Lincoln carries Bellamy into camp, followed by Miller who is helping Octavia limp. They're all yelling for Clarke though it's Octavia's voice that reaches her ears first––the utter terror in it sends ice through her veins.

She flies from her spot by the fire pits to the gate, Harper on her heels, sees the hunting party and categorizes injuries: Octavia, sprained or broken ankle; Miller, unhurt; Lincoln, various scratches but only one on his forearm that might require stitches; Bellamy, blood, so much blood soaking through the hastily wrapped bandage on his head, covering his entire face and neck and dripping over Lincoln's arms to splatter on the ground.

Clarke doesn't even remember commanding Harper to see to Octavia's leg, and to Lincoln's arm once he carries Bellamy to the medbay. She doesn't remember Octavia in hysterics, saying that it was her own fault that Bellamy is hurt, please save him, Clarke, please. She doesn't remember any of that, because she can't think of anything or she'll fall apart before she can save Bellamy.

Once he's deposited on the cot in the medbay (she doesn't remember how Bellamy insisted the medbay be the first building made permanent with walls and a roof instead of a flimsy fabric tent), she demands that Lincoln tell her what happened. She doesn't recognize her own voice as her hands move rapidly, gathering bandages and cloths and yelling at Jasper, who's lingering outside the door, to boil some goddamned water.

"It was an accident," Lincoln says. He's cleaning his own cuts while watching her solemnly. "Octavia fell into an old Trikru trap and she was hurt. We pulled her up, but Bellamy was hanging too far over the edge and lost his balance. He fell in himself."

"Headfirst," Clarke hisses at the unconscious man in front of her. "Idiot."

She knows, logically, that head wounds bleed excessively, but this one seems to be bleeding eternally and there's a wrenching feeling in her gut when she takes in the unnatural pallor of his skin.

With the bandage peeled off, she sees that the wound isn't hidden by his hair, so she doesn't have to waste time shaving hair out of the way, and the longest edge of the jagged, deep tear has just missed his left eye. Her stomach lurches when she sees the white glint of bone through all the red.

"Is there anything I can do to help, Clarke?"

Lincoln's voice is kind, steady, because that's just who he is, but right now his voice is too kind and too steady and it makes it sound like Bellamy's died already, so Clarke is rude without meaning to when she shakes her head and abruptly suggests he wait with Octavia if he's done with the medical supplies.

But he doesn't take offense; instead he nods and touches Clarke's shoulder briefly as he slips out the door.

Once he's gone, and she's alone, Clarke takes a deep breath and wills her hands to still. Then she gets to work.

It takes more bloody rags and coagulant and stitches than Clarke ever wants to think about, but the bleeding has finally stopped and Bellamy's heart is still beating. She's given him some blood, but he's still pale, and Clarke hates how similar the new, sterile bandages are to his skin right now.

"Clarke?" she hears.

"What," she says, not taking her eyes off of the idiot on the cot.

It's Octavia, her sprained ankle competently wrapped by Harper, the rest of her wiped clean from the hunting expedition.

"Do you want to clean up?" Octavia asks quietly. "I can watch him."

"No," Clarke says. "I'm going to stay here."

"Clarke." Octavia hesitates. "You're––you're covered in blood."

Clarke lets her eyes flicker down to her hands for only a second before fixing her eyes back on the rising and falling of Bellamy's chest. She shrugs.

"It's not the first time," she replies.

Octavia sighs, then rises and goes to the door. Clarke doesn't pay her a lot of attention.

Rise and fall. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.

She's a little startled when Octavia takes one of Clarke's hands in her own and begins to wash it with fresh, warm water. Soon enough Clarke's hands, arms, face are all wiped clean of Bellamy's blood, and Octavia's holding out a clean shirt she must have sent someone for when she asked for the water.

"At least change your shirt," she says, not unkindly. Clarke mechanically slips her arms out of the garment, now stiffening with the drying blood, and then yanks it over her head as quickly as she can.

Rise. Fall.

Octavia slips the new shirt over her body and Clarke knots her fingers in the hem. There's a lot more shirt than she's used to, and she notices the color of it.

"Bellamy's?" she asks, her brow furrowing a bit.

"You need it more than he does right now," Octavia replies.

Clarke's not certain that's true, given that he's been stripped of his own bloody shirt and is covered only by a thick blanket, but she doesn't question it.

"I'm glad you're alright," she tells Octavia.

"Yeah," Octavia replies. "Bellamy will be, too, Clarke."

Instead of saying that Octavia doesn't know that, none of them know for sure, Clarke hums in response.

Two days later, Bellamy's color is better and his breathing is stronger, but he hasn't woken up and the kids are getting antsy.

"You've got to talk to them," Octavia tells her. Clarke is still at Bellamy's side. "They're getting hysterical. Some of the older Arkers are trying to keep things together, Clarke, but you know that's not what they need."

"I don't––" Clarke begins, but Octavia interrupts.

"Clarke!" she snaps. "They need you. You, right now, to tell them everything's going to be okay. And you need to pull yourself the hell together."

Clarke sets her mouth mutinously. "You don't give me orders, Octavia."

To her surprise, Octavia grins at her. "Then give your own damn orders, Clarke."

Clarke looks back to Bellamy, touches his hand. It's cool, but not dangerously so, and the lines of his face are smooth.

"I'll be right back," she promises him, then forces herself to head out the door.

She's shocked to see nearly every single one of the forty-seven loitering in the vicinity of the medbay.

"What is going on here?" she demands. The little sea of faces turn to her.

"Clarke!" a few of them call.

"How's Bellamy?" Miller's the one who asks, and Clarke recalls that he was part of the hunting party; he knows how serious Bellamy's injury is.

Others take up the question until Clarke's being bombarded by a cacophony of demands: Is Bellamy going to be alright? Is he dying? What exactly is wrong with him? Will he lose an eye? Will he lose both eyes? Is he awake? Is he asleep? What's going to happen to them all?

Clarke is quickly losing any patience, and she wants to get back inside to Bellamy. She knows Octavia's watching him, but it's not the same as having her own eyes on him.

"Shut up," she says. She doesn't raise her voice, but it gets silent immediately.

"Good," she says. "Now. Bellamy is not dying. He's asleep, healing."

"Are you just saying that?" Fox asks. Her voice is tremulous. "I mean, what would you tell us if he wasn't alright?" Her words stir up renewed murmurs.

For Clarke, on her third day without sleep and and a massive pit of worry in her stomach making it impossible for her to eat much at all, this is the last straw.

"Don't be idiots," she snaps at them. "I'm not about to let the man I love die of a fucking head wound. The only thing that's going to kill him is me."

Astonishingly, this silences the forty-seven. She ignores the way a wide-eyed Monty catches Jasper's eye, who nods frantically at his friend.

"Now," Clarke says. "Bellamy is going to be just fine. The only thing that could hurt him now is if he wakes up and finds out you're all just lazing about when we all know you have jobs to do!" Her voice is raised by the end of that sentence, and she has the satisfaction of seeing everyone snap to and scatter to their posts.

"Clarke!" Octavia's voice calls excitedly, and Clarke's heart is in her throat as she dashes through the door back to Bellamy's side. Octavia stands aside, moving to the doorway while Clarke hurries forward and rests her hand on Bellamy's chest (rise, fall).

"What's––" She stops mid-question, because Bellamy's eyes are open and he's smiling at her and sure, the smile is a little crooked, but that's the way she likes it, and he looks loopy as hell, and Bellamy is awake.

"I–I–" she stutters, but then falls silent as he speaks, his voice low and sleepy and gravelly from days of unconsciousness.

"I love you, too, princess."

"You're an idiot!" she bursts out. "You nearly got yourself killed, Bellamy! Killed! As in dead!"

Bellamy closes his eyes, his lips still quirked up in smile. "Yeah," he sighs, "but you still love me anyway."

"No, I don't," she grumbles as she places her other hand gently atop his chest, feeling his heart beat and his lungs inflate. "I don't have time to love idiots. I'm too busy saving their asses."

His hand moves until it rests on hers. "Don't deny it." His voice is tired, and Clarke knows he's falling asleep, but this time it's a real sleep, and not unconsciousness that has no guarantee of ending. "You're surrounded by idiots, and you love every last one of them."

This time it's Clarke who sighs. "Yeah," she says. "And you're the biggest idiot of all."

And I love you most of all is unspoken, but when Bellamy squeezes her hands as he falls asleep, she knows it's because he already knows.