Because it confuses me why girls on TV shows always have their hair down when they're doing important things and because Bellamy would totally know how to deal with girls' hair having Octavia for a sister and because Bellamy and Clarke (in any capacity) are just the best.

"Come on, hair," Clarke muttered. Leaning back from the wounded boy on her table, she used the back of her wrist to push some damp strands from her face. They were itchy, stiff, and completely in her way all of the time. Other than finding a spare few minutes (like she had any of those) to go down to the river and wash up, what she desperately needed was a hair tie. By now, most of the girls had broken the ones that they had when they arrived, and no one had found a good back-up solution as of yet. Her half-pulled-back arrangement was the best she could do in the meantime.

She shook her head to get at least some of the offending strands over her shoulder. Before starting to patch up her current patient, she had tried to tuck the ends into her shirt, but they had slid free, like they always did. My kingdom for a hair tie, she thought, smiling wryly.

Bellamy popped his head into the dropship. "How's that wound closure coming?"

"It's going," Clarke responded, dropping her head to begin stitching again.

"Can it go any faster?"

Clarke didn't even bother to look up, just let out a disbelieving breath. "He's not going to be in any shape to go back to work today."

"Clarke—"

She looked towards the drop-ship entryway. Through the stands of her (goddamn) hair, she saw Bellamy leaning against the frame, a mulish expression on his face. "Tomorrow, he can start again," she relented. "Light stuff, mind you. Today, he rests it."

Bellamy sighed, then called out sternly, "Hear that, kid? You rest that leg today. If you get that cut infected, you'll have both me and Clarke to deal with, okay?"

The boy nodded furiously, and Bellamy turned to exit. Returning her attention to the wound, Clarke flipped her hair over her shoulder again, but it slid forward. She blew out a frustrated breath before shouldering it back once more. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bellamy pause momentarily, before shaking his head and returning to the yard, mumbling something that to Clarke sounded awfully like "friggin' reckless kids." She smiled as she finished stitching.

Later, when she returned to her tent for the night (after dinner, and the campfire, and meeting with Bellamy, and checking up on the kid with the leg wound, and breaking up a fight over nothing, and a million other things), she flopped face-first onto her makeshift mattress. So tired. Like every night since she had landed on earth.

She then felt something cool and soft pressing into her cheek, and she sat up onto her stomach. Three strips of leather were lying on her bed, each about a half-inch wide and of varying lengths. Clarke picked them up, running them between her fingers. Their underside was rough and uneven; she turned them over, seeing someone had made hatch-marks in the material. Her hair slid over her shoulder at that moment, and she smiled widely. Sitting up, she gathered her hair into a ponytail, winding one of the strips around it, rough side down, before tying it off. She shook her head gently, but her hair stayed in place. She shook it a little harder, and a few strands fell out, but she sighed contentedly anyways. Take that, hair, she thought as she laid back down, drifting off into sleep.

The next morning (very early morning to her dismay), she opened the bandage on the kid's leg. She felt Bellamy lean in closer.

"You hovering isn't going to make me clear this kid any faster," she grumbled. He had woken her up at the crack of dawn to check out the wound, despite knowing she liked mornings as much as he liked not being in charge. She knew his fervor over the wall was warranted; they needed it reconstructed before winter. Aside from keeping out any wandering Grounders or scavenging animals, it also would provide insulation, shielding most of the yard from bitter winds. And those winds were getting worse by the day. She expected snow to hit them at any moment now.

Still, his lurking wasn't helping. "Back up, or you wait outside," she barked.

He huffed disbelievingly but took a few steps away from her and the kid. She resumed her inspection, prodding gently at the stitches, pulling lightly at the skin. It was already healing, she saw. The kid had listened to them and kept it still and clean yesterday. Whether it was the threat of infection or of retribution from Bellamy (and her) that scared him into submission, she didn't know. But she did know one thing.

"He's cleared to work. Now, he can't do any heavy labor, but as long as it's brief walking—he really should be mostly seated—he'll be fine."

The kid let out a tense, relieved breath, and Bellamy nodded, a small grin gracing his face. "Good," he said. "There's plenty of stationary work to do, so let's get you started." Extending a hand to the kid, Bellamy pulled him up from the floor. "Go see Miller, tell him Clarke's orders, and he'll place you somewhere useful."

As the kid hobbled out of the tent, Bellamy turned to Clarke, smiling brightly, taking her aback a bit. "Nice to see such a pleasant face this early in the morning."

She scowled, and only half meaning it, she said, "Piss off. Not everyone is an early riser. I swear you do this to me on purpose."

Bellamy laughed and took a step back, hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Woah, Princess, don't blame me for trying to keep us from dying of frostbite."

Clarke rolled her eyes. Bellamy laughed again, and turned to exit the tent. "By the way, now that I can see your whole face, without your hair in the way, when you're annoyed at me, I find you much more intimidating." With a cheeky smile, he let the tent flap drop behind him. Clarke reached up to touch the leather strip holding up her hair, and she smiled softly. Of course. Leaving the tent, she paused outside, looking for him.

"Bellamy!" she called after his retreating back. He stopped, turned halfway around. "Thanks. For, you know."

"Can't afford to risk medical care because of a hair malfunction," he says, his face neutral.

"We'll need some more."

"On it," he says, one side of his mouth cocked in a half-grin.

"You always are," Clarke whispers as he walks away.