The world was a pit, deep and dark and terrifying, and Clarke was stranded at the bottom. Her back was flat against the ground and her limbs were splayed out at awkward angles, sending shoots of pain through her body. Her lips parted in a scream that never made a sound and in the darkness she could just make them out; hundreds of hands reaching out like spikes toward her. Child's hands, small and pale brushed her arms, seeking their mother. Tanned hands with long fingers and ribbons about wrists intertwined with her own; when they touched her, they came away bloodied. Greying, corpse like hands covered with oozing scabs tore at her clothes, scratching at her skin as they did so. There were large hands with smooth dark skin that stroked her hair and face, and a voice in the darkness that begged her to stay. It was low and sad and the hands that came with it were warm and reassuring in Clarke's darkness. 'It'll be okay, I promise, I won't let you die,' the voice assured her and light poured in through cracks in the dark. Clarke opened her eyes.

Clarke's lids opened to a rocky ceiling. She was lying on her back, but her limbs were all tucked safely under a blanket, not at the unnatural angles of her imagination. Just a dream. She lifted a hand to her face, rubbing her eyes until her vision was sharp and the blurriness of sleep had faded. As she sat up, pain shot through her lower leg and she cried out.

"Woah there," A man's voice responded to her cry and Clarke whipped her head round, expecting, for one heart wrenching moment, to see Wells. But Wells was gone. He's dead stupid. He died for you, he died because of you.

"Princess? You still with me?" Bellamy's dark eyes searched Clarke's face with a worry behind them that she didn't understand. In the Games, worry was at the forefront of all their minds and Bellamy was no exception, but his expression held a different kind of anxiety. A desperation, as if he was about to lose everything. Clarke rubbed at her temples.

"Yeah, I'm okay," She bit her lip out of habit and looked away from eyes that were too intense, letting her focus fall to his mouth. His lips were chapped and slightly parted, there were parts where the skin had worn away, red and sore. Clarke's heart fluttered strangely, so she looked away.

They were in a cave; it was bigger than the one where they had hidden from the fog, but not by much. Light seeped in through cracks in the rock and made patterns on the floor. Clarke was lying on a blanket close to the back wall of the cave, the thing over her that she had mistaken for the blanket, was in fact Bellamy's jacket. He crouched over her with worry etched on his face, but there was a half plucked bird to their side. He had been hunting. Clarke scanned the rest of the little cave and dread settled in her stomach, painfully cold. They were alone.

"Bellamy," She swallowed, "What happened?" Bellamy's jaw clenched at her words and he pulled away, sitting with his back leant against a wall and his eyes straight ahead. Not looking at her.

Clarke shifted on her blanket and had to bite down on her lip to keep from yelping as the pain in her leg flared up again. Tentatively, she pushed the jacket away from her body, wincing at the sight before her and the memories that it dragged to the forefront of her mind. Arguing with Bellamy. Running from the fire. Falling. And pain as wooden stakes raked through her flesh.

The bottom of her trouser leg had been roughly cut away; the fraying edges were caked with dirt and blood. There was a long gash on her calf, the flesh around it was red and angry, but the wound itself was sewn up with a line of rough stitches. Appreciation for her ally settled in Clarke's stomach as warmth flooded her face.

"You-" She turned to look at Bellamy who had resumed watching her with his face full of worry, "You stitched it up?"

Bellamy ran a hand through his matted curls and looked at the floor.

"I couldn't let you die," Clarke almost wept at his words. She felt so alone in the games. The idea that another person was keeping her alive, caring for her, was incomprehensible since Wells had died. But there it was.

Clarke looked at her leg to hide the astonishment and gratitude that must be plastered across her face. The stitches were crooked, but they would hold; and provided the needle was sterilised, it might have saved her life.

"I took the needle and thread from your med kit," Bellamy continued on with a cough, "And er, there was this," Without looking he thrust out a small silver box, the kind Clarke had seen tributes receiving all her life; a gift from a parachute, sent by the tributes mentor, paid for by the audiences in the Capitol. Sponsor gifts could save tributes lives, and it seemed like this one might have.

"My mentor sent this?" Clarke murmured, running her thumb over the metal clasp.

"No," Bellamy's answer caused her to look up, he had a strange look on his face, and his fist inside his pocket. "Mine did,"

"But why?" Clarke's eyebrows furrowed at the words. Why would Bellamy's mentor send her a gift? She wasn't his tribute. Did he really believe that Clarke and Bellamy's alliance could help Bellamy win the games?

Bellamy shrugged in answer, and clasped his free hand around his wrist with the ribbon on it. Clarke had noticed him do that when he was nervous. She didn't like it, or the little crease between his eyebrows that appeared when he was sad. Stupid girl, she told herself, shaking her head and looking once more at the box, popping the clasp open with a dirty fingernail.

Inside was a small vial of medicine, intended, Clarke supposed, to speed healing or to prevent infection. She would have to study it for longer to find out, but it wasn't the time to be speculating over potions. Clarke was intrigued with the more pressing question; what exactly had happened, and why was their little band of allies one person short. Her stomach flipped at the thought. In the deepest recesses of her brain she already knew, but she didn't want to believe. Because that would mean another person she couldn't save, another person who died instead of her.

"Thank you, Bellamy," Her voice shook when she spoke, "For saving me," A lump in her throat caught because who knows what he had done to save her, who he had abandoned. But Bellamy would never have left Charlotte, would he? Not unless there wasn't any hope. Clarke gnawed on her lip with a sickening anxiety.

"Who set the trap?" Coward, she screamed at herself. For asking the wrong question, for not addressing the tension filled air or the barely concealed rage on Bellamy's face. There was blood and dirt stuck in the scratches on his skin. He should clean them, Clarke noted.

"District Seven," Bellamy's voice was low and gravelly, heavy with suppressed emotion. She watched him twist the ribbon around and around his wrist; it was fraying, and dark with dirt. Around and around his wrist it twirled as the boy spoke through gritted teeth. "Kid called Murphy came out after I hauled you up. I didn't notice at first, you were losing so much blood, I was trying to keep you awake" Clarke's heart rate thudded as she watched Bellamy's fist begin to shake with anger, and suddenly she was afraid.

He won't hurt you, she scooted further away from him, he saved you, stupid girl. But his eyes were black and hard, and the pain on his face scared her more than if he had been brandishing a weapon. Pain could make a person go crazy. She would know, she had almost succumbed to it.

"I-" The word sounded strangled on the way past his lips. It was soft beneath the sound of Clarke's rapid heart. "I couldn't save her," It was quiet at first. The calm before the storm.

"I couldn't save her!" And then he was towering over her and screaming, and kicking their meagre supplies across the rocky floor. His hands ripped at his hair and he threw things around the cave as he bellowed and tears dripped from Clarke's eyes as she watched in horror.

"Bellamy!" She whimpered as she watched his fury. "Bellamy, please,"

"No, Clarke! She's dead. She's dead. I let her die!" His fist connected with the wall again and again and when he pulled it away the rock was smeared with red. Clarke shied away from his hulking form as she watched him bury his face in his hands before letting his fist collide with the wall once more. So enraged was he that he didn't notice Clarke's moans of pains as she struggled to her feet. Her leg screamed out its protest in stabs of hot pain, but Clarke was standing. She had to break through to Bellamy. A tribute from the other side of the arena could probably hear his screams and that was the last thing they needed.

"Bellamy," She tried again, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. When her fingertips made contact with his forearm he whipped around to face her and his eyes were wide and crazed. Clarke felt her chest rise and fall with heavy breaths as his long fingers locked around her wrist and he stared her down.

"I failed her." He growled, "She needed me, and I failed her." His eyes searched hers, wild and deep and frightening, but also longing, searching for reassurance, reassurance that he wasn't the monster he thought he was. Clarke's heart slapped against her ribcage; she could feel his hot breath on her face, his fingers tight around her arm and his eyes searching her soul. He was all around her, intense and terrifying and making her hairs stand up.

"You didn't fail anyone, Bellamy," Clarke licked her lips between words, careful not to lose eye contact so he would know she was being sincere. His forehead creased and his cheeks were pink with emotion, his breaths hard from his fit of anger. "You were everything Charlotte needed. You cared for her in a world where no one else would." Clarke urged, her voice cracking pitifully. "But she doesn't need you anymore." She reached out to touch the ribbon on his arm and swallowed. "Octavia needs you. I need you," The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them but Clarke knew they were true. She needed Bellamy. She needed him to keep her sane in this living hell. She couldn't bear to be alone.

"You...need me?" Bellamy's tone softened, his dark eyes flicking back and forth across Clarke's face. His thumb reaching out to tenderly brush away a tear that she hadn't realised had formed on her cheek.

"Yes," Clarke choked out. "I need you Bellamy, don't leave me alone," And then she was really crying; large, hot tears that dripped down her cheeks and ugly sobs that worked their way past her lips without her permission. Clarke squeezed her eyelids shut as if that might force the tears to stay where they were, instead of falling unbidden, thick and fast.

It's all too much, Clarke thought. Her world had become a dark, hellish hole of pain and death and sadness. She thought of Wells and she wanted to fall to the floor or disappear at the memory of the best friend who would never grow old and the face she would never see again. She thought of Charlotte, so small, so young, so innocent; who only ever knew pain. She thought of Atom and Monty and all the other tributes whose names she didn't have time to learn, all gone, all dead. Dead, dead, dead. Clarke thought she might die herself, not from her wound, but from this awful, crippling sadness and the terror that had become second nature to her.

"Hey," The voice was soft, so soft that she almost didn't hear it over her shuddering breaths, but when she looked up, Bellamy was looking back at her. "Don't do that," he whispered, so strangely quiet after his outburst. Peaceful, Clarke thought oddly. Her eyes stung from crying. Bellamy's fingers were still locked around her wrist.

His free hand moved to cup her chin, forcing her to hold his gaze. It was deep and meaningful, but Clarke didn't know what the meaning was, until Bellamy closed the gap between their faces and pressed his lips against hers.

Clarke's intake of breath was involuntary, but Bellamy took it as a sign to deepen the kiss, his lips forcing hers apart and pushing against her until he was all there was. No pain, nothing; just chapped lips against her own, teeth scraping at her bottom lip, tongue teasing her mouth and strong hands everywhere. At the small of her back, in her already tangled hair, pushing her backwards against the wall. Oh god. Everything was Bellamy Blake, the world was dark brown eyes and strong arms and fiery passion keeping her warm.

It was the pain in her leg that broke them apart, her whimper as she stumbled making Bellamy pull back abruptly, scratching the back of his neck. His eyes were as wide and crazy as they were before, his pupils dilated until his irises were barely visible. God, he's beautiful, Clarke cursed herself at the thought, but it was true. She couldn't allow herself to think such things in the Games, but it was hard not to when his beauty was dazzling her every time she looked up. And when he was kissing her with such intensity she thought she might combust. Shit. Clarke ran a hand through her hair, what the hell was going on?

Bellamy didn't look at her, picked up his spear from the ground.

"I'm going hunting," He announced breathlessly, not waiting for an answer, or Clarke's protest before disappearing from sight – the half plucked bird still abandoned on the floor.

When he came back with a rabbit strung across his back he acted as though the kiss had never occurred, so Clarke did too.

She tried to wipe the memory from her brain, better that way, she told herself. But the kiss had started a fire inside of her, burning hot and bright to keep the bad thoughts away. And God knew she needed that. She had to be careful. If she wasn't, she might become dependent on Bellamy Blake.

The thought terrified her, but it thrilled her all the same. And for a moment, watching him tend her leg (despite her protests that she could do it herself) she forgot how scared and tired and sad she was, and she felt something else. Not hope, not exactly, but almost.

A/N Omg Bellarke. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you thought! :) - J x