't have married her."

He doesn't know how to process that. He hugs her tight, and pretends that his eyes are not damp with tears. It's difficult, letting the truth out like this, allowing all his old insecurities to spill over. Some of these are things he has hardly ever dared admit to himself, and now he's sharing them with Clarke.

It seems she has a point of her own to add. "I thought you weren't interested." She tells him, voice carefully level. "I genuinely did. After that day I took a bullet for you and was bleeding right in front of you – I thought if that didn't get you to confess your feelings, you must not love me."

"I couldn't say it. I tried. I remember I just ended up telling you I needed you."

"Even that was enough to help me hold on." She tells him softly.

He smiles, presses a handful of kisses to her hair. He gets it, now – Love isn't about what you deserve.

…...

Bellamy is teaching a wrestling class in the atrium when the noises start above him. He thinks it's silly that he teaches wrestling, when there are over a thousand grounders here better versed in the skill than he is, but Indra always tells him that he's better at communicating with teenagers than any of them are.

He supposes he's had practise.

That noise is really bugging him. It's loud, and sounds almost like it's getting closer. He wonders if he ought to go warn Clarke and Octavia, but he has no idea what they would do about the situation. It's not like they can go up there and investigate, after all.

Suddenly a shaft of light shines onto the floor. He looks up, realises that there is a hole in the ceiling. Why on Earth is there a hole in the ceiling?

Then a figure drops through the hole, hoisted down on a cable.

He recognises the new arrival as John Murphy, but then second guesses himself. Why would John Murphy be falling from the sky? Where did he get equipment to drill that hole? How is he even alive?

It's definitely him, though.

"Bellamy. Fancy seeing you here." Murphy greets him, cynical as ever, as he hits the floor.

"Murphy?"

"That's me. What, no hug?"

That brings him to his senses. He hugs him, tight, then draws back to take him in. He looks fit and healthy, although he has a different haircut.

"How are you alive?"

"That nightblood serum worked. All four of us survived. I'll tell you all the gory details later. How are things here? Everyone I don't hate still alive?" Bellamy smiles gently. This guy always did have a funny way of showing he cared.

"Raven and Abby are doing well." He confirms, knowing that's what Murphy was really asking.

"And I'm figuring Clarke must be alive too, because you seem to be wearing a wedding ring."

"Oh – yeah. Yeah, she is. And yes, we are."

"Are what?"

"Married. Happy. Disgustingly in love, as my sister likes to say." Bellamy offers, grinning.

"Glad to hear it, man. You'll never hear me say this again, but you two deserve it."

…...

Things move quickly, once they can access the outside world. It turns out that a bunch of prisoners-turned-miners are to thank for their freedom, and Clarke and Octavia waste no time in negotiating a peace treaty with them. Really Clarke does most of the negotiating, but Octavia is there for show as the winner of the conclave and ruler of the bunker, and Bellamy loiters behind them, not sure whether he's present as an adviser or bodyguard or husband or brother.

They move to Shallow Valley, where it turns out that Monty, Harper, Emori and Murphy have made a home. To Bellamy's utter surprise, the four of them have adopted a nightblood child named Madi they found here shortly after the death wave. He never expected Murphy to be the paternal type, but it becomes clear very early on that this curious and warm-hearted child is the sticky stuff that holds their unexpected family together.

"You must be Clarke and Bellamy." Madi greets them, on their very first meeting.

"We are." He agrees.

"How did you know?" Clarke asks.

The child shrugs, as if it is obvious. "You both look stressed out about settling everyone in because you're in charge. You look like the descriptions Harper always gives of you. And you look in love with each other like Monty and Murphy always said."

"What did Emori say about us?" Bellamy cannot help but ask.

"That she wishes she knew you better."

He can certainly agree with that. Thankfully they have all the time in the world, now, to put that right and catch up on those lost years with their people.

…...

The best thing about Shallow Valley is the luxury of having a house to themselves. It's not a large house, but it feels good to have private space that is truly their own, and to be able to get on with being a young couple in love without fear of being interrupted.

They still like to play their game, on occasion. If one of them is out seeing to some business around the village, the other will sometimes get started while they wait for the other to come home and interrupt. But increasingly their minds turn to other fantasies and they explore new ground together.

Bellamy's new favourite thing? Fantasising about getting Clarke pregnant. Their is no rule against having children, now they are out of the bunker, and they are both keen to start a family.

"I want you inside of me tonight." She whispers, as they share kisses and run their hands over each other's skin.

He growls a little. "You want me to put a baby in you?"

"Yes. Please, Bellamy. Want your baby in me."

He pushes her back onto the bed, urgent but gentle. He's still getting used to having sex on an actual bed, and it's glorious. Clarke is soft and relaxed beneath him, yet urging his hips towards her.

"I got you." He whispers, checking with a gentle finger that she's ready for him.

She moans as he eases inside of her, evidently well-pleased with the feeling of fullness. And then she's rocking her hips, encouraging him to get moving.

He's only too happy to comply. She feels perfect as she always does, tight and wet, clutching at his back to hold him close to her.

"Feels good." She mutters, sucking a bruise into the skin near his collarbone.

He groans in reply, because he's not feeling very coherent, right now. He takes it steady, building up a rhythm, kissing her lips and cheeks and even occasionally the shell of her ear as they both start panting with pleasure. He's been married to her for over two years, now, but he could swear every time they make love he finds the experience just as exciting as ever.

She can always tell when he's approaching the edge. Their communication is as good in the bedroom as it's always been on the battlefield or in the Chancellor's office.

"Let go for me." She gasps, bucking her hips up to meet his. "Let go and come for me."

"You first." He orders, playful. It's a struggle to form the words coherently, but it's worth it when she gives a breathless giggle in response.

"No, you."

"You."

They both fall apart at almost the same time, in the end, as if agreeing to split the difference. And then they lie there, and hold each other, and simply take a moment to be in love.

...

Bellamy and Clarke are enjoying a perfectly innocent breakfast together, exchanging gentle, affectionate nudges under the table as they always do, when Harper and Raven approach, faces determined.

"We're throwing you a party." Raven announces without preamble.

"A wedding." Harper clarifies.

"We're already married." Clarke points out, frowning.

"We got married two years ago." Bellamy adds. He wonders about specifying that it was exactly two years, one month and four days, but he thinks there's probably no point. Clarke already knows he keeps count, and Raven and Harper would only tease him.

"But we weren't there." Harper reminds them.

"And the party was crap." Raven informs them smartly. "I think we could all use a party. And it doesn't seem like anyone else we know is getting married any time soon."

She's right there. For all Kane's talk about increasing the marriage rate and the possibility of arranged marriages, there have been few weddings in recent years. If Bellamy didn't know better, he'd be tempted to suggest that whole discussion might have been yet another conspiracy on the part of his friends and family to force him and Clarke to face their feelings.

No. He knows that their loved ones were getting frustrated with their obliviousness, but surely they wouldn't stoop so low as to consider a fake policy just to give them a push in the right direction. Would they?

Clarke kicks him under the table, just a little harder than usual but not hard enough to hurt, and he gathers that he has missed something while lost in thought.

"So that's settled." Raven is saying. "Three days' time. See you there."

…...

Bellamy has to admit it's a pretty great party. The moonshine is flowing, the food is good, and Raven has even managed to string up some coloured lights for a bit of atmosphere.

That's not what makes it so festive, though. The things that bring him joy are the looks on the faces of the people around him. Murphy and Emori are dancing with their foster daughter, competing to see who can come up with the most outrageous moves. Miller and Jackson are making out in one corner – Bellamy supposes they think they are being discreet, and he hasn't the heart to tell them that the lighting is not as poor as they believe. Raven is everywhere, all at once, darting between different groups of their friends, her face alight with joy. She's lost that haunted look she wore six years ago, and Bellamy is relieved to see it.

The best thing of all? Clarke is dancing with him, moving easily, as if she never received that life-threatening bullet to the guts. She's healthy and happy and his – yet still very much her own person – and that's all he could ever ask for.

"Lucky us – we get two weddings." He murmurs in her ear.

She snorts. "I get you. That's more important than a party."

"Yeah, agreed. All the same, it's a good party." He swallows, gathers his courage. "I like making a fuss about our love, you know? Does that sound silly? I like being loud about it in front of all our friends and family like this."

She kisses him, just one fast, almost brutally urgent kiss to the lips.

"We were always loud." She tells him with conviction.

Yeah, she might be right, there. He supposes that taking a bullet for him was one hell of a gesture.

…...

They've barely been on the surface two months when she tells him. That's why it comes as such a shock, he thinks – he simply didn't expect it so soon.

"What did you just say?" He asks, although he heard it full well.

"I'm pregnant." She tells him firmly. "Really, I am. It's early days but it's true."

He feels like he's just been punched in the guts – but in a good way, somehow. He's overwhelmed with shock and excitement and a dose of nausea. He's going to be a father.

He needs to work out how the hell to be a father.

"You're pregnant." He repeats back to her, dazed. "We're having a baby. You love me. And we're married. And we're having a baby."

She laughs, pulls him into a robust hug. Their hugs have only got better since they got married, he's pretty certain. "I love you." She confirms, whispering into his ear. "We're married. We're having a baby."

"I love you so much." He mutters fervently. "You are incredible. This is – wow. This is wonderful."

This is his life. And it is wonderful.

a/n Thanks for reading!