Work Text:
When Raven falls, Bellamy's arms are already open, ready to catch her before she hits the ground.
In the calm between crises, she collapses into him, and lets him try to contain the chaos of her in his embrace. He never quite manages it, but that doesn't stop him from trying.
In the strange lull after Finn's execution, they cling to each other, faces damp with rain and sweat and Raven's tears. She cries as if she were the one stabbed through the heart; awful, wracking sobs, and every hitch of breath resounds through both their ribcages. People are staring. He glares at them over the top of her head.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let's go.” She shakes her head, and struggles like a wild thing when he tries to pull her away.
“No! Let go of me!”
“It's over,” he says, trapping her hands in his when they reach out perilously close to the electric fence. “Raven! There's nothing more we can do.”
“No,” she says thickly, but the fight drains out of her and she goes limp in his arms, eyes falling shut. Tears slide out from behind her closed eyelids, but she makes no further sound, and he half-carries, half-drags her through the uneasy hush of the camp, her arm draped over his shoulder, his arm around her waist.
It occurs to him on the way inside that he doesn't even know where she sleeps, so he guides their steps toward his own room. She doesn't seem to notice.
He is momentarily self-conscious about the mess he's created with his few belongings, the creased papers and various pieces of partially assembled weapons strewn across every available surface, the unmade bed; but Raven doesn't even look around. He guides her into a seated position on the rumpled blankets and kneels down to unlace her boots. After slipping them off her feet, he hesitates over the brace on her leg, glancing up at her.
“Want this off?”
Her face is curiously blank as she looks down at him, through him. “Yeah.”
He starts on the lowest buckle, she on the highest, and their hands meet somewhere in the middle. He slides the brace gently down and off, pushes it aside, and kicks off his boots. Then he sits down beside her and gathers her close with one arm, using the other to tug the blankets around them both. She sniffles a little, and his grip tightens involuntarily.
In the dark, she turns to him and buries her face in his chest, and he strokes her hair until she cries herself to sleep.
She's gone when he wakes up.
*
His stomach lurches when he catches sight of her later in the day, sitting at a table outside. He has a hundred things to worry over, the peace talks and upcoming rescue mission to Mount Weather being only the top two on a very long list, and instead he's preoccupied with the way his pillow smells of her hair.
Clarke's seen her too, and she reaches the table before him. By the time he gets there, Raven has already stormed off. Clarke stares down at the rough wooden tabletop where Raven's knife protrudes, still quivering.
“I tried to give it back,” she says numbly. “I don't know why I thought that would help.” He can't think of a single thing to say to that, and after a moment she walks away.
He frees the knife, testing the blade absentmindedly against his thumb – it's razor sharp, cutting him so neatly he barely even feels it – before slipping it into his pocket.
Raven shrugs him off when they pass in the hallway.
“Leave me alone,” she tells him, with dead-eyed sincerity. He doesn't, because he remembers how it was to be alone in the days after his mother was floated and Octavia was locked up, and he doesn't want that for her.
He sits next to her at dinner, though she avoids his eye and speaks to no one. Her face is expressionless as everyone gets to their feet to toast to their union against a common enemy, and though she raises her goblet, she doesn't drink to peace.
Then the wine turns out to be poisoned, Bellamy knocks Clarke's cup out of her hand, and everything descends into chaos.
*
He does wonder, for a moment, because he has no illusions about Raven's scruples. But she maintains that she didn't do it, and that's good enough for him. Poison isn't her style, and neither is disguising her intent to kill you.
Lexa has already strung her up by the time he reaches her. He can't prevent her suffering entirely (he never can), but he cuts her down and gets her out of there.
“I guess I owe you one,” she says on the way back to camp, eyes on the forest floor.
“No,” he says instantly.
She looks up, startled at his vehemence.
“Pretty sure you've still got me beat.” He glances down at her leg. “And what's the point in keeping score?” She's never spoken to him about her injury, and with the brace it hinders her little enough that he rarely thinks about it. But he has not forgotten how it happened.
She doesn't seem to know how to respond. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she says eventually.
“Doesn't make your leg any less busted.”
She actually cracks a smile at that. “You've got me there.”
*
Clarke pulls him into a meeting the moment they arrive, and it's hours before he can find time to rest. When he finally does make it to his room, he finds Raven there, fiddling with some of the odds and ends on the table in the corner. He shuts the door and leans back against it, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's so tired his head aches, but he already knows he's not going to turn her away, whatever she asks.
She looks up, and he realizes belatedly that she's got the knife in her hands, turning it idly end over end.
“Why do you have this?” There are tears in her eyes, but her voice is sharp. She drops it on the table with a thud.
Bellamy shrugs, feigning indifference. “It's all yours.”
“I don't want it!” She slams her hand down on the table, making the single lantern rattle, and the light shivers wildly over her face before settling.
He sighs, and steps closer to cover her hand with his. “It was mercy. You know that.”
She snatches her hand away. “You think so? Even you?” Her tone indicates betrayal. “What would you have done?” she demands. “What would you do if it were Octavia's life instead of Finn's?”
He doesn't hesitate. “I'd kill everyone on Earth and then myself before I would let any harm come to her.”
She blinks, and swallows convulsively. “Oh.”
“I get it.” She is so easy to understand in this moment that it makes his chest ache.
“He's-” she breaks off, passing a shaky hand over her eyes, and deliberately corrects herself. “He was my only family.”
“I know,” says Bellamy. He hesitates, then adds, “I know that's what you think.”
A tear rolls down her cheek, and he reaches out to her tentatively. She leans her head against his chest, exhaustion written in every line of her body.
“What now?”
“You could think about the possibility of forgiving her.”
She snorts. “How the fuck do I do that?”
His thumb traces gently back and forth on her shoulder. “I don't know. But you and Clarke have to co-operate. We won't survive without each other.”
“Who cares?” Her voice is muffled against his jacket, and he grabs her by both shoulders and pulls her away so he can look her in the eye.
“You should! You could stand to take more care with your own life.”
Her face is tear-streaked, drawn with pain. “Why should I?”
There are a million answers to that question, none of them right, but rather than reminding her of how brilliant she is, how necessary, Bellamy takes her face in his hands, and kisses her.
For a moment her body is stiff with surprise, and then she melts into him, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders and the back of his neck. She kisses him back with greedy fervor, and he slides his hand into her ponytail and pulls the elastic band out. Her hair tumbles down around her shoulders, and he breaks the kiss to sweep it back off her face. With meticulous care, he pulls out the pins, setting them on the table behind her, and unbinds the single tiny braid. She watches him with a steady, unreadable gaze. His hands find the hem of her shirt, and she lifts her arms to help him pull it over her head.
Her wrists are raw where Lexa's ropes cut into them, leaving fibers embedded in the dried blood. She affects not to notice, but he frowns at the sight and leaves her standing there in her bra for a moment to find a cloth and water with which to clean the wounds. She winces but makes no sound as he tends to them.
Impulsively, he kisses her brow, one hand cupping the back of her head. She exhales shakily, and her eyes flutter shut. Her skin tastes faintly of salt, underlaid with the tang of stale sweat from leftover adrenaline. Very gently, he kisses each eyelid, and her damp lashes brush his cheek. She stays perfectly still, hardly breathing. His nose grazes her ear, and he bites her earlobe lightly. She sucks in a breath, not quite a gasp, muscles tensing. He lets his mouth linger, kissing the spot where her neck meets her jaw. She tips her head back against his hand, baring her slender throat, making it clear what she wants. He sinks his teeth into her neck, and she groans aloud and reaches for him like she can't even help it. His dick goes from interested to achingly hard so rapidly he feels lightheaded. Provoking her is gratifying in a way he doesn't have words for.
“That okay?” he asks, because he wants to hear her say it.
“Yes!”
He smiles, and with the hand not cradling her head, fumbles briefly with the clasp of her bra. Once it's unhooked, she shrugs it off and flings it carelessly away. His hand goes automatically to the curve of her breast, and he circles her nipple with his thumb, watching it stiffen. She pulls him by the lapels into a kiss, her breasts crushed against his jacket. One hand slides down his abdomen to palm his dick through his jeans, making him shudder and lose focus on their kiss, mouth gone slack and aimless. His head falls forward onto her shoulder as her fingers outline the shape of him through the stiff denim.
Hands under the backs of her thighs, he lifts her onto the edge of the table to remove her boots, socks, brace, pants, and underwear. Once she's completely naked he picks her up and deposits her carefully on the bed. He takes a moment to kiss her, hands roaming over her long legs where they bracket his waist, the smooth skin of her back, everywhere he can reach, before rapidly shedding his own clothes.
She's sitting up, and he comes back to her and slips his arms around her, bearing her down onto the blankets. His hands map the dip of her waist and the flare of her hip as she wraps herself around him. She moves into every touch like one starving, and he recognizes a terrible, yearning hunger in her, familiar enough that it could be his own. Raven might not talk about her feelings much, but she has a tell. Her hands give her away every time. She is out of practice at getting what she wants, but in this, he can read her like a book. And as long as she's reaching out, he can no more deny her than he could change his height or the color of his eyes. Even if it doesn't help. It didn't before, and that was only a broken heart. This is true grief, and there's nothing romantic about it.
There is a small and petty part of Bellamy that wants her to come to him – just once – purely because she wants him, not in reaction to Finn. Which isn't fair, but he never claimed to be that.
“I haven't been with anyone since you,” he admits, sotto voce. Somehow it seems vitally important that he tell her this. She doesn't say a word, but her mouth finds his as if by instinct. She bites his lip, hard enough that he wonders for a moment whether the slipperiness on his tongue is blood or saliva, before deciding it doesn't matter. Her skillful fingers find their way into the space between their bodies to wrap around the length of him, and he thrusts involuntarily against her stomach as her thumb describes circles around the head. He curses under his breath, whatever control he had slipping another notch.
She arches up into him, rubbing herself against him, spreading her thighs to try and fit him inside her. The angle's all wrong, the head of his dick slipping past her entrance to bump maddeningly against her clit, making them both shudder and gasp. Taking himself in hand, he deliberately rubs the swollen head against her clitoris until she makes a frustrated sound low in her throat, and reaches around to pull him in. Her blunt nails dig into his ass as she urges him forward, and they groan in unison as he sinks in a couple of inches. The depth he wants is impossible this way, and he blinks a drop of sweat out of his eyes and rearranges their limbs. With his left hand, he grips the top of her thigh and bends her good leg at the knee, leaning into it for better leverage. His teeth fasten on the hollow in her neck where her pulse beats frantically, and the breath goes out of him in a rush as he slides in to the hilt. She lets out a broken noise, nearly a sob, and her hips rise to meet his with bruising force. He kisses his way from her collarbone to her breasts, circling each areola in turn. She writhes with impatience until he pinches her nipple sharply, making her whimper and her inner muscles flutter.
“Don't stop,” she says through gritted teeth.
“What?” he asks, just to be an asshole. “This?” He ducks his head and places a glancing bite on each breast before soothing the sting away with his tongue. She hisses and arches her back, pulling his hair in retaliation. Her entire body radiates restless tension.
“Come on,” she urges, both plea and demand. “I won't break.”
He doesn't make her ask again. When she rolls her hips, he meets her halfway. He bends her right leg further, spreading her open a little wider so he can fuck into her properly, and they fall into a fast, brutal rhythm, her fingernails carving tiny crescents into the muscles of his back. Her breasts bounce and wobble with every thrust. His fingers dig possessively into her thigh, and she moans each time their bodies collide.
“Fuck,” she murmurs, voice ragged.
“God,” he whispers, “Raven.” He's gripping her hard enough to leave marks, caught up in the exquisite sensation of slick wet heat around his cock, the way her arms envelop him so tightly, like she's afraid he'll disappear at any moment. She rakes her nails down his back, panting encouragement into his ear.
“That's good,” she breathes. His stomach swoops with triumph, and he rocks into her, losing himself in the increasingly incoherent words she whispers to him like a confession. The praise unravels a knot somewhere inside his chest, and he reaches up and puts a hand over her lips to silence her, because if she keeps going like that he's going to come before she does. Her tongue traces his fingertips and she sucks one of them into her mouth, her teeth scraping his knuckle.
He pushes a second finger past her lips, watching her mouth as she sucks, and his gaze drifts up to meet her eyes, dark and luminous as embers. After a moment he pulls his hand free and wipes it carelessly on the sheet, leaning forward to kiss her. She shoves her tongue into his mouth, surging up to meet him. Their bodies jolt upon impact, sweat beading everywhere their skin touches. She resists where he would have soothed her, breaking the kiss when he tries to slow it down, turning her face away to breathe unevenly against his neck. She is too greedy and restless to deny, though he never wants it to end. He reaches down and presses his thumb roughly against her clit in time with the undulation of her hips, matching her rhythm. She utters a little scream when she climaxes, and bites his shoulder to smother the sound, hard enough that he grunts in surprise. His hips stutter to a halt at the sensation, and he can feel his orgasm starting before he even moves. He only manages two more thrusts before he comes, slumping forward to engulf her body with his own.
Eventually he finds the strength to move, and rolls away, dazed. The only sound is their erratic breathing, and faintly, the rain pattering against the metal roof.
Before the sweat on her forehead has cooled, chest still heaving, Raven turns to him speculatively.
“That all you got?”
There are fine strands of hair stuck to her temples, her eyes are fever-bright, and her mouth is relaxed, with the suggestion of a smirk in one corner. He leans over and kisses her there, taking her by surprise.
“God you're hard work,” he mutters, and he can feel her smile against his lips.
It's not exactly a chore for him to hold her down and fuck her into the mattress until they both pass out from exhaustion.
*
Later, in the silent predawn hours, he wakes to the sound of her crying out in her sleep. He shakes her awake and smudges the tears from her cheeks with gentle fingers. It doesn't take a genius to guess what she has nightmares about, and there's nothing he can say to make it better, so he doesn't say anything.
He kisses her face lightly, all over, tasting salt. Her hair tickles his mouth, and he tucks it behind her ear and over her shoulder. She shifts until they're chest to back, her face turned into the pillow and his mouth against the back of her neck. His knees slot naturally into place behind hers, and she takes his hand and guides it between her legs, flattening his palm against her clit and applying pressure in broad, firm strokes. He picks up the unhurried rhythm quickly, and her hands relax, but don't release his.
This time she doesn't make a sound, just arches against his hand and then goes boneless in his arms. He falls asleep with his back still stinging from her nails and his palm resting against her hip.
In the morning she's still there, her dark hair flowing across his pillow like a river, and he closes his eyes against the sunlight creeping into his room, and lets her sleep.
*
They don't talk about it, but after that she finds her way into his bed more often than not, and he tosses and turns on the nights she doesn't come to him.
It begins to grow cold in the ramshackle rooms they've assembled out of the wreckage of the Ark, the winter chill creeping through the walls along with the foliage. Sometimes he finds her already asleep in his room, cocooned in the quilts from both their beds, and he has to pry the blankets from her unconscious grasp to cover them both. Her hands and feet are always cold, and the tip of her nose. She presses icy fingers against his ribcage, making him shiver, and warms her toes on his calves. Even fast asleep she finds ways to be difficult.
It's not a secret, but Raven is so circumspect in public that he's pretty sure half the camp thinks he doesn't have a chance with her. He doesn't care, because he knows he's the only one who gets to see her with her hair down and hear her talking in her sleep. It's habit-forming, this falling into each other's arms whenever time allows, both fearing attachment because they know firsthand how temporary it can be, and craving it for the same reason.
She has a scar on the small of her back where Abby dug the bullet out of her spine, and Bellamy wants nothing more than to rest his hand there for as long as she'll allow. He knows better than to think he can understand her, he can only take note of what's obvious. How casually reckless she is, how little regard she has for her own safety, how much the limits of her body frustrate her. He can only watch her splinter apart; and put herself back together, or not. As she chooses.
Until the night comes when she no longer needs him, he'll be there, the two of them skin against skin and the sweeping ends of her hair brushing his fingertips where they rest feather-light against her back. They cling to each other like a raft in the sea, and neither one of them is alone in the dark.
*
It was meant to be temporary. A quick fix, but she went and got addicted.
Part of Raven keeps waiting for the inevitable. She expects him to run out of patience eventually, to push her away when she holds on too tight, but he never does.