Trigger Warning: This might begin to feel a little like Stockholm Syndrome.

This fic is unbeta'd, so I apologize for any mistakes you might find, also I'm a little out of my depth with "off the grid" living, so I also apologize for any inaccuracies with that, hopefully they're not too distracting if you do find some.

Thank you to anyone who reads, reviews, follows, and favorites. It totally makes my day! You can also find me on AO3 as ninathena, and tumblr where I'm athenasnina. That's not confusing at all, right? XD

Thank you all again! Enjoy!

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"Do you have the key?" Clarke asks through her chattering teeth, as she holds Becca tighter to her chest. She should be afraid, but she's so damn cold all she can feel is grateful that this cabin is here in the middle of nowhere.

Bellamy huffs out a laugh between ragged breaths, shaking his head. He kneels down on the small porch, holding onto Oliva's arms as she gingerly climbs off his back.

Clarke had refused to let him carry her at first, the man was a maniac at worst, and a miscreant at best – not to mention he still had that gun. He'd rolled his eyes and raised a brow, snarking about how he was sure her three foot daughter would be just fine tromping through the cold snow for half an hour.

So she'd allowed it, nodding her head in quiet consent. But she'd watched him closely as he carried Olivia on his back, teasing and playing with her, trying to keep her mind from the numbing cold, until his breath started coming out in hard pants, and he could no longer keep up any kind of conversation trudging through, what was fast becoming, a whiteout.

She'd held Becca close to her chest, trying to keep the toddler out of the bitter wind that assaulted them. After about twenty minutes of that, she was about to tell him he could go to hell and she was just going to try their luck trying to keep warm in the Escalade, but then she saw it, far off into the distance through the near blinding snow, a dark shape of a building. And when they'd finally gotten there, she'd been so happy she would've cried had the wind not totally frozen her face by that point.

She watches him as he furrows his brows and takes a key from his pocket, slowly inserting it. She's about to rip him a new one for taking so damn long, but then his face lights up as he turns the key and unlocks the door.

She frowns at him as he gives her a triumphant smile. "Why do I get the feeling you weren't really sure that was going to work," she asks, in annoyance.

He ignores her, turning the handle and opening the door, ushering them in quickly before slamming the door shut. It's dark – very dark – and she can only see the basic of shapes thanks to the dim light that comes from the windows. Their heavy breathing fills the space around them as she moves her hand along a wall, coming across a switch, but when she flicks it up nothing happens.

"The powers out," she announces, followed by a mutter of, "of course."

She hears him take a deep breath. "It's powered by a generator," he explains, "I'm going to look for a flashlight." She watches his dark form as he crosses the room and disappears, and her stomach suddenly clenches hard with a multitude of feelings that she can't even begin to process.

She's sure that this has been the longest eight hours of her life and she's just… exhausted. Becca yawns in her ear while Olivia squeezes Clarke's hand and she realizes that her girls are probably even more so.

"Mommy, I need to go potty," Olivia whines.

Clarke moves them through the dark room till she finds a couch and sits the girls on it, in a pool of light coming from a window. She kneels in front of Becca, rubbing the toddler's tiny frozen fingers between he own. "I'll take you potty once Bellamy comes back with a flashlight, alright?"

She watches as both their eyes droop heavier while they become more comfortable on the couch, leaning back against the soft cushions. She can hear noises of cupboards and drawers opening and closing, coming from what she assumes is the kitchen, as Bellamy continues in his search.

She sits heavier on the floor, laying her head softly on the cushion between her daughters' legs, closing her eyes – she's so damn tired, she can only barely keep them open – but only for a moment, she tells herself.

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The sharp sounds of sizzling cracks and pops give way to the thick, balmy scent of smoke and earthy pine, creating a heady mix in her dream. She's bathed in warmth, and the absolute contentment she feels causes her to moan lightly before she slowly opens her eyes.

Her mind feels thick and sluggish while she watches the kaleidoscope of colors in the fire, the heat warming her face like a mask. Slowly, the events of the past hours come back to her and her eyes open wide as she takes in her surroundings.

She's lying on a couch, wrapped in a thick, musky smelling comforter. She wrestles out of it, the heat surrounding her, pleasant only a few minutes before, now suffocates her as panic rises within her body.

After escaping from her cocoon, she looks hastily around the room. Olivia and Becca lie together on the nearby loveseat, covered in quilts of their own that move in a soft rhythm as they breathe in and out. She can feel her rapidly beating heart slow, and her tight body relax, as she watches her sleeping daughters.

A deep grunt comes from her left and she turns to see Bellamy asleep in a chair. It's thick and plushy, but obviously not made for sleeping on.

She vaguely remembers how they ended up on their respective 'beds'. He'd woken her, calling her name softly so as not to wake the girls. She remembers mumbling to him about being too tired as he led her to the couch, throwing a blanket over her torso. Everything after that is in bits in pieces, the noise of a door shutting, the flare of a bright flame in the fireplace, the dark outline of him as he kneeled in front of it.

Her eyes rove across his figure – his legs are stretched out before him, ankles crossed, just as his arms are across his chest, and his hand grips tightly onto his bicep. The dancing fire to his left creates shadows that flit across his face, his nose flaring and his brows furrowed. He gives another grunt, twitching slightly in his chair. His whole body is wound tight, she realizes, and by the miserable look on his face, he is definitely not having a good dream.

She feels a pull deep in her chest to wake him, pull him out of the nightmare that his mind has trapped him in. But she quickly remembers why they're here – he brought them here, kidnapped them at gunpoint- the gun. She remembers it like a flash of lighting that cracks through her mind. The last time she saw it he'd had it in his right coat pocket.

Her heart begins to speed up again as she envisions herself taking it from him while he sleeps. He hasn't hurt them – and she truly gets the feeling like he wouldn't, but she doesn't know him, and she most definitely doesn't trust him. Especially not with the lives of her daughters.

Fear and anxiety twist inside her belly as she makes the choice to do it, standing slowly from the couch, carefully stepping out of the comforter that still holds her legs captive. He's not far, maybe five or six steps away, but it feels like an eternity as she quietly makes her way to him, staring at his face for any sign that he's waking.

When she finally makes it, she stares down at his tense body. His jaw is clenched and his face almost looks like he's in pain, and once again she wants to wake him from this nightmare he can't seem to escape from.

She will, she decides – as soon as she gets the gun.

She bends over slowly, eyes never leaving his face. Her heart is beating a wild rhythm and it seems so loud in the silent room, that she's afraid it will wake him. Her chest is painfully tight, and her belly trembles as she hesitantly pushes a hand into his pocket. She panics at first, breath faltering when she doesn't feel anything at all, but the pocket is deep and she soon feels the warm metal.

She slowly releases a heavy breath from her nose, her eyes darting from his hard face to her hidden hand while she carefully begins to pull it back out. When she sees her fingers emerging she smiles widely, relief seeping throughout her body – then suddenly pain.

Clarke's eyes go wide as she looks up into Bellamy's awake, and very angry face. His eyes are clouded with hot rage and fear while he squeezes her throat with one hand and her arm with the other. The grip he has with both is beyond painful, and her mouth opens wide like a fish, as she gasps, trying to get air into her burning lungs.

Her eyes slam shut as she claws at the hand on her throat, desperate to breathe, and she hears a yelp of pain before the hold becomes stronger. Her face feels suddenly hot and her fingers cold, and she just can't even think about anything anymore except about the lack of air. Then she abruptly remembers that the hand holding her throat is attached to a person, and she quickly reaches out, scratching at his face. She hears him as he yells out, and he roughly pushes her away from him. She falls and hits her side hard into the corner of a table, the impact leaving her breathless while trying to gasp for air through her burning throat.

Finally, the air comes, wheezing through her damaged throat and into her scorching lungs. She can't hear anything – can comprehend nothing except for the blood rushing through her body. But then she slowly seems to wake from the fuzzy haze, and the intense pain hits her like a freight train – and it's everywhere, as her body trembles on the floor. She can hear heavy breathing to her right and she knows it's him. She frowns up at the ceiling and she has the violent urge to punch him – more than once.

She turns her head and her eyes lock onto his. He too is lying on the floor, rapid breath escaping from his lungs as he holds his hand to his bloody face. His face is twisted with pain and confusion, his eyes filled with shame. She glares at him, her whole being bursting with hate for this man who's done nothing but hurt her, threaten her, scare her.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, tears shining in his eyes and she feels her hate soften just a bit. He looks so pitiful with his dark eyes, dejected expression, and bleeding face, that she has to look away before she does something stupid like tell him it's okay.

Her wandering gaze finds the gun, laying above them under the table. She sees him as he notices what she's looking at and she scrambles to get to it before he does. When she has it in her hands she points it at him, her nose flaring and her jaw set – she's not a killer, but she will shoot him if she has to – but he hasn't moved, she realizes – didn't even try to go after the weapon.

She swallows hard, trying to rid herself of the knot in her throat as he watches her with sad eyes. He's not even fighting. It's like he's accepted it, accepted that he deserves it.

But does he, her brain wonders. He kidnapped them, pointed a gun at her, stole her vehicle, and made them drive to the middle of nowhere to which there was now no escape. But he also probably saved Olivia's life by making her wear her seatbelt – saved all their lives trying to find this damn cabin. He'd been nothing but kind to the girls and – even through his grumpy snarkiness – to her as well.

Looking at his miserable face now, he seems completely harmless, but there's a small voice within her that warns her away, warns her to keep her children away. No matter what he does, what he says, he's dangerous.

She kneels, still pointing the gun in his direction. "Don't move," she enunciates, her voice hoarse and rough. He remains quiet, and only stares at her with sad eyes. She stands carefully and gasps as an intense stinging scorches along her side. Bellamy sits up slowly then, so as not to startle her, she guesses, and knits his brow, glancing down at her mid-section.

"You're bleeding," he says, softly.

She looks down quickly and sees that he's right, she's bled right through her sweater. She can feel the burning, piercing gash acutely now that she's looking at the blood it's caused. He starts to climb to his feet till she hastily points the gun at him once more. He pauses, swallowing hard, as he looks from the gun to her face. He still looks sad, his cheeks wet with tears that had fallen from his eyes, but he seems to have gotten control over the emotions that were clouding him before.

"Please," he whispers in a husky voice, "I didn't mean to hurt you." He looks back down to her bleeding side. "Let me help you."

And she crumbles inside. She so badly wants to believe him, so badly wants his help, help to carry the weight of emotions that have been suffocating her since the moment she found Finn in bed with a stranger. She's suddenly unable to breathe as tears rapidly fill her eyes and her sore throat becomes tight. She hurts – everywhere – inside and out. And she can't breathe.

She drops the hand holding the gun to her side, as everything that's happened within the last few hours hits her all at once. Tears are falling liberally down her face and she's coughing and crying so loudly she knows the girls are going to wake if she doesn't stop. But she can't stop, as this hurricane of emotions takes over her.

She sees nothing, but she feels it has he takes her face in his hands – they're large and warm, she notices – and he strokes her cheeks with his thumbs before sliding a hand to the back of her head, gently pushing her face into his shoulder. She drops the gun on the floor and her arms fly up to hold him, her fingers grasping onto the back of his coat, taking everything he's offering because she needs it or she's going to drown.

Eventually she can hear something other than herself, and it's him, whispering into her ear, causing goosebumps to rise along the flesh of her neck. "Shhh, it's okay. You're going to be okay," he assures her, and she hopes he's right, because she has nothing else to hold onto right now – nothing and no one else to believe in.

Her arms slide up to wrap around his neck as his hands find her waist, and the back of her legs hit the edge of the couch. She didn't notice that they'd moved, but she doesn't even care as she holds onto him tighter, and her cries become quieter. He pushes her down gently as he kneels in front of her, lifting her shirt to check her side.

"I don't think it's too bad," he says, quietly, his voice making her belly tremble, and she's just too damn tired and upset to think about all the reasons why. "Should put something on it though." Her eyes roam his face, trying to catch his, and when they do, he seems to falter. "I can look... in the bathroom."

He clears his throat as he tears his gaze away from her, and it makes her feel cold. "There might be something in there," he mutters, as he goes to stand. She holds him fast though, gripping onto the sleeves of his coat.

"Stay," she pleads. If she were in her right mind, she'd be embarrassed by her begging. But she is most definitely not in her right mind at the moment, so she doesn't give one single fuck that she's begging him to stay – begging her captor to stay.

He licks his lips. "You're bleeding."

"It can wait till tomorrow." She grips his arms hard again, hard enough that she knows he can feel it through his coat. "Please don't leave me alone," she whispers.

They're both quiet, staring at each other in silence while the fire burns dimly in front of them. He finally nods before looking down. "Okay." She tries to catch his eyes again but it's almost as if he refuses to meet them. He lies her down on the couch and she slowly releases the death-grip she has on his coat, one of her hands finding his own instead. And she likes it better she thinks, the skin to skin contact – he's so very warm.

After she's stretched out along the couch he turns, sitting against it, leaning his head back on a seat cushion. She wants to run her hands through his hair, feel the thick black tresses between her fingers, but even in the state she's in now, she knows that, that would be crossing some kind of line. Instead she scoots forward furtively, so she can feel the back of his head against her middle, and the small contact warms her from the inside out.

She doesn't want to think about how right this insane scenario feels. How good. So she doesn't think about anything except for his warmth as she closes her wet, tired eyes, listening to the whispering hiss of the fire.

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Bellamy wakes to the sound of whispering, but he can't distinguish what it says at first – it's too low and his mind is too muddled. His slowly waking mind thinks of the night before instead, thinks of Clarke's pale skin as it glowed in the fire and her tears as they trickled down her cheeks before falling from her chin. He thinks of how tightly she'd held onto him, holding him close as she cried out her fear. Her fear of him, he suddenly remembered.

She'd been crying because of him.

His mind quickly took him back to the events that led up their embrace. He'd assaulted her, hurt her while he was lost in his nightmare, and she'd nearly shot him. Shame, like he's never before felt, grips inside of him, twisting around, making him sick. His eyes snap open at the feeling and he sees Olivia standing beside him leaning on the couch, trying to get to her mother.

Bellamy takes hold of her side, pulling her away. "What are you doing?" he asks, softly.

Olivia gives him an angry look. "I have to go potty."

She'd been asking to go since he'd taken them last night, and he knows the poor kid is probably about ready to burst.

He nods, carefully standing up, looking down at Clarke's sleeping form. She seems peaceful in her sleep, young, and he wonders how old she actually is – this mother of two, who drives around in a fucking Escalade.

He needs to find a way to apologize for the night before – for everything that happened the night before. Then he needs to think of a plan. Obviously, he couldn't stay here forever, not now that he'd brought them.

He places a hand on Olivia's back, leading her away towards the bathroom. He follows her in, setting up the toilet paper and opening a box a soap he finds under the sink, before leaving her to do her business. He stands on the other side of the door, not wanting to leave her completely alone. In no time at all he hears the sound of the toilet handle but no flush to go with it.

"It- it won't work," Olivia yells with aggravation.

Bellamy frowns, unsure if he should go in or not. "What's wrong?" He hears a slapping sound followed quickly by what he assumes is the bang of the toilet lid. "Olivia?"

"It's broken, but I didn't do it. It's a dumb, stupid potty and it doesn't work!"

He grins, trying to hold back his laughter at her frustration with the toilet. He knocks on the door. "Olivia, I'm going to come in. Are you dressed?"

She doesn't answer but he hears her grunting and stomping around. It's quiet after a while, and he waits a few more moments before knocking on the door again. "Olivia?"

He hears her stomp her foot. "What?" she asks, in irritation.

His smile becomes wider as he shakes his head. "Are you dressed?" It's quiet again, and he's debating whether he should just go in or wake Clarke, when the door suddenly opens.

Olivia looks up at him with a frown. "I am trying to go- use the potty, can you excuse me please for a moment."

Bellamy lifts a brow at her snarky tone. "I thought you were done. It's broken?"

She shakes her head quickly, her messy hair flying around her head. "I didn't break it."

He smiles down at her kindly. "I know. Can I look at it?"

She eyes him and he wonders what exactly she's afraid of him doing? She rolls her eyes before opening the door further to let him in.

He tries to flush it again but nothing happens.

"See? I didn't break it."

"It's okay," he says as he turns to look at her. His eyes shoot up quickly when he sees Clarke standing in the doorway. She's obviously just woken up and her hair is as much of a mess as her daughter's, not to mention her eyes are red and puffy from all the crying the night before. But standing there now, in the doorway of a bathroom, he doesn't think he's seen anything as beautiful as her scowling face. Then he realizes how ridiculous that sounds so he looks away from the sleepy blonde.

"What's going on?" she asks, groggily.

Olivia whips around, giving her mother a serious look. "The potty's broken, mommy, but I didn't do it."

"It's not broken. There's just no water," he announces.

Clarke's eyes snap up to him, her face full of worry. Before he can say anything, she strides up to the sink and turns on the faucet. It's empty – dry – and her body seems to go into panic mode as she stares down at the sink. She tries turning both handles at the same time, hoping to get a different outcome.

He releases a heavy sigh. "It's alright-"

She turns towards him, glaring at him with her fierce blue eyes that make his heart beat faster for reasons he doesn't really want to think about. "How is it alright? How will we be alright without water?" She looks away, working her jaw. "I mean, there's snow," she reasons. "We certainly have plenty of that."

"It's just the generator," he explains, trying to assuage her worries before they even begin. "Everything in this cabin is powered by it, including the pump for the water." He shakes his head as he raises his brows. "It probably just needs to be turned on."

They're quiet as they stand inches apart in the small bathroom, the only sound, their steady breathes. There's a window, and the morning light that shines through brightens the tiny room immensely. He realizes this is the first time he's really gotten a chance to see her whole body in the light and it's just… breathtaking, even in the frumpy coat.

"See mommy, I told you I didn't break it."

Clarke bends down, kissing her daughter's head, trying to smooth her mussed hair. "I know. Let's find something to eat." Her eyes meet his yet again. "There is food here, isn't there?" she asks, with contempt.

He gives a half shrug, pursing his lips. "There might be some canned or dried food in the kitchen."

She narrows her eyes. "Might be?"

He thinks he knows where this is going, and there's no way in hell he's getting into that conversation with her.

She tilts her head, eyeing him critically. "Is this, or is this not your cabin?"

He clears his throat as he looks down at the tiled floor. No, definitely not going to answer that one. He looks back up. "I'm going to go look for the generator," he says, as he brushes past her and Olivia.

He can feel her eyes on him as he walks away, and it makes him cringe inside, knowing that she's thinking of all the worst possible scenarios. He thinks about her eyes on him last night, and how she seemed to be thinking many things about him, and not all of them bad as she clung to him for comfort. He wonders what he'd have to do to get that back.