Chapter Text
“Run fast, both of you.”
Clarke and Bellamy share a look, one that speaks volumes. They don't have any time to waste, nor do they have the luxury of helping a stumbling Monty inside. The opportunity to linger has long since passed. Time is working against them now.
With one last nod to Raven, they turn and start running as fast and hard as they can. The terrain is rough and the stakes are high. One misstep and everything can go sideways quickly, and yet, Clarke finds herself stumbling more than usual, feeling unbalanced as she pushes herself faster. Bellamy has longer legs and he uses them to stay a step ahead at all times. Knowing what must be done, she calls his name and manages to toss him the pack mid-run. He'll reach the tower a few moments before she will, giving him more time to get the task done.
As predicted, he's at the base of the tower, pulling something out of the pack as she comes to a stumbling halt next to him. He's mumbling under his breath, and it takes her a moment to realize what he's repeating over and over.
“Sad Star One, Sad Star One, Sad Star—”
“There!” Clarke blurts out, jolting forward to point to the source of what they're looking for.
Bellamy grins at her in relief, fumbling to follow Raven’s instructions. It's not overly complicated, but Clarke knows it's not their strong suit either. Bellamy is a leader, first and foremost, just like Clarke. They have their specialties—hunting, medical knowledge. They have their hobbies—history, art. But, overall, this task is better suited for Monty or Raven, both of which can't do it.
“Disc not aligned, disc not aligned, disc not—”
“What did I do wrong?” Bellamy asks, growling in the back of his throat as he smacks the side of the unit emitting a disheartening message on repeat. He whips his head around to Clarke, his eyes wide. “Radio Raven. I—It's not working. I don't know what I did.”
Clarke shoves the radio at Bellamy and nudges him out of the way, dipping down to re-do the same thing he did the first time. When it gives her the same result, she starts to panic a little. She can hear Bellamy barking out questions through the radio, but Raven doesn't seem to be replying. Truly scared now, she reaches out to grasp the lid and look at the faded print of instructions.
Manual override jumps out at her.
“Bellamy,” Clarke says softly, suddenly calm as she turns around to look at him.
“What, Clarke?” Bellamy snaps, staring at her with wide, helpless eyes.
Clarke swallows. “You have to go back.”
“Go back? Did it work? What—”
“Bellamy! You—you need to go back, now. Turn around and run. There's a manual override, but it won't give us enough time. We won't make it back. Not both of us.”
Bellamy stares at her for a beat, then shakes his head. “If you think I'm leaving you here, you're insane. Tell me how to override it, and you go back.”
“You'll die if you stay behind,” Clarke grits out, yanking the pack and cord and glancing at her watch. Just under ten minutes now. Her heart stutters. “Bellamy, if you don't go now—”
“I'm not leaving you,” Bellamy says fiercely, reaching out to grasp the pole of the tower, mimicking her motions with a stubborn set to his jaw. “Either we both make it, or neither of us do. Now tell me what to do, and let's get it done.”
Clarke closes her eyes briefly, swallowing down her frustration and grief. Now isn't the time for it. She knows that changing Bellamy’s mind is next to impossible when he's dead-set on something. She just wishes he wasn't so set on dying alongside her.
“Climb,” Clarke snaps, then proceeds to take her own advice, focusing on the task at hand.
It comes easy to her to push away her feelings and do what has to be done. Since she set foot on the ground, she's been doing that. Survival pushes people to do impossible things, she's learned, and this is no exception. She is very aware that she's going to die, and so is Bellamy, but they still have to make sure their friends make it to Space safely. If they can do that, then their deaths will actually mean something. Everything they've ever done will.
Clarke makes it to the top first, swinging herself to the platform with a grunt. She wastes no time and opens the pack with one hand while swinging open the lid of the unit. Moments later, Bellamy eases into the open spot behind her, silently watching over her shoulder. There's a tense silence between them that Clarke won't and can't worry about right now.
“Disc not aligned, disc not aligned, disc not—”
“Dammit!” Clarke explodes, tilting her head back to look at the disc. Her anger melts into heart wrenching worry when she sees Bellamy climbing up to the disc in question. “Bellamy, what are you—”
“Tell me when it's aligned!” Bellamy shouts down to her, climbing higher.
Heart in her throat, Clarke turns her gaze past him, staring into the rolling abyss of Praimfaya. The sight of it is daunting, every instinct in her body telling her to seek shelter. For her friends, she stays.
She rips her gaze away from her doom and glances between the disc and the screen. Bellamy grimaces as he strongarms the disc into moving, then makes the same expression when he glances down and she shakes her head. In the distance, there's a sound like a massive explosion, and they both turn their heads to watch the rocket take off.
“Keep going!” Clarke shouts, blinking the tears out of her eyes.
Bellamy begins again, straining to move that disc over and over. He checks with her every time, and she feels her heart sink each time she has to shake her head. Frustration grows within her. They just need the right angle, the right—there!
“Did I get it?” Bellamy shouts down.
Clarke nods frantically. “You got it! Start climbing down! I'll meet you at the bottom!”
For once, Bellamy doesn't argue. She gets the signal sent, relief swelling in her chest as she watches it go through. Then her survival instincts kick in and she wastes no more time. Despite knowing it's pointless, she swings her body around the rungs on the tower and climbs down faster than she thought was possible, letting herself fall when she reaches a safe distance.
“Where will we go?” Bellamy mutters, rubber boots crunching the snow as he walks over and helps her to her feet. They stare at the massive tide of Praimfaya, standing side-by-side.
Clarke sighs quietly. “We may as well go back to the lab. I'd rather starve to death then burn alive, but that's just me. What about you?”
“Yeah,” Bellamy says, throwing her a wry grin, “I'm going to have to agree. If we're going to make it, we have to go now.”
“So let's go,” Clarke murmurs.
She glances down when she feels something grasp her glove. Bellamy has reached out to grab her hand with his, and though it's awkward due to their radiation suits, she draws comfort from it. Together, without a word between them, they take off running.
Praimfaya is an unforgiving mistress, making the world around them shake and tremble. Tremors underfoot send them off-balance. More than once, they get tossed down to the ground, only to get right back up and keep running, pushing forward, hopelessly trying to live despite there not really being a point. That's survival for you, though.
Around them, the world burns.
When they get closer to the entrance, a violent shudder of the earth has Clarke careening to the side, spilling over a log and landing face-first on a branch. For the first time, her hand gets ripped from Bellamy’s and she sucks in a gulp of fresh air once she gets her bearings. A hand is immediately on her elbow, helping her up, and the fresh air on her tongue tastes like smoke—thick and sour.
That's the first clue to what's happened. The next is opening her eyes and seeing the splintered glass of her radiation mask. She blinks at it in horror, feeling her face itch and burn, and Bellamy curses under his breath. Without preamble, he smacks his hand over the gaping hole and yanks her into a run. He basically has to drag her the rest of the way as the radiation immediately begins to take effect.
She's choking by the time she gets inside, something thick and rancid rising up her throat. Bellamy slams the doors and rips her helmet off, peering at her with wide, horrified eyes. Clarke vomits.
“Okay, okay, just breathe,” Bellamy tells her, sounding panicked. He goes to take off his helmet, but Clarke snags his hands in her weak grasp.
“No,” she manages to choke out. “You'll die. Stay in the suit. Live.”
It's a stupid request, but it's her dying wish, and she can only hope that Bellamy will fulfill it for however long he can. Radiation has already taken her, and she won't let that be how he goes. If anyone can make it five years in an abandoned lab with a shitty radiation suit, it's going to be him.
Exhausted, she drops her hands from him, her eyes fluttering shut. The last thing she sees before she passes out is Bellamy’s determined expression.
“There we go, drink a little more. That's it.”
Clarke groans, weakly reaching out to try and push away the metal against her lips. She's swallowing reflexively, drinking down something someone gives her. It tastes good, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's safe, so she fights her instincts to drink more, trying to turn her head away.
“Don't fight me on this, Clarke,” comes an exasperated voice.
Clarke knows that voice. It's Bellamy. Fighting him is the last thing she wants to do; she's so tired of fighting. With a deep exhale through her nose, she drinks whatever Bellamy is giving her, letting it soothe her raw, sandpaper throat. She hears him hum in relief and approval.
After that, she drifts.
For what feels like forever, she exists only in brief moments. Sometimes, she wakes during pain where she's violently vomiting and every inch of her body feels as if it's on fire. Other times, she becomes aware when nothing hurts and all she can hear is the low rumble of Bellamy’s voice, even if she has no idea what he's saying. She prefers the latter.
And then, miraculously, she wakes up for real. This time, she exists somewhere in between the pain and relief. She feels tired and hot, has some aches in her limbs, but she feels alive for the first time since the radiation seeped into her helmet.
“Bellamy?” Clarke rasps, blinking open her eyes and pushing herself to sit up. She's lying down on a table, her radiation suit beneath her as makeshift padding.
“You're awake.” Bellamy rolls over in a chair, beaming at her behind the glass of his helmet. He arches an eyebrow at her. “You are awake this time, right?”
Clarke stares at him. “Yes, I think so. What happened? How am I—”
“Alive?” Bellamy prompts. “Well, apparently your blood can withstand the radiation from Praimfaya. You got sick, sure, but you made it out fine.”
“How much time has passed?” Clarke asks.
Bellamy sighs. “Eight days.”
“Eight?” Clarke sputters, eyes bulging. “How are you even here right now? You should be—”
“Dead?” Bellamy interrupts yet again, his lips twitching. “There are rations here. I've been splitting them between us until you woke up. Thankfully, the lab has a couple of sealed chambers I can crawl into and shut myself off. It lets me take off my helmet to eat and drink, no harm done.”
“But if you take off your helmet now…” Clarke glances around the room, swallowing thickly.
“Yeah,” Bellamy answers her unasked question.
Clarke stares around the lab for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. It's not even a question of what needs to be done, it's just a question of how they're going to do it. Bellamy isn't exactly the pinnacle of a doctor, and the idea of him doing the operation, while in a radiation suit, isn't a practical one. She'll have to do it herself.
It's going to hurt. Very badly.
“Here's to hoping Mom didn't destroy everything,” Clarke mutters to herself, swinging her legs over the side of the table and hopping to her feet.
Bellamy reaches out to grab her arm. “What are you doing? What did Abby destroy?”
“You need nightblood,” Clarke says simply, shuffling across the room towards her mother’s medical equipment. “You need my bone marrow.”
“Clarke,” Bellamy protests.
“Don't fight me on this, Bellamy,” Clarke retorts sharply, throwing him a serious look. It's enough to make him snap his mouth shut. “I'm doing this, and you're going to help me.”
“Even if I could do it, how am I going to inject myself without being exposed to the radiation?” Bellamy raises his eyebrows.
“You're not doing it.” Clarke takes a deep breath and reaches out for the drill. “I am.”
Bellamy immediately starts shaking his head. “No. Clarke, that's going to hurt.”
“Yes, I know that,” she grits out, ignoring him as she looks around the room. “The chamber you've been getting into. How come it doesn't take in the radiation from here?”
“It dispels out all the air inside.” Bellamy grimaces and crosses his arms. “I can't breathe for a while, but it's better than dying.”
Clarke nods. “That will work. You'll inject yourself in there. Now, I just need—aha!”
“Hey, just—just wait a second,” Bellamy says, surging forward to grasp her wrist. “Clarke, we should think about this. It doesn't take a genius to know that you doing this with no anesthetic is going to be—” He stops, his throat working. “I was there, in Mount Weather. I know what it looks like. If you do this…”
Clarke snatches her hand from his grip, holding his gaze steadily. “I am doing this. It will make sure you survive just like I did. I'm going to need your help drawing out the marrow. I—I can try, but you'll be able to do it quicker.”
“You don't have to do this, Clarke,” Bellamy whispers.
“Yes,” Clarke says softly, “I do.”
She's no stranger to pain. In fact, she'd think that she's intimately familiar with it. There's things that have happened to her, things that she's had to do, and all of it has left scars—physical, mental, and emotional. She's suffered superficial pain, cuts and bruises and burns, but the pain that lingers with her all the time comes from the loss she's faced and the choices she's had to make. It weighs on her every day, to the point that she can't remember a time she hasn't felt it.
So, yes, she knows pain. That doesn't mean she doesn't feel it when she begins slicing into her skin. Her blood bubbles to the surface, black and thick, and she clenches her teeth together so hard that they ache. It doesn't help her hold in her scream that rises up her throat the farther she takes this, but it does muffle it, at least.
Bellamy’s face screws up and he looks away, only to force himself to watch. He's that type of guy, the one who'll look at what she's doing to herself and put the blame on his own shoulders, like it's his fault. If she were in the state of mind to do it, she'd snap at him for undoubtedly thinking like that, but as it is, she's just trying to get through this as quickly as possible. In the end, she has to ignore him entirely as she gasps out wet breaths and presses on.
“Here,” Bellamy says, sounding anguished, as if he's the one in pain. He reaches out to help steady her hand as she fumbles for the hollow syringe.
He helps her through the rest. He draws out the thick marrow, and she groans low in her throat when the hard part is over. All that's left to do is sew her skin back together, which she does with shaking hands and traitorous tears escaping. She knows this pain won't matter later, not when Bellamy will be able to step outside of his suit and live, not when they'll be able to escape the lab and head to the bunker.
“How long can you go in there before you pass out?” Clarke asks breathlessly, wincing as she smooths a bandage over her stitches—here's to hoping it doesn't get infected.
Bellamy holds up the syringe. “Let's find out.”
She feels like death warmed over, but she grabs a ration bar from the counter and follows him anyway. She munches on it, trying to regain some energy as he heads to the chamber, and they share a long look before he flips open the lid and climbs in. When it shuts, he lays the syringe down and reaches out to flip a switch. The chamber makes a low whirring sound, and Clarke watches in discomfort as his body seizes for a moment, gasping for air that isn't there.
Quickly, he rips the helmet off and shuffles around to get one arm out of the suit. His face is twisted into a grimace, turning red from the lack of oxygen, and Clarke leans on the glass, watching him worriedly. A moment later, he's plunging the syringe into his arm and pushing Clarke's blood into his.
Not everyone survives this, she knows. Anything could go wrong, or it could take too long, or he could reject the nightblood. All they can do is wait.
It can't end like this. Clarke won't accept that. They've already survived so much, even Praimfaya against all odds, and she won't even entertain the possibility that he might not make it through this. It looks unpleasant on his end, though. He's gone nearly purple now, and he's clawing at his own chest, surging forward with soundless screams as he asphyxiates. She wants to help him, but she knows she can't, not yet.
Clarke pushes it until Bellamy starts to go limp, his eyes rolling back. He sinks down and goes still, and she can't take it anymore. She just has to hope that it worked, that he'll survive this, too.
“Bellamy!” Clarke hisses desperately, wrenching open the chamber and dragging him out. They go down in a tumble of limbs, hitting the ground hard, and she listens to him gasp in a deep breath. Scrambling, she manages to grasp his face and stare into his rapidly blinking eyes. “Bellamy, are you—”
“Clarke,” Bellamy gasps out raggedly, then proceeds to vomit right into their laps.
It gets lonely in the lab.
Clarke wonders how Bellamy passed the time during those eight days she was in and out of it. Probably the same way she does, she imagines.
She bides her time by taking care of Bellamy. For the first six days, she's sure that he's dying. He doesn't often wake up and can't keep anything down that she gives him. It's touch-and-go for a minute there, his pulse so weak that all she can do is close her eyes and hope. But, for the following six days after the first, he starts to improve—slowly but surely. The radiation burns on his face begin to heal, he starts keeping down rations and water, and he even occasionally wakes up briefly to slur out words.
They've been in this lab for a total of twenty-one days, and Clarke is beginning to go a little stir-crazy. She wants to get to the bunker as soon as possible, to see her mom, but she wouldn't dare leave Bellamy behind. There's nothing in this world that could push her to do that, so she waits.
She finds some notes that Abby, Jackson, and Raven had jotted down in their time here, and she often reads them out loud. It brings a small smile to her face to know that they're all alive. Maybe they're not all together, maybe they're not all in the best conditions, but they're still surviving.
It's all she's ever wanted. Just the survival of her people, and eventually, the chance at peace. She knows that she has done all she can do, as well as Bellamy, and their people have to make it without them now. Clarke believes they can and will.
“Clarke…” Bellamy mumbles.
Her head snaps up from her drawing that she's been doodling for days, and she sees Bellamy’s eyes fluttering. She grabs a canteen and rolls the chair she's sitting on over to where he's propped up on the same table she had been. It had taken her a good hour to get his dead weight on that.
“Are you awake?” Clarke asks him, gently tipping the canteen to his lips and holding his head. She watches him carefully. It wouldn't be the first time he's said her name, only for him to slip right back into sleep.
Bellamy opens his eyes to squint at her, pulling away from the canteen after a sip. “It worked?”
Clarke nods and smiles slightly. “It worked.”
There's not much talking after that. Bellamy drinks more water and eventually takes the ration bar that she pushes into his hand, quietly eating it. She watches him without a word, and he stares at the stain of black blood on his shirt, no doubt realizing that it's his own. Just like her, he has nightblood now.
Clarke is mostly recovered from her bout of radiation poison and the extraction of her bone marrow, but Bellamy will probably need another week. Between them, they'll manage to scrape by with a week and half of rations, then they'll have no choice but to set off for the bunker. It's either that...or die.
“How long?” Bellamy finally asks.
“A day away from two weeks,” Clarke tells him. He frowns, and she sighs. “Your body didn't have as much time as mine did to adjust. Overall, though, you're cleared to walk around perfectly fine in another week.”
“We can go now.” Bellamy shrugs. “I feel fine.”
“We have a week and a half of rations,” Clarke continues, blatantly ignoring him. “It could take us a few days to make it to the bunker, depending on the terrain, so we'll be pretty hungry when we get there. Water should last us a little longer.”
“We leave tomorrow,” Bellamy declares, pushing himself up and off the table with a grimace.
Clarke glares at him. “No, we don't leave tomorrow. You need time to heal, Bellamy.”
“O is down there, Clarke.” Bellamy shrugs, as if that tells her all she needs to know. “Now, I know what I can handle. We'll take it slow if we have to, but we get out of here tomorrow.”
“Two days,” Clarke counters, raising her eyebrows. “You take it easy for two days while I gather supplies for us, then we leave as soon as we wake up on the third day. Better offer?”
Bellamy shakes his head, lips curling up. “Ever the negotiator, Clarke. Fine. Two days.”
“Stay here,” Clarke orders firmly, pointing at him. “I'm going to look for better clothes and anything else of use.”
“Look for a map,” Bellamy calls after her as she walks away.
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Already on it!”
The world looks like shit.
As far as the eye can see, there's sand and dust. Ash rises in the sky, as if everything has just finished burning. There's nothing green in sight. It's like Praimfaya eradicated everything in its path, and upon consideration, Clarke realizes that's exactly what it's done, leaving nothing but rumble and ruined remains in its wake. She tries to imagine her being grouped into that, or Bellamy, and the thought terrifies her.
This doesn't look like the type of world that people can survive in. There's nothing to survive off of. It's just...empty. Empty and dead.
“Sandy,” Bellamy comments dryly.
Despite herself, Clarke’s lips twitch. “Yeah, that's a word for it. At least we don't have to swim to Polis. How far do we have to go?”
“Over two hundred miles,” Bellamy tells her, looking down at the map in his hands.
“We take it slow?” Clarke suggests.
Bellamy folds up the map and slips it into his pocket, nodding. “Slow and steady wins the race. Let's go.”
Together, they step off the rubble over the lab they broke through to get to the surface, and they begin their trek. The world around them is eerily silent. It's so still and lifeless that it invokes a feeling of deep discomfort in Clarke’s chest. The world has never felt this vast and lonely in all the years she's known it, and the emptiness of it sinks its claws into her.
She has to remind herself over and over that Bellamy is walking right beside her, keeping a steady—albeit calm—pace with her. She tells herself that it won't feel like this forever, that her mom and their people are in the bunker, waiting for them.
It's like a cavern of nothingness, and Clarke has to focus on the task at hand to keep from voicing how much she would prefer a world on the brink of war right now. At least then there would be life. She used to wish that all the people in the world who would have her and her people dead would just go away, leave them in peace, but she realizes now that a world without others isn't necessarily a good thing.
They don't talk for what feels like forever, even though there is plenty for them to talk about. Sure, they've had their apologies and reconciliation, but that doesn't make the memory of past actions just go away. Praimfaya didn't destroy that; nothing can.
The fact of the matter is, Clarke held a gun on Bellamy and intended to pull the trigger for the sake of her people, but she couldn't do it. There's something entirely different about sacrificing Bellamy long ago by shutting the doors to the dropship versus killing him now to save even more lives. She could have done it, could've shot him in the leg to bring him down from the hatch, but even that hadn't been an action she would be able to see the way through.
Bellamy would have never forgiven her. Not only that, but she would have condemned Octavia, Kane, Raven, and so many others to death. The few for the many, a choice she's made many times over, and when it arguably mattered most, she hadn't been able to do it. All for the simple reason of Bellamy standing in her way, a physical and emotional obstacle to what needed to be done. She knew, even as she held the gun and tried to force herself to pull the trigger, that she wouldn't be able to do it.
Clarke knows she would have never been able to forgive herself. A piece of her mother would never fully forgive her for Kane. Bellamy would resent her forever for Octavia. Without their voices of reason and their forgiveness, her decision would have destroyed her in the end.
There's a lot of things that sit between them, things that Clarke doesn't know how to approach. In the midst of the end of the world, working on a plan to reach Space, those things had seemed so inconsequential. Now? She wonders if Bellamy can forgive her in the world they're faced with now.
Though, she doesn't know why she's worrying about it. She knows Bellamy better than anyone, and when he makes a decision, he's rarely swayed. His choice to forgive her isn't something he'll go back on, no matter what comes next, just like her choice to forgive him as many times as she has isn't something she'll ever regret. She knows—and he must, too—that every single thing they've done to each other and to those they care about were for good reasons at that time. Constantly worrying about it won't get her anywhere.
Clarke is pulled out of her musings by the sight of a hump of sand. She can see the slightest glint of metal, and for the first time in hours, her heart starts to race with excitement rather than fear.
“Bellamy,” she says, “do you see that?”
“See what?” Bellamy starts in surprise when she suddenly breaks off into a sprint. “Clarke! Dammit, what are you—”
“Look at this,” Clarke tells him sharply, grabbing her shovel and grunting as she digs. “I think it's—oh god, Bellamy, it's the Rover.”
He's suddenly right next to her, hissing in between his teeth as he pulls at mounds of sand to reveal the gun on the Rover. They pause, sharing a hopeful look, then immediately start digging faster. It's no easy task, but neither of them slow or stop, feeling hope for the first time in days.
By the time they manage to get the mountain of packed sand off the Rover, the sun is starting to set. They know without even talking about it that they'll be taking the Rover the rest of the way, so they collectively slow down on getting the sand off. Clarke is sore and tired by now, which means that Bellamy must be dead on his feet. This takes a lot out of them, more than she anticipated.
“Getting cold,” Bellamy comments gruffly, a furrow in his brow as he knocks the sand out of the grill of the Rover with his boot. It rains down in clumps of orange and murky yellow. “We'll be warmer inside, or we could make a fire.”
Clarke glances around. “With what? I mean, we could try, but it'll take longer. Let's just sleep in the Rover. There should still be a blanket back there.”
“Here, use this to get as much sand off the floor as you can,” Bellamy murmurs, passing over the map.
Wordlessly, Clarke takes the map and heads to the back, feeling goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. The temperature is dropping fairly quickly, which isn't ideal. She read once on the Ark that deserts were sometimes the hottest places during the day and the coldest during the night. The entire world seems to be a desert now, so it's not looking great.
With a sigh, she climbs up into the Rover, grainy sand crunching underfoot. She starts on the simple task of swiping out as much sand from the floor as she can, shaking out the folded up blanket draped over the seats. Outside, Bellamy finishes cleaning off the exterior as much as he can, and by the time he circles around the back, she's mostly done.
“When we wake up, the sun should have it recharged, so we can drive,” Clarke murmurs, tapping her knuckles to the side of the Rover’s cool metal. “We'll cut our time in half, at least.”
Bellamy nods, reaching out to grasp the door and swing himself into the back of the Rover, crouching down so he won't hit his head on the roof. “We'll be back with Octavia and Abby soon enough. I'm sure they'll be glad to see us.”
“You know they will,” Clarke says, shoving her way out of her jacket to ball it up as a makeshift pillow. She lays back, pulling half of the cover over her and holding up the other side as Bellamy copies her by making his jacket into a pillow as well. “Octavia thinks you're in Space, so you'll be a good surprise for her. She'll be happy.”
“I hope she's alright.” Bellamy looks worried, even as he shuffles over to slide into the open spot that Clarke offers him, letting the cover settle over him.
Clarke glances over at him, scooting over into the warm line of his arm against hers. “Octavia is strong, Bellamy. If anyone can make it through all of this, it's her. I have never doubted that.”
“She won the Conclave,” Bellamy whispers, staring up at the roof of the Rover blankly. “When we were kids, she used to like to come up from under the floor and play like we were Roman Gladiators. We'd fight to the death, and I made sure she always won.” His lips curl up slightly. “Of course, the only way to win was by hitting each other with a pillow, but still. She used to get this bright smile on her face, and she'd dance around the room, faking cheers from an audience that wasn't there, saying that the crowd was going wild. It was just a game.” The curl of his lips drop and tip down. “Until it wasn't.”
“Like I said,” Clarke rasps, “she's strong.”
“I wish she didn't have to be.”
“We've all had to be, Bellamy. Trying to protect her from it was honorable, but you can't control everyone around her. You did all you could.”
“Sometimes...it doesn't feel like enough,” Bellamy tells her, looking over at her with wide eyes. His throat bobs around an audibly dry swallow. It's growing darker outside now, and she can only really see the outline of his face. He looks guilty. “She never stood a chance, did she? None of us did.”
Clarke reaches out with a fumbling hand under the cover until she can grasp his fingers tight. “Maybe we didn't, but we made it. We're still alive. After everything, we're still alive.”
“There's that,” Bellamy mutters sardonically, but he squeezes her hand. “I guess I should feel grateful that she's alive, but this life…” He clenches her fingers harder. “Clarke, this life sometimes feels so hateful. It's like we were sent here to see if Earth was survivable, and it's just been trying to prove it isn't ever since we stepped foot on the ground.”
“And if we stayed on the Ark?” Clarke argues lightly, her words lacking heat. “They would have sent someone else, and we would've come down anyway. That, or we would have died. At least, here, we still have a chance.”
“Would you have stayed?” Bellamy nudges her elbow with his own, sounding curious. “On the Ark, I mean. Say you were given the choice…”
“Back then?” Clarke huffs a short, bitter laugh. “You know, I probably would have gone wherever Wells wasn't. Or my mom, if I found out the truth.”
“So angry,” Bellamy whispers. “Even back then. Mad at Wells, mad at your mom, then Finn. Murphy, the Grounders, Mount Weather, Finn again, Lexa, me. God, Clarke, have you ever been anything else besides angry at someone?”
Clarke snorts. “You know, I think I've been perpetually angry since my father died, so no, probably not.”
“You ever mad at yourself?” Bellamy asks.
“All the time,” Clarke answers.
Bellamy squeezes her hand again. “Yeah, me too.”
There's a long silence, and Clarke stares listlessly at the omnipresent darkness above her. She turns over Bellamy’s words in her mind. He'd been teasing, she knows that, but she's also aware that he wasn't, in a way. He knows her as well as she knows him, and he sees what most don't—that she's just so angry all the time, usually at herself. She's not alone in that feeling; he deals with it, too.
Clearing her throat, Clarke pulls her hand free from his and turns over, putting her back to him. “Get some sleep, Bellamy.”
“Goodnight, Clarke,” Bellamy murmurs, turning over in the opposite direction so that they're back-to-back, leaning on each other.
Clarke closes her eyes.
Polis looks lost.
It's in shambles, nothing but ruined structures and lifeless rumble. Everything is gray, or full of sand, and it's like Praimfaya caused the city to collapse on itself. Clarke stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Bellamy and stares out at what was once a hub of activity but is now made up of nothing. If not for the simple fact of knowing that people are in an underground bunker, she'd think that all life here was wiped away.
“Do you ever think we should have decided to live in the City of Light?” Clarke asks in a solemn tone, her voice giving away her horror.
Bellamy glances at her briefly. “No, that was never an option, not really. Our choice would be stolen from us, and we wouldn't have even been us.”
“It would have been better than this,” Clarke tells him, blinking slowly as they pick their way across the remains of Polis. She feels safe telling him this, sharing her doubts, because she knows he won't judge her. He'll even correct her. “Maybe Alie was right.”
“If there's one thing I've learned from all this, it's that the easy option isn't always the right one.” Bellamy holds her gaze for a long moment. “The City of Light wasn't an alternative to survival, Clarke, it was ensuring we'd all die. You made the right call.”
Clarke doesn't say anything else, just nods in thanks, averting her eyes. It's times like these that she finds herself thankful for him. It's been a long time since she ever looked back on where they started out, but she ponders it now as they move sporadically through the fallen city. The irony in the one boy she distrusted the most becoming the man she trusted with everything isn't lost on her, and in truth, it's almost funny to think about now.
Her and Bellamy have come a long way. The head and the heart. They need each other, always have, even from that rocky start.
When they get close enough to where the bunker is supposed to be, Clarke is only slightly disheartened to see the place covered in scrap and rubble. She'd been expecting that after seeing everything else, but she's sure that they'll be able to get to the door. Or, she's dead-set on it, at least.
Together, her and Bellamy run forward to start shifting the bedrock out of the way, straining to make a path through. They grit their teeth, curse under their breath, push and pull. Eventually, they manage to open up a space they both can crawl through.
“The hatch is down here,” Clarke tells Bellamy excitedly, rushing forward to fall to her knees.
He helps her lift rocks out of the way, but it becomes apparent very quickly that the path forward isn't going to be easily moved. The environment around them is unstable, and every rock they shift out of the way only leads to more.
Eventually, they start yelling. Clarke starts first, calling out for her mom, then for anyone. Bellamy joins her, bellowing between moving rubble, never looking up to meet her eyes. She realizes that the moment they lock eyes, they'll both acknowledge that they're never getting into that bunker.
She doesn't look up for a long time.
When she does, Bellamy has stopped shouting, just as she has, enveloping them in dense silence. She stares at him, at the sweat dripping down his nose to the dusty rubble he has his hands on, at the way his chest heaves with each breath. He has his eyes screwed shut, and his curls are soaked in sweat, sticking to his forehead. Her heart hurts for him, for herself, for the girl beneath the floor Bellamy can't save the second time, for the mother that will have to live on without her daughter. The only solace they have is that the people in the bunker think they're in Space and the hope that those in Space will one day come down to free the people she and Bellamy can't get to.
They're alone. Truly and utterly alone.
Bellamy looks up, finally admitting defeat, and unshed tears swim in his eyes. She wants to offer words of comfort, but there's nothing she can say that will bring either of them consolation. The words she can't give them clog her throat, and she blinks hard against the sting in her eyes, darting her gaze to the side with a twist in her chest.
It's then that she sees it. For a brief moment, she doesn't even realize what she's looking at, but then her chest pinches even more. The Commander’s throne, one that Lexa sat in. The thick wood sticks out from the rubble, and Clarke can't resist reaching out to grab it, tugging it free.
It's the last piece of Lexa she'll have besides her memories, and she knows it. Her fingers tighten around it, eyes sinking shut as grief overwhelms her yet again. She doubts she'll ever get over the pain of Lexa’s death, just like the reminder of Finn’s will always sting. She loved them, despite everything, despite the fact that she knows she wouldn't now, not as the person she is today. The memory of those lost loves go hand-in-hand with the memory of a softer, more innocent version of herself. She suspects she'll harden even more as time passes, and maybe even this moment right now will become a memory she looks back on for a piece of herself she may someday lose.
“Clarke,” Bellamy says softly, shifting a piece of rubble out of the way.
It's at that moment that she realizes there are tears streaming down her face. “I'm f—”
The rest of her words get lost as the cavern of ruins around them begin to shudder and shake. Her eyes go wide at the same time Bellamy’s do, and they both launch to their feet and make a break for the narrow opening behind them. As the foundation slides and crumbles, they toss themselves free from the oncoming wreckage, rolling over rubble and rock to land on the ground with gasps of pain.
Bellamy chokes out one word as he stumbles to his feet. “Octavia.”
Clarke pushes herself up, coughing out the dirt that she got a mouthful of. As she brushes herself off, she stares miserably at the added obstacle that sits between them and their people. They could dig for years and they still wouldn't make it through.
“Bellamy,” Clarke says softly.
“I'm not leaving her,” Bellamy states flatly, that familiar tension in his jaw that means he won't easily change his mind. “My sister is down there and—”
“—and she's fine,” Clarke cuts him off, stepping forward to grab his hand, holding onto it tightly. “They have food, they have shelter, they have people to keep them alive. I don't want to leave any more than you do; my mom is down there. But if we stay, we die.”
“Five years, Clarke,” Bellamy rasps, turning to look at her, his face twisting.
Clarke nods and swallows. “I know. Trust me, I—I know. But we can't get to them, and staying here is an accident waiting to happen.”
“It doesn't matter where we go.” Bellamy flings out his unoccupied hand. “Look around, Clarke. There's no way to survive out here. We'll die anyway.”
“We have to at least try,” Clarke snaps.
Bellamy laughs hollowly. “Where will we go?”
“I don't know,” Clarke admits quietly, “but we have five years to figure it out. And maybe, just maybe, we'll find a way to get to that bunker in that time. Or, we'll see it happen when the others make it back from Space. Either way, we have to be alive for that.”
“Fine,” Bellamy grits out, “then let's go survive in an unsurvivable world.”
A smile flickers over Clarke’s face. “Wouldn't be the first time.”
All they find at Arkadia is ghosts. Things that set Clarke’s heart ablaze and send her into long silences. She sits in the back of the Rover while Bellamy walks every inch of Arkadia in hope of finding anything else that may be of use. She should be out there with him, but instead, she turns Jasper’s—or Maya’s, really—music player over in her hand.
Their rations are getting low. Too low, now. They've already ran out of water once, but it had rained for a brief time, so they were able to restock on water, at least. But they've run through most of that, too. In just a day's time, they'll both be out of water again, and they're on their last three ration bars. They've been making it work as best as they can, but Clarke’s hope seems to be flickering out. As much as she tries to think of ways to survive, her mind seems to slide right over the problem and latch onto a mere idea of what Jasper must have looked like before he died.
Maybe he looked peaceful. Maybe, when people accept that death would be simpler, they are at peace.
She wonders what that's like. Feeling at peace.
“Clarke.”
She shakes herself at the sound of Bellamy’s voice, that brief dark moment receding as his face comes into view. She offers him a tight smile as he climbs into the back of the Rover, and she holds up the music player as an explanation for her anguished silence. He glances at it and instantly gets it, needing no further elaboration.
“Find anything?” she asks in a croak.
Bellamy shakes his head. “Not much, just some more patches of fabric we can use. We need to stay covered in the heat. It helps.”
“It hurts, actually,” Clarke mutters, wiping sweat off her forehead pointedly. “But yeah, I get your point.”
“So, I was thinking we keep driving,” Bellamy says with a deep inhale. He raises his eyebrows. “We may as well see if the terrain ever changes. We might come across other places that could have something of use.”
“Sure,” Clarke agrees, too tired to argue—not that she even would. What else do they have to lose? “Not to call attention to our problem, but we have maybe five more days in us. If we don't get water by then, we'll die from dehydration.”
Bellamy nods. “I know.”
“That's it?” Clarke arches an eyebrow at him. “You know. That's all you got?”
“Either we find more water, or it rains again.” Bellamy leans his head back against the wall of the Rover and heaves a sigh. “Or we die. Simple as that.”
Clarke sighs. “Yeah. Simple.”
“Together,” Bellamy mumbles, reaching out to grab her ankle and give it a light squeeze.
“Together,” Clarke echoes, staring at Bellamy’s slack expression. He looks as exhausted as she feels.
For a long moment, neither of them speak or move. Clarke watches Bellamy and feels his hand lightly curled around her ankle, a simple comfort that she leeches on desperately. In this moment, she wishes she could draw him at this angle, just like this. He's as much of a mess as she is, but her palms itch with the urge to capture him right now on paper. She feels like something about this moment should exist forever, not just in her memories.
Then, without preamble, his eyes snap open and he meets her gaze head on. He stares at her for a beat, then looks at the music player in her hand. His lips curl up at the corners as his gaze runs over it, then the letter to Monty, then to Jasper's goggles. There's a fondness in his expression that hurts her heart as much as it warms it.
“Maybe they met again,” Bellamy murmurs, nodding towards the label reading Maya on the music player.
Clarke slowly puts it back in the box. “Maybe,” she whispers hoarsely.
“We should go,” Bellamy says with a sigh, turning towards the door.
“Bellamy,” Clarke says, words sticking in her throat when he turns to look at her. She forces herself to get them out, despite the bone-deep terror at the possible response. “How are we supposed to survive this?”
Bellamy’s gaze flicks over her face, then he averts his eyes as he says, “Maybe we're not.”
He opens the door and slides out, leaving her sitting there in utter silence. Moments later, the driver-side door wrenches open with its usual creak, and Clarke closes her eyes, trying to get herself together. It takes her a moment to push down the rush of emotion in her chest, but as always, she presses on. It's with one thought looping in her mind that she climbs out of the Rover and heads to the passenger side.
Maybe we never were, she thinks.
The thought won't leave her head.
A storm like they've never seen before hits them unexpectedly. They're not prepared for it, and it's too late to do much about it. They try to brave the whipping sand that cuts like glass to save the solar panels on the Rover, but it's no use. They don't have much of a choice but to climb inside and ride out the storm from the inside.
Clarke blankly watches a cut on her arm bubble with blood, the teardrops of black sliding down slowly. The slice had come from a solar panel ripping off the Rover and clipping her on the arm as it was sucked into the unforgiving vortex of wind and sand and other debris. It doesn't really hurt, and she's not pressed to do much about it.
Bellamy is, though. He reaches out with gentle hands and rips a piece of fabric off his outer shawl, using the cleanest side to wipe away the blood. He doesn't meet her gaze as he wraps the fabric around her arm and ties it off. After, they sit in silence.
There's not a whole lot to talk about. The facts are, the Rover’s solar panels are probably trashed, meaning they'll have to travel to get more. With the way their water and ration supply is looking, they'll die before they even make it there. On foot, their chances for survival is cut in half, and they both know it. They just don't talk about it.
Luck is all they can hope for now, and they've never had much of that before. Probably won't now.
“I'm going to sleep,” Clarke declares loudly, speaking over the storm.
Bellamy just nods.
Clarke had thought that Praimfaya was an unforgiving mistress, but it pales in comparison to the sun. In retrospect, she thinks she might've preferred to die fast, rather than this slow torture.
It's so hot.
No, it's more than that. It's scorching. Every inch of her body burns, and the heat seeps all of the energy from her. She doesn't even know if she's sweating anymore because every part of her feels dry and cracked. Even breathing hurts, every inhale like swallowing fire, every exhale like glass shredding her lungs from the inside out.
She licks her lips for a while, even though it hurts and burns, and then she stops when her mouth won't produce any more saliva. She's so thirsty that she'd drink her own tears if she had the retained water to cry, but even that is lost to her now.
Just like Bellamy, she's bundled up as much as possible against the beaming sun. It's supposed to be helping, but she just feels like she's suffocating.
The environment around them is just hot sand as far as the eye can see, and every step they take seems to be leading them nowhere. She's sure they've been walking for hours now, even days, but she hasn't had water in so long that she can't be sure. Her stomach is cramping from how long she's gone without food, and the lack of sustenance has taken its toll. In short, she's miserable and she's dying, slowly and painfully.
Clarke aches for peace. Maybe Jasper had it right all along; maybe death is all the peace they'll ever get.
“Bellamy,” Clarke croaks, slowing to a stop. His name cracks in her mouth, and she starts tugging on the shawl she has wrapped around her face. “Bellamy!”
He's ahead of her, but not by much. It takes him a moment to turn, and she knows he's as exhausted as she is. He slowly approaches her, pulling down the cloth wrapped around his face.
“Break?” Bellamy asks in a rasp.
Clarke swallows, the sound horrifically dry. “Bellamy, I think… I think this is it.”
“Giving up?” he asks.
“Giving in,” she corrects.
Bellamy looks away, squinting at the harsh sun. His gaze roams over their surroundings before landing on her again. He nods. “Okay.”
“I don't want to die,” Clarke tells him, being open and honest because she's sure that she's going to.
“I know,” Bellamy replies. “Neither do I.”
Clarke reaches out a hand, holding it out in front of her. “Together?”
“Together,” Bellamy confirms, reaching out to grasp her forearm, holding it tight.
They hold that position for a moment, and Clarke knows she'll regret leaning forward to hug him in this heat, but she's also aware she'll regret it even more if she doesn't before they die. She steps forward and reaches out to toss her arms around his shoulders in a fierce hug, burying her hot face into his even hotter neck and squeezing her eyes shut. After a beat, his arms slide around her waist, and he returns the hold just as tightly. They stand like that, gripping each other too tight for too long, and they only break away when the discomfort of the heat forces them to.
She almost doesn't, almost just decides to hold on and die wrapped up like that, but her need to be horizontal beats out in the end. With a small smile that makes her cracked lips sting, she backs away and begins tugging off the extra layers that don't matter anymore. Giving in is fairly easy.
“Could be worse,” Clarke murmurs as she drops her pack and frees herself from the weight of extra cloth.
Bellamy looks at her like she's already gone insane from the heat. “In what way?”
Clarke grunts as she sits down in the hot sand, laying back and closing her eyes. Quietly, selfishly, she admits, “At least we won't die alone.”
“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees, flopping down next to her with a groan, “I guess if there ever was going to be a bright side to this, it would be that. I'm probably not the first person you would want to die beside, but it's better than nothing.”
“I don't know,” Clarke muses, “you're pretty high up on my list, Bellamy Blake.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, it is. It's a big thing with the Grounders, you know, to die an honorable death. I think you being here makes it honorable, somehow. We've fought for so long that—that our fight is over.”
“Oso gonplei ste odon,” Bellamy murmurs.
Clarke closes her eyes. “In peace, may you leave this shore. In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground.” She pauses, softens her voice, and Bellamy joins her in finishing it off. “May we meet again.”
Bellamy’s hand reaches across the sand between them, threading their fingers together, and Clarke smiles.
Dying, as it turns out, isn't so simple.
The human body is built for survival, and just because they have given up doesn't mean their bodies are on board with that. So, instead of them closing their eyes and simply passing away, they take a nap.
A fucking nap.
Clarke wakes up to a sharp nip to her wrist that hurts more than the heat does. Instinct takes over and she rips her hand from Bellamy’s, releasing a high-pitched squeal she'd be embarrassed about any other time. As it is, she doesn't have time to care about what sounds she's making; she's too focused on the sound of the bird’s wings flapping as it takes off to the sky.
A bird. Alive. An alive bird!
“Bellamy!” Clarke hisses, reaching over to gracelessly slap him on his arm.
Bellamy cracks open one eye. “Trying to die here, Clarke. Could use some silence for that.”
“We're not dying, not yet,” Clarke snaps, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and tugging as she launches to her feet. “I saw a bird! And no, before you even say it, it wasn't a hallucination.”
To prove her point, the bird squawks above them.
“A bird,” Bellamy blurts out, finally getting with the program and surging forward. He scrambles to his feet, head snapping in the direction of the bird as it flies off, getting farther away. His nostrils flare. “It must be living somewhere.”
“Hey!” Clarke calls out stupidly, a little delirious from the heat and overwhelming hope swelling in her. She takes off at a sprint, or as much as she can in the sand, and Bellamy is hot on her heels. “Hey, bird, take us to your home!”
“Clarke,” Bellamy hisses, “stop yelling at it.”
Wisely, she stops yelling at it.
They follow the bird for a long time, even when it's just a speck in the distance. Clarke is beginning to think that it might be a joint-hallucination between them both, doubts creeping in as the adrenaline starts to wear off. She pushes forward anyway, needing something to fight for, needing any glimpse of hope the same way she needs water.
When they reach a large mound of sand, they barely even hesitate before starting to climb. It crumbles beneath their feet, sending them careening right back down, but they just start all over again. Covered in split blisters and grainy sand, they eventually reach the top, pushing to their feet to look.
All that hope that Clarke had felt comes crashing right back down. It shatters within her, slicing her up. She releases a gutted sound, staring out at the empty world laid out before her, listening to Bellamy panting from the exertion of climbing this mountain only to find more of nothing. This is all there is, and apparently a bird has more luck than they ever have. It'll survive, she knows it will, but they won't.
Clarke turns to look at Bellamy, unsure what to say, but she barely takes a step before the ground beneath them crumbles in on itself. Their foundation slides away, sending them ass-over-head as the tumble right back down the mountain of sand they just climbed. It's like being spit on after being beaten down.
It makes her so, so angry. Rage burns through her hotter than the searing sun, and she rolls over to her knees the moment she goes still. Slamming her hands down on the sand beneath her, she releases a guttural scream that rips from her unprompted. She's so frustrated, and hurt, and done.
“I'm done!” Clarke shouts, staring up at the empty sky, her chest heaving. “You hear me?! I am done!”
She wishes that bird never woke her up, wishes that she'd just be dead already, wishes that it was over. Everything is pointless now. She's done all she can for her people, and she has nothing left to give. All she has is Bellamy, but even that can't bring relief when he's going to die right beside her because she couldn't convince him to leave and save himself. That's on her, and it's with a sick sense of horror that she thinks she may have held back on trying to get him to leave because she's so damn selfish that she didn't want to be alone, even if it condemned him to death.
Clarke is seconds away from listing off all the reasons that she's done to whatever force hates her so much. It has to hate her to give her this life, and she's ready to tell it why it's pushed her to wish for death when nothing else she's been through has.
She never gets the chance because arms suddenly circle around her, heated skin pressing into hers, large hands cupping the back of her head and pushing her face into a firm chest. Right there, sagging against Bellamy, she breaks. She can't produce tears, but her body jerks without soundless sobs, and Bellamy simply holds her through it, swaying them slightly.
Before she's even tried to gather herself, Bellamy pulls away slightly, hands sliding around to cup her face, forcing her to look at him. “You're not done, Clarke. You don't get to be done until I am. I said it once and I'll say it again. Either we both make it, or neither of us do. Together. Remember?”
“Bellamy,” Clarke chokes out, “I'm so tired.”
“So am I, but this isn't over,” Bellamy says forcefully, gripping her face tighter when she tries to turn her head away. He holds her gaze, completely serious, his jaw set in that stubborn line of his. “Your head is telling you that you can't fight anymore, but I'm telling you that you can. We fight, Clarke, that is what we do. We keep going until we can't, then we go further, you hear me?” He flicks his gaze over her face, waiting, and when she nods, he brushes his thumbs over her cheeks and drops his hands. “Now, there's a bird we have to find, or die trying. So, get up.”
Feeling scolded and more than a little mortified, she clears her throat and shakily pushes to her feet. It's in the midst of doing so that they both hear the squawk of the bird above them. Her head snaps up just as his does, and just like that, hope burns anew.
This time, they run even faster. The bird leads them away from this mountain and further to the left. They end up right in front of another hill of sand, and they approach this one the same as the last. Together, they climb. And this time, when they reach the top, they find their first bout of luck in years.
The first thing Clarke registers is all the green. It looks alive, looks like survival, and all the breath in her lungs escape her at once. Relief slams into her so hard that she closes her eyes briefly, simply basking in the feeling. She hasn't felt it in a long, long time. Long before the end of the world. It makes her feel lighter for a moment, and she can't help but look over to Bellamy to catch his reaction.
He's already looking at her with a smile.
The bird trills from a branch atop the hill, tucking its head into its wing, and Clarke feels thankful as she stares at it. She's grateful, even as she takes her gun out, lines up the shot, and pulls the trigger.
“Are you still done?” Bellamy asks her, raising his eyebrows at her pointedly.
Clarke lets out a short, nearly giddy laugh and beams at him as brightly as the sun, shaking her head. “No, I think… I think I'm just getting started.”