BAM!

The right hook sent Clarke to the ground, dirt digging into her fingernails as she brought up a hand to stop the attack.

"Need a break?" a mocking tone asked. She looked up to see Brandon with a grin on his face.

Clarke shook her head, using her forearm to wipe away the blood from under her nose, and stood up to a wobbily stance.

They'd been at it for half-an-hour. By now, she was covered in bruises—all the way from her calves up to the crown of her head. Her stomach had suffered the most brutality, as Brandon had used deceptive maneuvers to lead her arms away from her midsection and up to her face while he took the opportunity to jab her in the gut.

He was ruthless, she'd learned quickly—fast and brutal. He was almost sadistic in manner, smirking every time he got a good enough hit to force a grunt or a wince from her tired mouth.
She'd picked well enough at least. He was good.

"Ready?" he asked.

She gulped. "Yeah."

This time he sent a blow to her jugular and she clutched her neck while he pounded his fist into her rib. Finn, she thought. That's why she was doing this. It had taken her a while to comb throug her tangled emotions, but after analyzing what had happened, she realized that she wasn't fighting Brandon to punish herself for killing him. She'd done the right thing—deep in her heart she knew there was no other way. She was fighting Brandon to override the pain in her chest. And with every punch he placed, she could feel that sensation lesson just a little bit.

BAM! This one hit her in the left shoulder and she was flung to the side, trying to regain her balance. "Focus," Brandon muttered.

Clarke clutched her shoulder, counted to five, and regained a defensive stance. She landed a punch to his gut, perhaps her third hit, and dodged a hook that would have nailed her in the head. His other fist connected with her stomach again and she let out a breath through her teeth.
Suddenly, the reign of attacking stopped and she looked up to see Brandon gazing to his right.

"What the hell is going on?" a familiar voice seethed. Shit.

Clarke did her best to sound steady, taking a deep breath before reponding. "I'm learning how to fight," she said, eyes connecting with Bellamys.

He looked angry—pissed actually. The only time she'd seen him this mad was when Octavia had let Lincoln out of the dropship.

"Really?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. Brandon's teaching me." She hooked a thumb in his direction. Bellamy glanced at him.

"Teaching you what, exactly?"

"I told you. How to fight."

"Doesn't look like you're learning."

"Goodbye Bellamy," Clarke said, turning to Brandon.

He eyed her back warily. "Look, if I'd known that your boyfriend was going to get all piss—"

"He's not my boyfriend," Clarke hissed. "Now go."

Brandon shrugged and slammed a fist into her upper chest. She staggered backwards, although the determined expression never left her face.

He delivered another blow to her diaphragm.

As she kicked towards his knee, she narrowly missed a punch to the face.

"Allright, that's it!" she heard a voice say, and in the next moment she was being thrown up into the air and over a shoulder.

"What the hell, Bellamy? Put me down!" Clarke demanded angrily.

"Shut up," he spat back. "I don't want to hear it."

She tried to hold back a grunt of pain as his shoulder dug into her bruised ribs.

"And you," she could hear him say as she was spun around. "Can get the hell out here. I don't want to see you near her again."

Brandon's face was pure confusion as she was forced back into camp.

She clutched the back of his jacket and squeezed her eyes shut as he carried her to divert the pain. She could imagine the weird looks that people were probably giving them—a beat-up blondie slung over the back of an angry-looking asshole—at least, that's what she assumed he looked like. She could feel the excessive weight his boots made as they dug into the mud.

"Bellamy, put me down," she gritted out. He didn't respond, didn't even break pace.

"Bellamy," she said again, her voice breaking a bit this time.

He must have heard the pain in her tone, because in the next second her feet were on the ground and his hand was firnly gripping her forearm instead of her waist. He didn't look at her once.

By the time they got to his tent, she could tell he wasn't going ot be taking anything lightly. Pushing her into the tent first, he followed behind her, closing the flap after they were both in.

She stood there awkwardly as he kept his back to her, hands on his hips and head tilted towards the floor.

She waited.
Silence.

"Bellamy I-"

"WHAT THE HELL CLARKE?"

She jumped at his voice as he turned around to face her. The look in his eyes was pure fury. She was almost scared as he closed the distance and placed his hands roughly on both of her shoulders. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to meet hers.

"What the actual hell?" he seethed. "It was stupid, I know—" she started.

"Stupid? Stupid." he repeated. Letting out an incredulous huff and raking a hand through his hair. "Look I know this Finn thing is...I know it's hard. But does that mean that you have to go off and try to kill yourself?" he asked. "Because that's pretty much what it looked like to me!"

"I was just displacing my anger. I needed an outlet," she tried to reason.

"You mean you were displacing your pain," he corrected. "By letting somebody beat you up, you could forget about what happened and get what you thought you deserved."

Was she that easy to read? It was almost scary her how well he knew her.

Clarke opened her mouth to respond, but shut it when she kew that there was nothing she could say.

"Finn's death was unavoidable, Clarke. Nobody could save him. By ending his life, you—"

"I KNOW WHAT I DID!" This time it was her turn to yell. She looked frantic, scared. "Stop telling me what I did," she lowered her voice a bit. " I know there was no other way, I know that, but Bellamy..." she paused and instead of anger, tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him.

"Bellamy, I told him I loved him, right before he died," she whispered and she could almost swear that his expression dropped to dissapointment for a moment, but perhaps it was just sympathy.

She closed her eyes. "But I lied," she admitted. "I didn't love hime; not the way that he loved me. And now I feel like he's still clinging onto me somehow—like he'll always be around, expecting me to fulfill my promise. And somehow...it seemed like letting myself get beat up might make up for the lie that I told. I deserved—"

"Stop," Bellamy interrupted. "Clarke, you don't deserve anything like that. You can live knowing that in his final moments, he was happy. You gave him peace of mind for a peaceful death. He died believing that he was loved and I'm sure that in some way, you did love him. Stop beating yourself up for it."

Clarke stared at him for a moment, trying to smile through the tears, gasping quietly as she dropped her head and tried to wipe away the wetness from her cheeks.

"It was really," she paused to bring the palm of her hand up to her head. "It was really bad." Her shoulders shook when her voice broke.

And in the next moment, Bellamy was wrapping her in his arms. "You are so brave, Clarke," he whispered into her hair.

"What if I don't want to be?" was her muffled response.

"You don't have to be for me."

"Thanks."

And Bellamy could almost feel an invisible wieght lift off of her shoulders as a sigh escaped from her mouth.