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It's probably unhealthy, how many times Clarke has had to see her own hands covered in someone else's blood. Hurting and healing, her hands have certainly covered the spectrum of destruction and repair.
There's a tremor in her fingers as she holds them up to the fire. There's a chill deep in her bones that she can't seem to shake.
Unconsciously, she scoots even closer to the warmth of the flames.
"Careful." Bellamy's voice is gruff and sudden but she doesn't startle. It takes a lot to shake Clarke these days. "Last thing we need is you setting yourself on fire."
"I'm fine, Bellamy." She closes her hands into fists and rest them on her knees. He has enough on his plate, without worrying about the tremble in her fingers too. She stares resolutely into the flames, feels him settle in behind her.
"I don't know." He says, considering. She feels a swift tug on her hair. "These are probably pretty flammable." He's got one of her braids in his hands and its twirling it gently. It pulls at her scalp when she twists her head to look at him. Bellamy Blake is teasing her. In spite of herself, she laughs.
Bellamy chuckles along with her, the sound unfamiliar to her ears. She’s startled by the realization that she can’t remember ever hearing him laugh before. Even more unsettling is the realization that she wants to hear it more often.
Their laughter fades into silence and they’re left staring at each other. His face looks hazy through the smoke of the fire. She can’t see his freckles through the haze and under the grime, but his scars are another story. Angry, bloody lines cover his face. She traces over the curves and edges of every one, lingering on a particularly nasty looking on his cheekbone. She makes a mental note to examine that one more closely later, if he’ll let her. He’s always too stubborn about his own well-being.
Harper had told her the story. When they’d first gotten to the cave, and Clarke had been greeted by her old friends, Harper had pulled her aside and whispered in her ear. How Lincoln had been executed by Pike. How Bellamy’d come to warn them and help them and nobody had listened. How Octavia had blamed him, had beaten him, broken him, and Bellamy had let her.
Clarke used to imagine that having a sibling must be similar to how she felt about Wells. She always thought she’d love him unconditionally. And then she’d blamed him, pushed him away, hurt him over and over again. And he’d taken it. He’d taken all of the responsibility and shouldered her burdens until she was ready to face the truth.
Anyway, Clarke knows a little something about how Octavia feels. But that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to look at the broken man she’s left behind.
She sweeps over the rest of his face perfunctorily. When she catches his eye, she realizes he’s been staring at her for as long as she’s been staring at him. He coughs awkwardly when their eyes meet, drops her gaze and lets the braid slip through his fingers.
“Raven’s okay then?” He asks, gruff and low. All business.
“She will be.” Clarke’s neck twinges and she spins back around to the fire, lets her gaze fall on Raven through the flames. She’s sleeping, her head pillowed on Jasper’s lap. They got close, while Clarke was away. It’s surprising, but comforting to see. They have each other. They’ll mend. “How’s your hand?” She asks Bellamy, after a beat.
He sighs.
“Fine.” The word is heavy in the air. They both know it’s a lie.
Clarke can see Monty, sitting in the far corner of the cave. His back is to the wall, his head tipped back. She doesn’t know for sure, can’t see clearly through the shadows, but he’s too tense to be asleep. He’s staring at the ceiling. The epitome of not fine. Nothing about them is fine.
Miller, Bryan and Harper are asleep, taking their rest where they can get it. They’d just gotten off watch, traded places with Sinclair and Octavia who are standing just out of sight at the mouth of the cave. Clarke’s not sure exactly who they’re watching for. Who’s the biggest threat to their rag-tag team now, Grounders or Arkers. There’s no one left to trust except the people in this cave.
That’s why Bellamy isn’t sleeping even though he’s been awake for too long. He’s still behind her, but Clarke knows he’s staring at the cave entrance, alert to any possible noise. Ready to jump at the first sign of trouble. He’d do anything to keep his sister safe, even if Clarke hasn’t seen Octavia so much as look at her brother since she first jumped out of the Rover.
She shudders and shifts dangerously closer to the fire. She feels Bellamy shift behind her.
“I’m not going to burn myself Bellamy.” She snaps, sick of his hovering. Sick at the feelings twisted in her gut, at the way he’ll protect everyone else but not himself. ALIE’s words from Raven’s mouth echo in her ears.
“Whatever you say, Princess.”
They both freeze. Clarke’s heart stops beating. The old nickname brings back everything. Who they used to be. Who she used to be. When was the last time she’d heard that name?
“Sorry.” He mutters. Clarke makes herself swallow, forces air back into her own lungs again.
She shakes her head, lets him off the hook. Old habits and all.
“Princess.” She says the word back to herself, whispers it like a prayer. “I haven’t been a princess in a long time.” She shifts and glances at him again. “I’d rather be a princess than Wanheda.” It’s a confession. An apology. She hopes he understands.
There’s a moment of silence and then.
“I’d rather you just be Clarke.”
That definitely sounds like a confession. Or it could be at least, in someone else’s life. Now it’s an okay. It’s the beginnings of forgiveness, an olive branch extended through time. A seed planted in the ashes of the people they were and the legends they’ve had to become.
“Clarke kom Skaikru.” She says, turns and offers him the ghost of a smile. “I don’t know who that is anymore.”
He stares at her, doesn’t offer her anything other than his gaze. But that’s okay. That’s all she needs.
“You were never my knight, Bellamy.” She says, staring resolutely at the flames of the fire. If she doesn’t say it now, she never will and he deserves to know. “That’s not how I – that’s not what we were. Are.”
“Okay.” His voice is steady and unreadable.
"We work together."
He doesn’t say anything, but that’s okay. His eyes flicker to hers and he nods and a weight she didn’t know she’d been carrying lifts off her chest. She can breathe again.
She doesn’t know if he gets it. How lost she’s been without him by her side. How terrible she feels for leaving him behind. How deeply she understands the pain and shock and horror he feels towards himself. There’s a million apologies she could make, thousands of things she wants to say burning her throat. But she’s said her piece and it’s out there and right now that’s enough.
They sit in silence for a minute and let the moment settle at their feet. Whatever has happened in the past, whatever faces them in the future, from this moment on they are Clarke and Bellamy again. They work together. They survive together.
Clarke finally feels close enough to the fire. The ice in her chest starts to thaw.
The moment ends.
“Get some rest Clarke.” He rests his hand on her knee, squeezes it gently. “We’ll leave for Arkadia at first light.”
“You need to rest too Bellamy.” She says, but she knows it’s futile. He just smiles a little, and shakes his head.
“Later.” He stands and lets his hand slip off her knee. She can hear his back pop as he stretches. “Rest, Clarke.” He says again. “We’ve got a lot to do.”
Find Luna. Save Arkadia. Rescue her mother. Kill Ontari. Stop ALIE. The list is long. The road before them is paved with good intentions and impossible choices. She watches Bellamy as he walks away, crouches down next to Raven and claps Jasper on the shoulder.
He left his jacket behind. Clarke knows he did it on purpose. She takes the gift for what it is, balls up the fabric and curls up where she is next to the fire. She does scoot back though, farther from the flames. Bellamy will worry otherwise, about sparks and stray embers. He has enough to worry about.
She closes her eyes, lets them tear up at the burn from the smoke and drifts off to sleep on her makeshift pillow, the scratchy fabric of the guard’s jacket rubbing her cheek, feeling lighter than she has in months.
She has her people. They have a plan. She’s not alone.
She’s finally warm.