Disclaimer – I own nothing except my beating heart.

A.N – Hey guys! Soo sorry for the long wait—I've honestly had most of this chapter written a couple of weeks after I uploaded the last chapter, but the last scene was killing me. Honestly, this entire episode was pretty strange for me to navigate. I tried to keep them in character while upping the ante a bit. Hopefully I succeeded and it's up to par!

To my beta, AvengerGirl17, who is all types of awesome. Note, guys, that all mistakes found belong to me.

To amr56, klaroline shipper forever, Tima, sydcasy, SparklyLarry, compositionbook, strangeJenny, CheriEstella, imaginesakura, and SquidaQdaloo: Thank you guys so much for your support! Your thoughts on this story mean everything, and keep me motivated when I'm struggling. You guys are awesome, and I can't tell you how much I adore reading your reviews!

To all who have favorited, followed, and read silently, I love you too! :)

/ We're falling apart, still we hold together

We've passed the end, so we chase forever

Cause this is all we know, this feeling's all we know /

-All We Know, The Chainsmokers ft. Phoebe Ryan

Chapter 9 – The Beating of Hearts and War Drums

"The hunters are back," Raven notes as she passes Murphy. "Is Finn with them?"

Her question is innocent, but the last few days have been hard on everyone. Everyone's been hunting longer and harder because the wind is chillier on their skin. Winter is coming.

Winter is coming and they are so not prepared.

Bellamy and Clarke have tried to not let anyone see their worry, only their steadfast decisions, but they can't hide what everyone feels in their bones already. Winter is coming.

The days are getting shorter, too. Raven had finally noticed this when she walked into Finn's tent to bare her soul, and had walked back out five minutes later, single, but with the sun hanging low in the sky.

It's been weird, knowing that Finn isn't hers anymore. Maybe it doesn't matter because he hadn't been hers in a long time, not really. Either way, it's strange to have to acknowledge the space inside of her heart that's usually so filled by Finn.

Raven wonders if Clarke and Bellamy ever feel like this. If they've ever felt this.

Is Finn with them? she scans the crowd, but doesn't see him. A pang contracts her chest, but she pays it no mind. He isn't hers.

"I don't think so," Murphy replies. There's a glint in his eyes that catches Raven's complete attention. "Hey, relax. I'm sure that Clarke's keeping him out of trouble."

His cruel smirk goes unnoticed by Raven as she feels that pang, stronger, and walks away. Finn isn't hers. He isn't hers, but he's supposed to want to be. He isn't supposed to move on. Not now. Not ever. Not with her.

Murphy knows what he's done by planting that seed of doubt in her mind. He knows, but frankly, he doesn't really care. He's so bored in camp. Bellamy had practically forbidden him from hunting with the rest—things need to get done here, too, Murphy. You need to keep them all focused.

Yea, Murphy gets it. He's the enforcer. But on days like today, when everyone can practically taste the fear in the air—Are we going to war? Will we survive winter? Is it safe to go to the river and wash? Is anywhere safe anymore?—everyone's on their best behavior. Everyone's doing everything they're supposed to, pretty subdued, and so there's nothing for him to enforce besides the straggling and procrastinating person or two.

So, yea, he knows what he's done to Raven is cruel. Mean. Harsh. But, well, he's John Murphy, and frankly, he doesn't really give a fuck about Raven Reyes as long as she's not dead or dying.

With this knowledge and understanding of himself, Murphy turns back to his own work, wondering what drama will ensue when Finn and Clarke return.

As he turns he misses Raven entering Bellamy's tent.

Raven's waiting for Bellamy when he enters the tent. She doesn't question why she goes to him and no one else; they're kindred spirits. Fighters. Warriors who have always understood each other.

He sees her and pauses, unsure of what he's stepping into, but his mouth starts to move before he can grasp anything about the situation. "What are you doing in here?"

"They don't waste time, I'll give them that," Raven answers the real question he hadn't asked. The pain in her voice evident on her face. "What's it been? A day and a half?"

"You're mistaking me for someone who cares," he responds harshly. He knows exactly what she's talking about—nothing stays hidden long in camp; everyone knew the moment Raven broke things off officially with Finn, because he'd walked out of their tent with that kicked puppy look that annoyed Bellamy to no end. His lie rolls off the tongue easily, completely in tune with his persona. Because he does care. He does. So damned much that sometimes he thinks he could burst from caring about all of them so much. "Time to move on."

He's talking to her, but he's also talking to himself. Time to move on because Clarke and he aren't about that and they'll never be about that. He can't let himself drown in the heat of what might be if only they'd let themselves have it.

Bellamy starts to shrug off his jacket, but Raven sees it for something different. Maybe an invitation. Perhaps something more.

She sits on the bed and starts to take off her shoes boldly.

"What are you doing?"

"Moving on."

Bellamy feels his breath acutely (inhale, exhale), as he watches her. She stands and shimmies out of her pants. Bellamy sees her. Sees into her, maybe like he always has.

There's so much pain, hurt, insecurity underneath bravado that she's never been more beautiful to him.

She walks up to him, though there's a large enough gap between them. It feels like the size of the ocean, and a tiny puddle simultaneously.

"I've never been with anyone else but Finn," she admits bravely with a quiver of insecurity. So damn brave that Bellamy can barely breathe. She looks away, but refuses to be look back. Back to before this moment. This is happening. She wants this. At least she thinks she does. So she meets his gaze head on and fiercely says, "Take off your clothes."

Bellamy doesn't move, and she can't stop now. Anything but that.

"Fine," she proclaims fearlessly. "I'll go first."

Her fingers nimbly lift her shirt over her head. Bellamy never looks away from her face—that face that trusted him when they hadn't even known each other.

"If you're looking for someone to talk you down," he tries. Dammit, he tries because he doesn't want to be that guy who takes advantage of women at their lowest. But he doesn't want to be the other guy, either, who turns his back on a beautiful woman in need, because that's not something men did right? Not real men, anyway, right? "To tell you that you're just upset and not thinking straight, I'm not that guy."

But he is that guy. Oh, he is. Just by mentioning that she might be hurt and pissed, he's telling her not to do this. He doesn't want her to do this. Not to herself or to him.

Screams.

Sobs.

Blood.

He shakes his head and refocuses on her—on the greatest dilemma ever known: how to deal with pain and suffering.

Because once they fall into each other, there's no going back. He'll never be able to un-feel her skin beneath his fingertips.

I'm not that guy. I'm not that guy.

Please, don't let me be that guy.

But instead of heeding that not so silent warning, she steps closer, invading his space, in answer.

"Good."

With one word, all is lost.

With one word they're teeth and lips, and yes, yes, yes.

Raven's dark eyes dig into him, lay him bare…yes, yes, yes.

But this is wrong. This is so wrong. This isn't who they should be. Not to each other.

The way Raven's fingers glide over his skin—forearms, biceps, neck, shoulders, back—captures him…yes, yes, yes.

But this is wrong. This is so wrong. This isn't who they should be. Not to each other.

Yet, the way her lips push and pulls against his has never felt so right. They fit like puzzle pieces in the same puzzle, they enrapture each other. Yes, yes, yes.

More, more, more.

Nothing is enough. Not the heat that ensnares them within its hold. Not the moans that break free from their tortured souls. Nothing is ever enough because yes, yes, yes, the dead are gone and the living are hungry.

The living are hungry, and Bellamy and Raven are the hungriest of them all.

They're so hungry.

But the righter everything feels, the more the pain digs and digs until they're both breathless—reaching for a euphoria that'll relieve them from it all.

Blood. Screams.

Raven, I love you.

Not the way I want to be loved.

They reach for a nothingness so pure that Raven can only cling to Bellamy, and Bellamy can only cling to her moans.

They claw and fight each other in the best way possible, and it's kind of awesome and heartbreaking because they both feel like everything's falling apart. Everything is hopeless, but it's okay because they're not alone.

They're not alone. They'll never be alone. They have each other. Even if Bellamy's more focused on keeping himself together, and Raven's more focused on keeping the severe sense of despair at bay.

Please, please, please. They're so close to perfection. If only he'd take that last step, and commune with her. If only he'd merge their bodies in that dance as old as time.

Please means so much that they can't explain: please don't stop, please don't let this ruin who we are to each other, please make the pain go away.

Please, please, please. They're so high, they're almost touching the stars.

All that's left is an echo of please, please, please, as they both pause, breathless; he hesitates, and she sees the rejection in his eyes. The clear no that won't allow him to go further.

Raven goes to roll off of Bellamy, but he holds onto her tightly. He stares at the ceiling of his tent with a growing pit in the middle of his stomach.

He wants to jump out of the bed which he's shared with his fair amount of girls. But she deserves this moment. She deserves to have someone tell her that it gets better and everything'll be okay, even if he's not sure it's true. Even if he can't say the words with conviction.

Pain.

Please stop!

So helpless.

"Why?" she whispers, tortured. Her eyes fill with tears, and she tries to close herself off. Why? They both know she's asking a hell of a lot more than why he stopped. But he doesn't have answers. Not really. Not for the heartache or the pain of Finn's betrayal.

"Because I see you," he lifts his forehead against hers. "I see a girl who's fucking brave, and smart, and too strong to let herself cry."

Raven tries to struggle, to move away, but she needs this. Maybe he needs this too. To remember that he's not hopeless either.

"You don't need a quick release," he continues hoarsely—he's talking to her, but he's also talking to himself. He's talking to the them that feel broken beyond repair. "You don't need kisses or touches, or—you're stronger than that."

"Float you, Bellamy!" Raven continues to struggle half-heartedly, but one by one tears start to spill forward. She wants to flee, but he refuses to let her. He wants to let her go, but instead he clutches her tighter. "What do you know about what I need?!"

"I know," he says gruffly, his own eyes burning. His mind recoils from the constant images of blood, and Clarke's tear streaked face. "I know that you need to fucking cry little bird, or you're gonna drown in it all. You're gonna drown, and none of us can afford for you to drown. So cry—let it out—let it go."

"I can't," Raven sobs dryly, holding herself rigid for fear of letting go. Bellamy nods because he feels like he can't either—even in a moment like this, they're kindred spirits.

"You deserve better," Bellamy whispers. He gives her a truth that haunts him in his nightmares—the truth that his subconscious can't trust when he remembers the pain, and the tears, his own screams blotting out the world. "You deserved so much better than how Spacewalker treated you—you know that. No one doubts it. No one but you."

"Please," she cracks, and he cracks with her because his own tears spill forth, and his chest rumbles in a chocked sob.

Pain.

Blood.

I love you.

I know.

Raven, I love you.

Not the way I want to be loved.

"You cry, I cry," he bargains, and suddenly the dam breaks.

Raven stops struggling, and Bellamy isn't holding her to keep her there, but to anchor him from the force of his own sobs.

They break down, memories and anguish tearing at them. It doesn't matter that they're both naked, still. It doesn't matter that they were going to have sex moments before. All that matters is that they're finally, finally crying…and they're not alone.

The night is dark, and the stars sparkle in the distance as Bellamy walks through camp. He tries to quietly stop by each tent, and peek his head in without waking anyone. It's annoying and weird, and slightly obsessive, but he just wants to make sure that everyone's safe, that everyone's sleeping.

That those that sleep aren't plagued by bad dreams.

He walks and he walks, and he checks and he checks, and he's so annoyed with himself because all he wants to do is catch some sleep. Just a few hours to regroup, and be strong. Stronger than he was earlier today. Stronger than he's been since he was brutalized.

Finally, with his brain going a thousand miles per hour, and his heart beating wildly in his chest without reason he passes through the gate. The guys on watch look at him hesitantly; they don't want him to leave, but they don't really know what they can say to stop him—fearless leader that he is. He takes advantage of it and keeps walking until he reaches the make-shift cemetery.

He sits down by the empty grave that was made for Charlotte—they never did recover her body. Wild animals in the night probably beat them to her.

He stares, wondering if she's among the stars that shine in the night. Wondering if he'll ever get her blood off his hands. Wondering if he'll ever, truly, be okay again. But there's a quiet strength that fills the space where all of the tears had been.

The stench of fear taints him, and he senses it acutely; this fear assaults him so randomly that he feels like he can't catch his breath sometimes.

Everything seems so much harder now, after his Passion, his immense suffering that sticks to him like death on a corpse.

He's still suffering.

The blood. His screams. The tears—his own and everyone else.

His suffering is like a tattoo, etched into the very core of him. But tonight something had lifted. Holding Raven, letting her grieve, letting himself grieve for what he lost…something had lifted, just slightly, enough for him to breathe.

Enough for tonight's insomnia to not be about him—not really.

Worry scraps and seeps into his brain.

He tries to calm himself. Sure, Clarke and Spacewalker are late, but that can happen sometimes. Earth can be cruel, and it's prone to surprises.

"Do you think any strawberries will grow around here in the summer?" Clarke asked randomly as they hiked their way to the river.

She'd wanted to go alone, but Bellamy wouldn't hear of it—things were too hostile with the Grounders for any of them to be walking about alone.

"Do I look like I care?" Bellamy responded in that no-nonsense way of his. His back was killing him from all the re-building from the last storm, and he had blisters in his hands that were itching.

"C'mon," Clarke gave him an unimpressed look. "You're not the least bit curious what an actual strawberry tastes like?"

"Why do you care?"

He wasn't asking to be difficult. He was asking because her eyes, those baby blue eyes that always pierced him, were alight with curiosity and wonder. Frankly, he was slightly jealous that amidst all the craziness on the ground, she could find moments to still feel so carefree. He was slightly jealous, sure, but he also felt close to her. Closer than he'd felt to anyone in a long time. It was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant. Just new. Just them.

"I like to think about the color," she shrugged, and stepped over a fallen tree.

"Isn't it red?"

"Yea, but what kind of red?"

"I wasn't aware that red had layers."

"Well, it does," she scowled.

"Like an onion?"

"Like a person."

"So I'm a type of red?" Bellamy inquired, a devious smirk gracing his lips.

"Yea," Clarke looked at him softly. He liked and hated it simultaneously when she looked at him like that. It always felt like he was fighting against a roaring lion in his chest. "'You're a shade of red."

"Do I even want to ask what shade I am?"

They reached the river. The soft crash of the water against the rocks sounded like they were steps away from heaven…or sanctuary.

She didn't move, and neither did he. He didn't want to look away, too curious and too anxious to know the kind of red he was—the kind of red she saw him as.

It mattered in that way that nothing mattered, yet everything sort of did, too.

"Passion," she didn't look him in the eyes when she spoke. She didn't need to. "Your red is the color of passion—joy—you know, that color that when you see it makes you question if you've ever even lived life."

"My color sounds like a douche, if it makes you doubt like that," he touched her shoulder softly, roughly, all the ways a shoulder could be touched really.

She barked out a laugh, and gave him that unconvinced amused look she'd perfected sometime between all of the madness and life.

"Guess it really is your color then."

He chuckled and pushed her, clothes and all, into the rushing river.

She screeched as she fell, and he threw himself in behind her.

Red.

Passion.

Joy.

Maybe it was his color, but as she started to lecture on the hygiene problems in camp as she tried to teach herself to float by holding on to his shoulders—she didn't bother to ask, they were past formalities—Bellamy knew red was her color too.

Because they were the same.

They were the same, and it mattered.

He thinks of that moment, and understands that it will always matter.

But Clarke's okay. She has to be okay. She's Clarke—she's not allowed to be hurt somewhere, scared without him.

It's just the way things have always been.

Inhale. Exhale. Relax. Don't panic.

But all Clarke can think about is how fast her heart is beating, and whether or not Finn is okay. The air smells damp, a sure sign that it's been raining outside.

Clarke wishes that she could see outside. She wishes that Anya hadn't captured her. She wishes that her traitorous mind would stop saying that Bellamy's on his way. Because he's not. He can't be. He doesn't know.

Anya walks into the hut where Clarke's bound and gagged. She gives her prisoner a cursory glance, takes in her wide eyes, her shallow breath, and purses her lips. Weak.

Nonetheless, she removes the gag. Anya hadn't wanted this either.

"Why are you doing this?" Clarke asks. She needs to know. She thought after what they'd allowed to be done to Bellamy that peace was theirs. Clarke had allowed herself to believe in a better place than the one they all actually live in.

She feels like a fool.

Anya walks about fixing this and that, rearranging her swords and knives, as though any of it matters more than Clarke.

But Clarke isn't weak. She's strong. Sky people are strong, and she'll be damned if she's ignored.

"Why are you doing this?" Clarke repeats with a snarl. There's a dangerous lilt to her voice that Anya recognizes and acknowledges. Strength.

"You injured many of our people." Anya doesn't avoid Clarke's gaze. Neither are ashamed. They're leaders and leaders do what they think is right. Always.

"Those people were injured carrying out orders to attack my people," Clarke takes a page out of Bellamy's book. Fight fire with fire. She lets the pride and indignation that always seems to coil around Bellamy form around her.

It doesn't matter that Anya hadn't wanted to attack SkaiKru. It doesn't matter that they both know that Tristan and his army had been the one to attack. Tristan, whether or not Anya likes it, is her people—TriKru.

Anya will stand by him and his decision, regardless if she had agreed with the course of action.

"You fight like the mountain," Anya says disgustedly. A sneer deforms her lips, but Clarke can care less; all Clarke wants to know is if they plan on killing her and Finn.

"Where's Finn?" Clarke questions in desperation. The fear is eating at her. "Where's my friend?"

"He is where I want him to be," Anya responds imperiously while conveniently not really saying anything at all.

They glare at each other, but Clarke's hope and fear clash. They dig and dig at her heels until she's shuffling onto her knees, and letting go of the fire within her.

Bellamy's fire and rage only work because they balance her optimism. Together. That's how they work, but she's alone right now. She's alone, and all she can do is use the faith that is so naturally Jake Griffin's within her breast.

"Please," Clarke begs. Pride is useless to her right now. "We can work this out. We already did. This isn't you. This is Tristan."

"Your people thought they could attack without retribution," Anya turns her back to Clarke's steady gaze.

"And your people thought we'd take an attack lying down," Clarke threw back. "This isn't on us. We had a deal, and my people didn't break it."

"What's done is done," Anya continues to clean her weapons.

"It doesn't have to be," Clarke feels that spark inside of her. Hope flares and burns, if only… "Where's my friend? Is he alive?"

"He is one boy," Anya challenges Clarke.

"He's one of mine," Clarke states steadfastly. She wants peace, but she's not willing to sacrifice Finn to have it. Not after Bellamy. Not after all that blood. Not after the nightmares that still persist sometimes.

If Clarke lets her mind wander too far, she can still hear Bellamy's screams so clear in her ears. She can still feel the silkiness of his blood in her hands.

Never again.

"Your people are weak," Anya stops shining the sword, and lets the hilt hang loosely from her fingertips.

"Strong enough to push your army back," Clarke rebuts. But she knows this line of talk will get her nowhere fast. "You don't have to agree with me. But we don't have to be enemies. Not yet."

Not yet.

It's the only truth that Clarke has to offer because if Anya kills Finn or her, Bellamy will never consider peace with the Grounders ever again.

Inhale. Exhale. Don't panic. She can do this. She can.

"Think about how a war affects your people," Clarke tries to push her message home. "Your people may be warriors, but mine won't ever stop if you kill me or my friend. You've met Bellamy. You know he won't ever stop until every last one of you are dead."

"Even your partner will be no match for us if the full force of the TrigedaKru come to fight."

She's right and she knows it. But so is Clarke.

"This isn't the way," Clarke sighs in exasperation and frustration. Inhale. Exhale. Don't panic. But her heart starts to race faster and faster. She remembers the whip and the blood. She remembers the screams and the pain she felt with Bellamy because they're connected. "We don't have to go down this road. And regardless of what you say now, I know you don't want to, either. If you did then you wouldn't have bothered to try to make peace at all."

"You beg because you are afraid," Anya goes to leave, but Clarke can't let this conversation end this way. Not this way. Not without a glimmer of hope. No, no, no.

"I beg because I know we can be better," Clarke's words stop Anya in her track. That faith and hope burn brighter and harsher inside of her chest. "We can be better and more than what we are. But only through peace."

Anya's gaze meets Clarke's; they see into each other's hearts, but they can't understand what either see…because Clarke's heart isn't made the same as Anya's.

Clarke's heart is made of clay, while Anya's is made of stone.

Anya turns away, and leaves. The silence settles over Clarke as the rough rope digs into the skin at her wrists behind her back.

For the first time on the ground, Clarke's utterly and completely alone.

"What's your greatest fear?" Clarke randomly asked Bellamy.

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"A thousand and one things to do around here, and you want to have this conversation?"

"Oh, give me a break, Bellamy," Clarke scowled. "I'm not asking you to make a life altering decision—you know, like sneak onto a ship being sent down to earth." Her pointed look was so annoying that he could throttle her, if only to get that superior look off of her face.

"Cockroaches."

"What?"

"Have you suddenly gone deaf?"

"Your biggest fear is cockroaches?!"

"Yea," he shrugged, frustrated with the sudden heat wave that was passing through the area.

Clarke was stumped in that weird way that she didn't quite know how to deal with, so instead she didn't deal with it all. "Have you always been afraid of them?"

Her face lost that sharp look, and instead gazed upon him curiously, as though she were trying to see into his very soul. Maybe she was. And maybe he knew she was, and that was okay, too.

"No," he stopped trying to hide from the unforgiving sun. "It'd never even occurred to me that those little bastards existed until I saw one trying to crawl its way onto my rug—you know the panther skin from that first kill."

"So you were afraid they were going to crawl into your mouth in the middle of the night?" Clarke joked, but Bellamy was too irritated at the heat, and the conversation as a whole to appreciate it.

"More like I remembered that in all the fuss about the end of the world, nuclear war hoopla, they were the only things to survive," he pursed his lips. Those lips that spoke cruelly sometimes, and sometimes sweetly. "The entire planet could crash down around us, and the only thing to survive would be cockroaches."

"And that scared you?" Clarke tried to understand.

"Yea," he nodded, blue clashing against brown in that horribly intense way that they could never escape. "That scares me," he admitted quietly.

Terrified, practically trembling on the inside, trying desperately to scramble out of the binds that keep her captive, that's the memory of Bellamy Blake that Clarke holds. It's utterly mundane, and intrinsically them, and so damn beautiful that Clarke struggles harder because she wants to make more normal memories on Earth.

She wants to make many more memories of ridiculous conversations with him. With all of the hundred, her people.

"Clarke," Finn whispers her name harshly.

"Finn!"

"Are you okay?" he rushes to her, and cuts her bindings with a small knife.

"I'm okay," she hugs him desperately. She'd been worried that he was dead already. It feels really good to know he isn't. "How'd you escape?"

"I didn't," Finn stops moving forward to look her in the eyes. "Anya let me go. Said something about 'being better' whatever that meant. I'm guessing it has something to do with you?"

"Something to do with peace," Clarke smiles slightly, relief and hope flying through her. "C'mon—let's go before she changes her mind."

They creep through the tents trying to be ninjas, but it's too dark and even with all the months on the ground, it's still not long enough. Not long enough to know the Earth the way those born on it do. So they step on branches, and rustle leaves.

Their hands grip each other's tight, like the grieving hold onto the dead. Their palms sweat in fear and adrenaline, but their eyes are alert, their ears sharp for any noise that doesn't belong to them.

One minute turns into two.

Two minutes turn into three.

Three minutes turn into four.

And so it went, until finally, finally, they're out of the camp and into the heart of the woods, journeying their way towards home.

Home.

They should stop—it's too dark, and they'll likely only hurt themselves, but the prospect of reaching their home, it's too much to resist.

So they walk carefully, slowly, eyes constant on the ground and on the sky—letting the stars they know guide them home. Letting the North Star show them the way.

"It's been a while since it's just been you and me," Finn says quietly.

He wants to talk about how much he misses her, how much he wishes that things had gone differently, but all he can do is relish in the feeling of having her all to himself—even if only for a moment.

"Things've been really crazy lately," Clarke agrees.

There's a steady beat that pounds in her ribcage. Home, home, home.

Home has Fox's ridiculous giggle and Murphy's sarcastic comments.

"I know," Finn nods, but he doesn't want to talk about what's been going on at camp. He wants to talk about them—the them that doesn't exist, but lingers quietly in the corner of their minds and hearts. "But…I haven't forgotten you—us."

"Finn," she says his name warningly.

"No, listen," he touches her arm like Bellamy tends to do. But he's not Bellamy. She notices the difference acutely, like a limb that had been chopped off, and someone's attempting to replace. "I love you, Clarke. I know I messed up with Raven, but that doesn't change how I feel about you—how you make me feel."

Clarke sighs and tries to rub the tiredness off her face; it's a bad habit she's picked up from Bellamy. Then again, she's seen him throwing moonshine on his hands whenever he goes to touch the random cut here and there, so she guesses she's rubbed off on him too.

They're like fire and grease—feeding off of each other, for better and for worse.

She wants to pull a Bellamy and simply be as direct as possible. She wants to just tell Finn that what he's hoping for isn't going to happen. But her heart, the one that gave her body to him so sweetly, pangs at hearing his declaration.

She remembers what it felt like those first days on the ground. To see Finn as a champion of light, and her knight in shining reckless armor. His fair skin under her fingertips. His lips upon hers, slanting and caressing hers.

These were things she'd cherished when they occurred, and directly after the fact. These were things that had tethered her.

But her mind remembers that pull and push that exists between Bellamy and her now. Her mind conjures images of his calloused hand on her arm. Her shoulder. Her neck.

Her mind remembers the words between the words—the ones that have gone unspoken between them, but matter.

The don't leave's and the I'll lose my mind without you.

The in-between words aren't about that, but they could be. They could be if they'd close their eyes long enough. But they never do. Instead what's left is:

I love you.

I know.

"Clarke," Finn brings her back down to earth. Suddenly, it feels like the miles between her and home stretch too far, too steep, too long. But Finn doesn't notice. He can't. He wants her to only see him, only want him. This desire blinds him, and emboldens him. "I'm in love with you."

They can both hear what he's not saying: I want you to love me back. But this isn't a mutual exchange situation. It's not a democracy.

"Finn," Clarke stares at him with sad eyes. Sympathy and pity roll into one, and she's not sure what she feels. But she knows it's not love. Not the kind of love he wants from her, anyway. "Raven loves you."

"I can't give up on you."

"Don't turn this into something it's not. I care about you—"

"Is this about Bellamy?"

"What does Bellamy have anything to do with this?!"

"I don't know! Everything!"

Maybe he's right. Perhaps this does have everything to do with Bellamy. But not because she cares about Bellamy more.

No. Because she cares about Bellamy different.

It's a truth that hangs in the air between them as they continue their walk towards home.

Home: where their people and their heart is.

She doesn't know what else she can say, so she repeats, "Raven loves you—"

"I want you!"

"It's been months, Finn!" Clarke finally explodes.

This rage at him has been building for a while. The hurt she felt when he had hugged and kissed Raven for the first time on the ground is etched into her mind as if it had been written on her brain in permanent marker. It doesn't hurt anymore, but it still bothers in that way that scars usually do.

"It's been months," she cools down, but she has to say this. She has to, or else she'll never move past this. They'll never get past this, and they need to. They have to. "I was so hurt when I first found out about you and Raven—"

"I'm sorry! How many times do I need to apologize?" he pleads urgently, and it breaks a piece of her heart to see it.

"I don't need apologies, Finn," Clarke shakes her head gently. She tries to give him a small smile, but she might have grimaced instead. "But I don't need you, either. Not like I did in the beginning. Not like before. We're just—we're not those people anymore. And whatever was between us isn't the same. You know that it isn't. And unless you've got the keys to a time machine, it can't ever be the same again."

"Because of Bellamy," he whispers. He hears her, but he doesn't want to. Not with this.

"Because of us," she steps closer to him. They're friends who used to be lovers, and they both have to learn to live with that. Yea, maybe a little bit because of Bellamy, but mostly because of them. Because she and Bellamy aren't about that, not yet, and maybe not ever; she can't make relationship decisions based off what could be one day with Bellamy Blake. "You lied, Finn. And I can see why you did it, but it doesn't change how I felt afterwards. It doesn't change how—how degraded and humiliated you made me feel. Because everyone knew. Everyone knew that I was just a placeholder for Raven once she arrived…You made me look like a fool. You made me feel like a fool. And now I can't ever look at you the same way again, because when we first came down and connected, I would've never thought in a million years that you'd be the one to do that to me."

"So that's it?" Finn says slightly frantic. "That's the end of our story?"

"That's the end of that part of our story," Clarke clarifies. She doesn't want to alienate him. She just doesn't want to go back to the status quo—the status quo before knowing and connecting to Bellamy. "We're still friends, Finn. We'll always be friends—we're each other's people. Nothing you do could ever break that."

His shoulders droop. His eyes glaze over in disappointment. But he nods.

Raven loves him—he holds onto that as they continue to walk on home.

Clarke and Finn hear the shouting and argument in camp before they see the gate. The feeling of home washes over them with a crippling relief. Home, finally.

Before Clarke can think about it, her feet take her through the gates, stopping all words. Bellamy's eyes are on her, frozen.

She sees herself in his eyes, and this immense urge to run and trap him within her arms, to let him feel how real she is, and how safe they both are, assault her. It crushes her. Please, her eyes plead.

It's just a moment, but Bellamy understands.

That's all they need—one second to see, and grasp the soul of the other. That's just who they are now. Who they are to each other.

Bellamy drops his weapon to the ground, and takes a step towards her. Clarke's own legs continue to move forward towards.

Almost there.

But Jasper reaches her first, his arms wrapping themselves solidly around her. Jasper's so happy that she's okay, everyone around them is, that she lets a small smile shine through.

Bellamy doesn't approach, giving her space. But she doesn't want space. All she wanted was to make another normal moment with him, and so as soon as Jasper's arms fall, she walks up to him with that infuriatingly purposeful stride that she has, and tips her head back to look into his eyes.

His arms twitch, they want to reach out—just to touch her for a second. It doesn't have to be about that. It doesn't. But fuck, after the night he'd spent anxious with worry, he's barely holding onto himself, and he doesn't care if he lets it be about that.

Just once.

Fuck, please.

Just once.

People curiously stand around, watching, waiting, expecting.

Her cerulean eyes dig into him, and his breath turns ragged. He's got about a million things to say that are filled with bravado.

Where've you been Princess? Taking a vacation from us commoners?

Well, look who decided to show up—there was about to be a mutiny, by the way.

I hope we didn't disturb your busy schedule, there's just countless things to get done around here.

What took you so long?

Or he can go soft, and ask her things gently.

Are you okay?

What happened?

But the words won't leave his tongue. Bellamy Blake, rebel leader, wordsmith galore, stands in front Clarke like a man filled with grace, and he's speechless.

Clarke understands that there's too much consuming him. It's trying to drown her too, because this is anything but a normal moment. Then again, perhaps this, whatever this is,is normal for them. On some level. In some part of themselves.

Finn stands transfixed, along with everyone else who'd come to greet Clarke, his hand brushing against Raven's.

But Raven doesn't notice the small movement, too entranced in watching genuine intimacy. This is what hadn't been with her and Finn, and what she longed for once she'd seen it the first time between Clarke and Bellamy.

Jealousy burns bright in her heart, so much so, that she has to look away. She finally notices Finn's hands lightly touching hers, and she shivers. She wishes that Finn could still be enough.

But she'd already cried for him. She'd cried as Bellamy held her, and now she understood. She's worth more. Even if she never truly believes it, her fearless leader does, and that's enough.

It's enough, and the envy curling through her veins snap and pop—gone. She looks back at the leaders of the Hundred, and watches as Clarke barely breathes, waiting for Bellamy to get it together.

You cry, I cry.

His gentleness, his empathy, now engrained in her head forever, makes Raven turn to the others, and start to usher them away.

Miller and Murphy both understand, and start barking orders to finish this and that.

Octavia doesn't move.

Neither does Finn.

Is that what's been there all along, they wonder as they watch the stillness between the two tortured souls.

Clarke lifts her hand, and gingerly picks up one of Bellamy's. She chastely kisses his hand, and it's like the Earth starts to fall out of orbit.

Bellamy falls to his knees, moved beyond comprehension. So damned grateful that she's okay.

She's here.

She exists.

He didn't fail her.

Bellamy lets his head fall against her belly, eyes burning in relief, his arms hanging loosely at his side. He breathes her in, and he silently demands of her: don't ever leave.

Clarke lets her fingers run through is hair, breathing in tandem with him. His hair slides against her skin like the worst and best agony ever to exist.

It's a brutal silence that presses down on them like an anvil. Yea, this moment is about that, and they deserve it—if only this one time. They deserve it and they're not ashamed of it. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

"What now?" Bellamy whispers against her, his arm slowly climbing up her calves, thighs, to rest at her waist. It's not sexual, but it is possessive. Because they belong to each other, on so many levels that there aren't enough numbers and stars imagined to encompass all the ways.

"Something about peace, I think—I hope," she smiles secretively.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Bellamy huffs out a dry laugh. He hasn't moved his face away from her body yet, and he doesn't want to. Just one more moment.

"I'll tell you," Clarke scowls, her fingers loathe to stop their journey to his nape, "when you tell me what the hell is that?!"

Bellamy looks up at her, chin propped against her belly, so damn content for the first time in months, and followed her line of gaze.

"Oh, that," Bellamy smirked deviously.

"Yea," Clarke raised an eyebrow. "That."

"Tepees."

"I can see that."

Clarke scowls, and Bellamy's smirk grows. He doesn't move, and neither does she, though her glare tells him he'd be better off a thousand miles away from her wrath.

Clarke quickly launches into the new set of problems that comes with lodgings that require animal skin to insulate the inside (more hunting for more animal skin to cover the teepee as well as to make blankets to sleep in—did you even think this through?).

Bellamy meets her point for point, playing the sport of verbal judo they've learned well.

Eventually, Jordan crashes into them, literally—dammit kid, are you blind, Bellamy yells while Clarke checks Jordan over with a steady hand and compassionate eyes.

Clarke and Bellamy break contact.

The passion that lingers underneath the surface goes into hiding. The moment of could be dissipates, and they walk back to the makeshift med-bay where she starts to explain what had gone wrong.

The eyes of the Hundred watch them quietly, content in their own way, even though they'll never understand.

That night, it doesn't occur to Clarke that she got exactly what she wanted: another normal moment with Bellamy, and her people.

So, what do you guys think? Liked it? Hated it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love**