Chapter Text
BELLAMY.
As soon as he deposits the princess back into her castle, Bellamy marches back to his compartment, trying not to scowl too much at the passing bystanders.
He had only gotten a glimpse of the Griffin's quarters when Clarke ducked through the doorway, but that was more than enough. He spied a huge living space bigger than his and two of his neighbor's quarters combined, a state-of-the-art projector (probably one of the few remaining on the ARK that still worked), and a dozen cozy-looking chairs scattered around the room, no doubt for entertaining the other royals who visited the Griffins on the regular. They even have a small window to peer out at the magnificent view of their home planet.
The differences between the compartments here and the ones on Factory station are laughable. He observes the walls change from a crisp, clean white, like the clouds that swirl around the planet outside the portholes, to a dingy, pale yellow that rot like last week's discarded rations.
It makes him want to spit fire at everything that moves.
Luckily for the potential victims of his ire, the one thing that can calm him down is waiting for him back at home.
He looks up and down the corridor like a bandit on the run, before entering his family's compartment. He doesn't let out the breath he's holding until the door seals shut behind him with a resounding whoosh. He meanders to the middle of the room where their rickety dining table conceals the Blake's biggest secret. Their greatest treasure is sequestered safely under the floor.
"Octavia? It's me, you can come out now," he says as he pushes the table strewn with sewing supplies out of the way. He hears an impatient huff from below, and he smiles.
"About time. I thought you would only be gone for a few hours!" Octavia clamors out of the crawl space like a zombie rising from the dead and dusts off her clothes, though he knows there isn't a speck on her. He cleans that little cubby under the floor meticulously. It wouldn't due for his sister to breathe in a bunch of crap and get sick. He can't take her to the clinic if she does.
"Sorry, O. You know the Council. Always taking their damn time to do anything important," Bellamy explains. He hugs his sister like he always does when he comes home from work, lifts her off the ground into a spin, and she squeals. When he sets her down she fakes a glare at him, and he smirks. She swats at his arm in retaliation, but it's like a kitten swiping at a grown dog and he laughs at her. This time the glower isn't faked.
"So what happened?" she asks as she flops into one of the two identical metal chairs they own. "Before you left, you just said you were getting a new assignment."
He rubs a palm down his face.
"I was assigned as a parole officer to a delinquent offender," he tells her. "I have to escort her around to her classes and stuff."
Octavia's eyes widen in interest and he winces. He's about to play the 'Tell Me All About The Outside World I Can't Ever See' game.
"A delinquent? Wait, what does parole even mean?"
"It means that she's free to continue living normally under supervision until her trial when she turns eighteen," he explains. Bellamy shuffles his feet, and his sister seems to catch the fidgeting.
"Bell, I know your 'I'm not telling you everything because I want to protect you' face. Come on, fess up."
Bellamy sighs. His sister is sharper than a bladed whip with spikes on the handle.
"I have to report to the Council every day about her behavior." Bellamy recalls the look on the prince's face when the princess ripped into him, like a starving animal looking to kill its prey in the most gruesome way possible. It almost made him laugh right in front of everyone, but the panic had culled his amusement. Five minutes under his watch, and the girl was already causing a scene. It certainly wasn't conducive to his Don't Stand Out philosophy.
"So far, she hasn't exactly been cooperative," he concludes.
Now his sister's jaw drops open, and he plops down in the chair across from her. He rubs his hands together in his lap, trying to warm them up. Damn, their quarters always feel like, two degrees above freezing their asses off. His mom tells him it's to conserve power by lowering the temperature to certain areas at different times, that the heat would come back after a while, but Bellamy doesn't really believe her. Section B-17 is always locked in shiver-inducing coldness, and the privileged are a bunch of selfish dicks keeping all the heat to themselves.
"So, what you tell the Council could change the outcome of this kid's trial?"
Bellamy starts when Octavia continues her inquisition. He considers her question carefully before answering.
"It's possible, but not probable."
"Why not? Your word is as good as any of theirs," Octavia grumbles, and he smiles gratefully.
"It's not that simple," he tugs his fingers through his hair. He really ought to let his mom cut it soon.
"Bellamy. You're doing it again. What aren't you telling me?"
He sighs, defeated by the stern look on his little sister's scrunched-up face. "I was assigned to Clarke Griffin."
She gives him a blank look and he almost smacks himself. He forgets sometimes that his sister has never been out of this room, that she wouldn't really understand the significance of the Griffin name because she's never even seen them on the news-casts before. They don't own a fancy projector like the royals do. He wishes he could get her one, so she could at least observe the people outside, but it's useless to hope for such things. People born in Factory aren't that lucky.
"She's the daughter of a Council member. Her father committed treason and was floated. They say she's a traitor, too."
"So she'll definitely be floated," Octavia looks down at the table, fiddles with a stitching needle she finds there. "She doesn't stand a chance."
Bellamy doesn't miss the implied Just like me in her words.
"They won't kill her, Octavia. She's from Alpha, and a Councilwoman's daughter. They fixed whatever it was she was making a fuss about, so there isn't really a reason to off her now."
"But she's a traitor, you said it yourself. The Council won't make an exception if they think it'll make them look bad."
His sister was raised under the floor her entire life, but she isn't stupid. Her skill of observation is one of the things about Octavia that Bellamy is both endlessly proud of and constantly annoyed by.
"They won't kill her, Octavia," Bellamy assures. She shoots him a skeptical look. "She's one of the privileged. And she's a doctor in training, apparently. She's a valuable resource for the ARK."
Octavia seems to contemplate his words, but the deep frown on her face remains. So he reaches over the table and tussles her hair in the way she hates but secretly loves. She glowers at him, bats at his hands good-naturedly and goes about fixing her mussed locks. He stands up to go change out of his uniform. He's had about enough authority for one day.
She halts him before he can slip away.
"Promise me you'll help her. Like you would if it were me."
He feels something in his chest crack at the thought of Octavia being in Clarke Griffin's shoes, but Bellamy just shakes his head. "I can't lie to the Council if she does something stupid, O. If they catch me, they'll want to know why. They might come here, sniffing for answers and you know what will happen. They'll float you and mom if they find you. I can't risk it."
"I figured you'd say that," Octavia sighs and glances away.
"Then why'd you ask?"
"I guess I just know how she feels, is all. To be unwanted—to not have a place on the ARK," she says, and he sees her lip wobble just a little bit, like a dam about to crack under the pressure. Bellamy's eyes widen as he watches her green ones fill with tears. He rushes to his sister's side and kneels on the floor in front of her. He gently takes her hands into his, stroking his thumbs over her soft knuckles.
"You will always have a place here, little sister." He tugs on one of her palms, places it on his heart. "I promise, I will never let anything bad happen to you." Your sister, your responsibility, his mother had told him as he held a whimpering Octavia for the first time. He knows his place in this world. It's in front of her, guarding her from all the dark things that seek to steal away her brightness. He will be the shield, because his sister the heroine in their story, and she needs something to protect her. Even if it kills him.
Her face lightens even though the tears silently roll over her cheeks, and he breathes again. "I know, Bell. You've told me that like a thousand times," she says. He scrubs the droplets from her face, and she catches his can, squeezes it. "You always say that when I cry."
He stands and kisses his baby sister's forehead on his way up.
"Because it's always true."
CLARKE.
When Clarke slips through her quarter's door, leaving a scowling Mr. Blake in the hall, she breathes a silent sigh of relief. Her heart is still pounding after her confrontation with Wells, and Mr. Blake's imposing silence on the way back hadn't helped anything. The people had stared at her as she was escorted down the corridors to her home, like she would lash out at them, like she would bare her fangs and bite at their soft flesh. Like a monster.
Like a traitor.
She tries to shake the thought away.
Her eyes travel around her home, taking it all in. Not one thing is out of place. It's all arranged the exact way it was before... everything happened. Her father's desk on the far wall is still a cluttered mess. Her drawing supplies are still stacked haphazardly in the nearest corner. Their projector is playing a football game from over a hundred years ago, the athletes long dead by now.
Everything is perfect with one glaring exception, and Clarke feels the hot tears begin to gather in the back of her throat.
"Clarke? Honey, are you alright?" Abby sneaks in the door behind her a while later, and Clarke turns and nods into her mother's shoulder as the older woman wraps her up in her arms. Abby caresses her golden hair, the same bright yellow as her dad's was, and she can't stop the hiccupping sobs that escape her mouth.
"I can't believe he's gone," Clarke whimpers. "He's gone, and I'll never see him again—"
"Shh, I know, sweetheart. I know."
"It's my fault, Mom. I told Wells. I thought I could trust him, but I was wrong and I'm so sorry, Mom, I'm so sorry." The tears clog up her voice and she can't force out any other words. She just cries and cries into Abby's shoulder, until it feels like there's nothing left. Her mother remains silent.
"Mom?"
"It isn't your fault, honey," Abby says after a long pause. "You couldn't have known Wells would tell Thelonious about your father. If he had gotten the chance to speak out about the oxygen system, he would have been arrested anyway. There was nothing you could have done, baby."
"I could have kept my mouth shut. It would have given him more time—"
"More time to find a way to defy the Council. Your father was as stubborn as they come, Clarke. He would have told the ARK his secrets even if it killed him," Abby's voice cracks. "And it did."
Clarke shakes her head and backs away, crossing her arms over her stomach to cover the empty feeling growing there.
"Are you hungry?" Abby misinterprets Clarke's movement. "I brought some rations home, with the Council's permission. I thought we could eat here, away from... everyone in the Mess Hall."
A great idea, considering she would have to call her handler back here to escort her if she wants to go anywhere.
"Yeah, that sounds good."
Abby goes about setting their food rations on the table, pouring them both small cups of water from a carefully measured bottle. Clarke eyes the food, her stomach rolling like it's rebelling against the very thought of dining. Eating wouldn't bring her dad back. Not eating wouldn't bring her dad back. So where does that leave her?
Apparently, It leaves her sitting at a cold table with her mother, a noticeable absence between them evidenced by the third empty chair, munching on leafy greens that turn to acid in her mouth when she swallows.
"Clarke, we need to talk about your parole."
"Jaha explained it pretty well, mom," Clarke avoids looking at the Councilwoman. "There isn't much more to talk about."
Her mom frowns. "You can't make any more scenes like earlier today. Your officer will be watching your every move, and he will be reporting to the Council—"
"I couldn't just pretend nothing happened, Mom! Wells can't just come up and talk to me like we're still friends, like he didn't get someone I love killed," Abby flinches, but Clarke ignores it. "If he talks to me again, I'll—"
"You won't do anything. You won't talk to Wells. You won't touch him, or fight him. You will ignore him," Abby gives Clarke a stern glare. "They will kill you, Clarke. If you don't act like the perfect citizen, they will float you, and I can't lose you too," Abby's voice wobbles as she begs. She puts her elbows on the table, and hides her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Clarke hauls in a deep breath like she's pulling in a heavy weight, and says "sorry, Mom. I won't do anything. But you have to know that my trial... They aren't just going to let me go. Treason is punishable by death. Being underage doesn't change that."
"We don't know that, yet."Abby wipes her face, fiddles with a loose string on the sleeve of her shirt. "It will depend on how well you do on parole. If Mr. Blake has nothing but good things to say, the Council will take it into consideration."
Clarke pictures dark hair, a confident smirk, and a deep voice and resists the urge to snarl. "And if he has nothing but bad things to say? What happens then?"
"You won't give him any reasons to have bad things to say. Is that understood?"
It won't make a difference what Mr. Blake has to say about her, but she nods her head obediently. Her mother relaxes into her seat.
"Good," Abby gives her a small smile. "I have something for you. We've been taking more satellite pictures of the ground." She passes Clarke a folder. "They all look extremely promising. The trees are growing healthily, and the water looks clean. Clarke, Earth might be very close to being able to sustain life again."
Clarke flips through the pages, drinking in each picture like a woman possessed. Sometimes late at night, her father would come into her room when she couldn't sleep, and he would show her pictures of forests, mountains, and rivers. The images were so vivid that she started to draw them on any flat surface she could find. The walls, the floors, the counters. For a while, the Griffin's quarters were covered in charcoal images of old Earth until Chancellor Jaha said that vandalism was to be discouraged, and her mother washed them all away with a harsh-smelling cleaner. It hadn't stopped her father from trading some of their rations for a notebook for her.
Clarke could still remember the smile and wink he gave her when he handed over the book of blank pages for her to fill, the thrill of endless possibilities flowing through her mind.
She couldn't see the details in these pictures—the trees were just tiny dots against brown earth, the oceans just big, blue swaths on the page—but the blues, and browns, and greens blended together so harmoniously it took her breath away.
Clarke moves slowly over to the small porthole in their living area. She holds up the pictures against the view of the real thing, and wonders.
"Do you think you'll ever go back?" Clarke speaks aloud, though she doesn't intend to.
Abby joins her by the window, touches her daughter's shoulder. Clarke hopes her mother missed her use of "you" and not "we" because she knows she'll never see the ground, not in the next two weeks. After that, well. She won't be around to find out.
"I think that our home has a way of healing itself," Abby says, and Clarke has a feeling she isn't speaking solely of Earth. "I think it's only a matter of when."