Work Text:
Raven dates Wick. Things become easier to deal with when someone’s trying to be there and for as long as she’s managing, he’s there. So long as he gets a reward, he’s there. But nothing ever heals ( neither does her leg ). She’s still broken and hurt and torn. Putting up a facade of bravery and acceptance isn’t enough - she’s not strong enough for the ruse. So it cracks. Not all at once, but slowly. When she’s not actively trying to keep the pieces from falling, she becomes too much for Wick to handle. Her mind is sore from trying with false results; the mask was for his benefit, anyhow. When she wants to stay quiet in her mourning, he begs her to talk. When she wants to yell in aggravation, he tells her to calm. Their communication is limited to his connivence and what he wants of her. It’s not what she needs. He’s not what she wants. So they split,
She needs understanding and patience. She needs to be herself. She needs to regroup on her own. Do her own healing and find herself again. There’s a calm in tinkering with old electronics, but the looming sense of conscious distraction prevents it from fully succeeding. Her injury keeps her from scouting and the guards keep her from fighting. She enjoys her visits from her friends, talking about their days and the plans of the camp. But she sees their bodies lean forward to aid her when she stands, and how occasionally her leg aching makes their pace slower. It’s a slight reminder of her handicap and of how her physical injury is a burden ( her reminder of her emotional scarring, follows soon after ).
Despite the failure of healing the first time, she finds herself in Bellamy’s tent, sitting on his bed, and waiting for his arrival. It’s the only place where wounds don’t feel raw, where she doesn’t feel helpless, and where her faults and pain are seen as a strength rather than a weakness. He admires that about her: the FIGHT to survive despite the obstacles in her path ( it’s more than he did when his world collapsed ). When he enters, he notices the hallow puff around her eyes and he knows she needs him. He never questions her about the remnants of tears or the slight shaking of her hands, nor does he ask what is wrong or why she’s there. Instead he tells her of his day and the frustrations in it. She follows his lead with complains of her own. It helps to ease up without being required to. Only after she stumbles does he put an arm out to steady her and he released his grip so that she may sit on his makeshift cot. Once he’s done settling into the night, he joins her side. In time, his arm winds around her and she curls against his side. There’s nothing forced nor demanded, but peace is reached and normalcy ( as far as normal can go on the Earth ) feels plausible. He’s there for her, and this is what she needs.