This is the final chapter, folks! Thanks for sticking around if you have, and I really hope you enjoy the end. Leave a comment if you did! xoxo

Bellamy traipsed across the lobby tile and into the elevator. No one was around but the receptionist at this hour. The bright, warm lights of the building were a contrast to the springtime storm outside in the night.

Thank god at least one of them was allowed to come and go as they pleased.

Bellamy resisted the urge to whistle cheerfully down the hallway.

His heart had felt lighter with every day that had passed since the woman he loved had decided to live.

Clarke was sitting in silence on the couch when he walked back into their suite, her eyes trained on the door and her arms wrapped around her knees.

"I've got it," he told her before she could speak, drawing a heavy yellow envelope from inside his jacket.

Clarke's shoulders sagged with relief.

"Oh my god," she laughed in disbelief, her hand covering her mouth. "This is going to work. It's actually going to work."

"It just might," Bellamy grinned, toeing off his boots and sinking down next to her. "The Swiss government sees what you did as heroic. They've already gotten a cottage ready for you outside Geneva and are apparently prepared to offer any security needed during your tenure of asylum there."

Clarke bit her lip. "Can I see it?" She stretched her hand out toward him tentatively.

"Pénélope Godard," Clarke read from the expertly-produced counterfeit Swiss passport.

"It's a good thing they taught you French in middle school. And high school."

"Oui. Dieu merci," Clarke replied in perfectly accented French. "What else is in the envelope?" She asked him, her brow furrowing at its thickness.

Swallowing thickly, Bellamy reached into the envelope and pulled out the plane tickets.

There were two sets.

"Bellamy, what…?" Clarke's eyes roved his face, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

"I'm not letting you go alone," Bellamy said quietly, holding her gaze.

"Bellamy." Clarke dropped the tickets on the table, reaching for his arm. "I didn't ask you to come."

Bellamy's heart plummeted toward his stomach like an elevator with snapped cables. He hadn't imagined a scenario where he wasn't going with her.

He suddenly felt very stupid. He'd overestimated his importance to her. Color began to warm his cheeks. His gaze fell away from hers.

"You don't want me to go." A statement, not a question.

He heard Clarke's sharp intake of breath.

"Bellamy, no." Her hand held tighter to his wrist. "I mean, that's not what I meant." She shook her head. "Listen. You're not the political refugee here. You can walk away from this, Bellamy. Live a normal life. I don't think so much of myself that I can just ask someone to leave their entire life behind - to totally uproot themselves - and tie themselves to someone who's barely more than an international fugitive."

Clarke leaned toward him, so close he could smell her honey-scented soap. "You've already done so much for me, Bellamy. I can't ask for your life on a whim like this."

"I don't think you understand, Clarke." Bellamy frowned as he turned away from her, fishing around in the envelope. He pulled out a second forged passport.

Clarke opened it. Inside was a headshot of Bellamy with a name written next to it: Ulysse Godard.

"I don't want to stay here if you're gone." Bellamy's heart slammed in his chest. His nerves, his skin all felt raw, crawling with vulnerability.

She could destroy him right now with a single word.

Clarke's eyes shone, reflecting the low, warm light of the room as she leaned in, their faces just inches apart.

"Well then," she breathed. "Come with me," she whispered, her palm warm against his cheek.

Bellamy's breath caught in his throat. "That's the plan," he whispered back, his eyes dancing between hers.

Clarke's slow, soft mouth fell on his, and his eyes fluttered shut. Bellamy's heart felt fit to burst as her fingers threaded through the hair on the back of his head.

She hadn't kissed him since before everything had fallen apart.

This time, she laughed as the bristle of his five o'clock shadow scraped her rosy cheeks.

…

"Let's go over the plan one more time," Clarke said, pacing the carpet in the living area. She startled at the sight of her reflection in the window - she still wasn't used to it. Her short blonde waves were blonde no more, but a bright, bubblegum pink.

Less recognizable to the public than her trademark hair color.

"We're sneaking out tonight using the signal blocker my contact sent us," Bellamy began, tossing a t-shirt into his duffle bag.

"We'll be met by someone from the Swiss consulate outside the gate who will escort us to the airport for the red-eye flight," Clarke continued, the gears turning in her head as she tried to remember every single backup plan, keep in mind every single thing that could go wrong.

Bellamy nodded. "You're a Genevan native. Speak in French first, then broken English if you're asked to clarify. I'm your husband, who has a speaking disability. I won't be saying anything. We're going home after a short vacation to America's capital city."

Clarke curled her hands into fists to stop herself from fidgeting. "We're very rich. We've hired out the red-eye just for ourselves. No one else will be on the plane but the Swiss pilots. Once we land in Geneva, someone from the head of state will meet us on the tarmac for a briefing and escort us to the cottage outside town."

"And that's it," Bellamy sighed.

"And that's it," Clarke agreed, tugging a beanie down over her head. She noticed Bellamy wither slightly, checking his phone before shoving it back into his pocket.

She had an idea of what was on his mind.

"I'm sorry that you're leaving Octavia without saying goodbye, Bellamy."

Bellamy's jaw tightened. "She knows where to reach me, Clarke. She's known for months. She's made it pretty clear that she doesn't care."

Clarke stopped pacing and crossed the room to wrap her arms around his shoulders. "I have a feeling it won't be forever. You'll see each other again."

"She said I'm dead to her, Clarke," Bellamy's voice rumbled in his chest against her. With a pang, Clarke thought of her mother, who hadn't even bothered to express the same sentiment to Clarke face-to-face.

"I know how you feel."

…

They held hands as they moved through airport security. Clarke had put on thick, black-rimmed glasses despite not needing them to see. She hoped that between the hat, the hair, and the eyewear that no one would recognize her.

Besides, America had only ever seen the prim, polished version of Clarke in public.

The version of Clarke that didn't exist.

Bellamy couldn't say anything to her. They couldn't risk someone picking up on the fact that he wasn't, in fact, mute.

It was nearly 10 PM by the time they'd gotten through security and seated themselves at an empty gate. Their plane was technically private hire. They didn't get a gate just for themselves.

Clarke's foot tapped nervously against the thin, olive-colored carpet as they waited.

She was anxious to get going.

She was so close to being able to breathe again.

The longer they waited, the more chance there was for something to go wrong.

"Monsieur and Madame Godard?" A man in pilot uniform approached them timidly, his cap in hand, his accent thick. "I am your co-pilot tonight. We are ready for you now. If you will just follow me, s'il vous plaît."

Clarke flashed a nervous look at Bellamy. He nodded, giving her a small smile. They picked up their bags and followed the man down the terminal.

He led them down a breezeway and onto the tarmac. The light glowing from the passenger windows was warm, yellow and inviting against the dark night sky and the howling wind.

"One at a time, if you please," the pilot called down behind them as he climbed the narrow stairs up to the door of the plane. "Ze stair is quite narrow and does not like zis wind."

Clarke turned back to look at Bellamy.

"You first," he whispered. There was no one left around to hear him. He nodded toward the stairs, giving her hand another squeeze.

Clarke couldn't believe that they were here right now, together, almost free. She couldn't bite back her smile as she leaned in to press a quick kiss to his lips.

"See you up there," she whispered back.

Clarke carefully climbed the rickety stairs, cringing as they creaked in the wind. Pink strands of hair whipped across her face, and she coughed, spitting them out of her mouth.

"Stop!"

The shouts of mens' voices echoed from somewhere below her. Only two or three steps from the top, Clarke gripped the railing and wheeled around to look behind her.

A team of security officers was swarming below her, flashlights in one hand and weapons in the other.

Clarke's mind overloaded like a lightning-struck rod. For a second, she thought she might black out.

"Run!" she screamed at Bellamy down below her. "Run up the stairs!"

The pilot suddenly appeared at her shoulder, his face pale with alarm.

"Get inside, get inside," he urged her, trying to pull her into the cabin. "We need to go."

Clarke's sense of peace shattered, fracturing in the night. As she squinted into the darkness, she saw Bellamy surrounded, his wrists held in a vise behind his back by one of the officers.

"Go!" He yelled up at her, his voice raw. "I'll find you!"

"Not without you!" Clarke screamed, the wind whipping tears off her face as soon as they spilled from her eyes. The pilot continued to pull her inside the plane.

"I'll find you. I promise," he yelled back hoarsely, still struggling against the officers.

Panic rose beyond a fever pitch as one of the officers began to climb up the stairs.

Clarke felt herself roughly pushed aside as the pilot elbowed past her. He drew a taser from his pocket and took aim.

The officer tumbled backwards, falling onto the tarmac.

"We are shutting ze door, Miss Griffin." Clarke's head snapped around at the sound of her real last name. "We need to go. I am sorry," he said in a softer voice.

"I promise," Bellamy called up to her again, his voice nearly gone. More tears began to well in Clarke's eyes. She could barely see his face now.

She struggled to catch her breath.

"I love you," she shouted in a cracking voice just as the plane door slammed shut.

…

Clarke's mind was both churning and empty throughout the overnight flight.

She'd escaped.

She'd left Bellamy behind.

The two feelings fought to cancel each other out, leaving her shell-shocked and hollow inside.

He promised he'd find her.

But Clarke had seen how many guards were surrounding him. The public at large had no idea who Bellamy was, but everyone in the White House did.

He'd been everywhere with her. Like a shadow.

A shadow with a face not easily forgotten.

It felt like a cruel joke to even let herself believe that he might get free and find her, thousands of miles away in a little cottage on a hill.

The loss of Bellamy soured the taste of freedom in her mouth, like sugar into ash.

…

Clarke was trapped in a mindless haze as she went through the motions of the journey from the airport to the Swiss department of foreign affairs.

She stumbled through introductions with council members, trying to smile when they praised her for her bravery and assured her of her safety here.

"But…" one man paused, extending his hands outward, "where is Monsieur Godard?"

"He was captured by a security squadron as we were boarding the plane," Clarke said dully.

The man in the suit clucked his tongue. "Oh, no no no. Zat will not do."

Something sparked in Clarke like a firestarter. "Will you help him?" She asked suddenly, encouraged by the man's reply. She leaned forward, biting down on her bottom lip. "Please help him find his way here."

The man folded his hands together on his glass-topped desk. "We will see what we can do. Of course, it will not be easy. He is considered a criminal now and trying to aid anozzer fugitive after America has discovered his plan…" the man cleared his throat. "It will be tricky. Zere is no guarantee. But I promise you, we will try."

I promise.

Sometimes even the best-intentioned promises were impossible to keep.

But Bellamy wasn't a lost cause.

Clarke's heart gave a dull thud, reminding her that it was still there.

Now she just had to wait...and to hope.

…

Clarke felt herself wildly indebted to the Swiss government as she began to settle in. They supplied her with a new phone, complete with all of the contacts she might need for security and for getting in touch with the people who'd be trying to find and assist Bellamy.

They'd given her a bank account under the pseudonym on her passport, and filled it with a monthly stipend to help her get by.

But the cottage...the cottage was like something out of a fairy tale.

It was a two-story, whitewashed home patterned with wooden beams, the gabled roof sloping to a shallow point. Every room had windows that opened and let in natural light, and the inside was finished simply but elegantly with pale wooden furniture. The kitchen was well-stocked, and the fireplace and stone chimney were bound to make the living room cozy once the cold weather returned in the fall. Clarke's closet was stocked with clothing for every season in her size - from floaty dresses to heavy cable-knit sweaters. The living room walls were lined with chock-full, built-in bookshelves.

Bellamy's contact hadn't been lying when he'd told them it was a lovely cottage on a hill. The grass outside sloped gently down toward a village, and the path was dotted with tiny, colorful wildflowers. At the top of the hill, by her cottage, Clarke could see all around her - from the rocky, towering mountains behind, to the sparkling waters of Lac Léman below.

It took her breath away.

She couldn't remember the last time she had been free to go outside, completely unattended, and just feel the sun on her face, heating her bones and flushing her skin.

In beautiful moments like these, as well as the dark ones late at night where she lay awake, too lonely to sleep, she mourned the loss of Bellamy.

She hoped to heaven and back that he'd heard the last thing she'd said to him that night on the tarmac.

She'd waited far too long to say it.

The first time she'd looked closely at the bookshelves in her living room and realized that most of the library was stocked with historical texts, she wept bitterly - so hard that she'd lost her voice. The next day, the woman she'd befriended that ran the fruit stall at the village market asked her in a hybrid of English and French if she was feeling all right.

Clarke couldn't answer.

Some days, she would walk down to the lake and sit by it, closing her eyes as she stretched out beneath the shade of a tree. She ran her memories of the two of them through her mind like reels of film.

Every hour, she checked her government-issued phone, praying for an answer.

Every afternoon, when the increasingly warm sun streamed in through the kitchen windows, she stood at them and watched, praying to see him walking toward her up the hill, fulfilling his promise.

The weeks turned into months.

…

"I'll ask you again. Where did she go to seek asylum?"

Bellamy glared up tiredly at the interrogation officer.

They hadn't gotten anything out of him the first two times, and he wasn't planning to crack now.

He counted himself lucky enough in the circumstances already. Thankfully, between his capture and his imprisonment, he'd managed to throw his forged passport, airline ticket, and personal phone down the sewer drain in an airport bathroom he'd convinced them to let him stop in - an "emergency."

Bellamy had known how to be covert. How to cover his tracks.

They wouldn't find out where Clarke went unless the Swiss government failed her, or Bellamy did.

He sure as hell wasn't going to let it be him.

He assumed they'd scheduled his interrogations so far apart in an attempt to break him down. Bellamy wasn't totally positive, but he was pretty sure he'd been in his tiny isolation cell for nearly four months now.

He couldn't see outside enough to tell, but summer would almost be over by now if his guess was right.

He hoped that Clarke had gotten to enjoy it, outside in the grass and amongst the trees like he knew she'd been longing to.

"Don't make me ask you again, boy." Bellamy snapped back to reality, scowling against the harsh, fluorescent lighting that painted the cinderblock room an ugly yellow-green.

"Won't make a difference no matter how many times you ask, sir."

A hand reared back and snapped across his cheek faster than he'd expected. The officer's heavy class ring cut into the skin below his eye, and he felt blood trickling down toward his chin.

The officer, breathing heavily, stared Bellamy down.

Bellamy stared right back.

"Well, you've missed your chance for the month to get out of here, Agent Blake," the man said derisively. "Guess we'll just try again in another few weeks. Maybe longer." The man smiled darkly as he signaled for guards to come escort Bellamy back to his cell.

Staring at the rough, gray cinderblock walls pressing narrowly around him in his cell, with no way to escape, with no hope of movement without surveillance, and with no idea of if or when he'd ever get out, Bellamy began to understand more than ever why Clarke had tried to do what she did.

At least he could rest easy knowing they hadn't found her. They wouldn't still be questioning him if they had.

At least she knew that he loved her.

Even if he might never find out if she felt the same.

Sometimes, in restless sleep on his painfully hard cot, he dreamed of her. He dreamed of her covered in paint after defacing her bedroom walls with murals. He dreamed of her laughing over a steaming cup of hot cocoa in a tiny pub, bundled up against the English winter. He dreamed of her holding his face in her hands as she leaned in to press her lips to his.

He dreamed of her appearing at his cell door and opening it, holding his hand as she dragged him away and out into the sunlight.

"Blake." Bellamy snapped awake, groaning as he lifted his head from the cold wall that he'd dozed off against.

"Mealtime."

A tray of stale bread, canned peas, and watery spaghetti was shoved through the slot in his cell door.

Bellamy let his eyes fall shut again. He'd eat it in a minute. Maybe.

In the distance, he heard the buzzer sound of the corridor gate being opened. Footsteps echoed off the stone walls, drawing closer and closer.

They fell silent when they reached his cell door.

Keys jangled as they turned in the lock.

"Agent Blake? If you'll come with me, please." A man in officers' uniform beckoned, nodding his head toward the corridor.

Bellamy frowned. He couldn't remember the last time someone had said "please" to him in here.

Possibly never.

Surely this wasn't a second interrogation in one day?

But what else could it be?

Bellamy swallowed thickly as he stepped past the officer. The man, one Bellamy had never seen before, quickly grasped his arm, clicking handcuffs to lock around Bellamy's wrists.

"This way." The officer prodded him in the back toward the end of the hallway.

Bellamy walked slowly, expecting at any moment to be directed back into the interrogation quarters.

He wasn't.

Frowning, Bellamy turned to look back at the man. His expression impassive, the officer simply nodded forward.

On more than one occasion like this, Bellamy had considered trying to knock his way out of the place by brute force. He'd never gone through with it, though. The security level was too high for him to ever make it far.

And he couldn't keep his promise to Clarke if he was dead.

The man guided him further than Bellamy had ever gone from his cell. Bellamy's heart began to stutter erratically.

He knew a lot went on behind the scenes in the government that would horrify the public - Clarke had discovered that in the hardest way possible - but surely they wouldn't stoop so low as to execute him without a trial?

They finally stopped in what seemed to be a holding room with a service window. The room was totally sterile, and the man gripped Bellamy's arm relentlessly as he steered Bellamy to the window.

He flashed the lady at the counter behind the window a badge.

"This is inmate 86114. He's being removed in temporary transfer to secret service interrogation offices at the request of the president."

The lady at the counter scrutinized Bellamy from behind oversized tortoiseshell glasses connected by a thin chain behind her hair.

"Ah yes, the whistleblower accomplice. Just show me your official documentation for the order and I'll send you right through."

The officer didn't let go of Bellamy as he slipped a form under the opening at the bottom of the window glass.

The woman scanned it briefly before sliding it back and nodding.

"Ernie, open exit door three for me, would you?"

Another buzzing alarm sounded, and the officer shoved the form in his pocket, wordlessly steering Bellamy out the automatically-opening door to their left.

Bellamy screwed his eyes shut against the setting sun. The orange-golden light was shockingly bright against his prison-cell-accustomed eyes. The humid, late-summer air warmed him immediately, and he felt beads of sweat dot his forehead.

Why were they taking him to the White House? What could they possibly want from him there that they couldn't learn from a phone call to the prison officers here?

The officer pushed him into the backseat of a deeply-tinted sedan, slamming the door behind him. Bellamy noticed the driver immediately lock the doors once Bellamy was in his seat, then quickly unlock them again to allow the officer into the front seat.

They rode in silence toward the gate, where the officer showed his papers one more time before they were motioned through.

Bellamy stared hard out the window, inhaling his surroundings like a drowning man would oxygen.

He knew the federal facility he'd been held at was in southeastern DC - so why had they bypassed the beltline circling downtown and headed west instead?

Bellamy cleared his throat.

"Sir...where are we going?"

The man turned around to glance at him. Now that Bellamy could finally see his face for longer than a second or two, the expression on it seemed much more...sympathetic?

"We are going to the airport, monsieur," the man smiled, pronouncing the title in perfect French. "Welcome to Take Two."

Bellamy's heart catapulted into his throat. "Do you mean - you're not taking me to - do you mean you're helping me get out of here?"

"We certainly hope so," the driver spoke up, his English accented, unlike his passenger next to him. "Victor here was chosen to rescue you because of his perfect English. It is wonderful, no?"

Bellamy felt all of a sudden like the blood in his veins had been replaced with hot air. His hands shook slightly.

"We're honestly lucky all of those papers weren't scrutinized more heavily," Victor added. "Here," he passed back a passport to Bellamy alongside another plane ticket. "You are going for the same cover, the same plan as before, only that you had to travel alone at the end of the trip instead of accompanying your wife, due to some confusion with a travel agency. We know your French is not very good, so you will still pretend to be mute." Victor passed back a notepad. "You will use this notepad to communicate, if need be."

Bellamy opened the forged passport. It looked exactly as it had before. Ulysse Godard.

"We are actually your pilots tonight," the driver said cheerfully. "We will get you to Geneva and Madame Pénélope in no time." He winked at Bellamy in the rearview mirror.

"How is she?" Bellamy asked in a strangled voice, leaning forward in his seat.

"Very well, from what we hear of the reports," Victor replied as he reached back to unlock the handcuffs around Bellamy's wrists.

"She asks about you all ze time, according to ze council members," the driver nodded.

Bellamy bit his lip. His heart slammed in his chest as he tried to process what was happening. His fortunes had turned so quickly that he felt the primal urge to weep, not from sadness, but from the sheer rawness of relief washing over him in waves.

"What's your name, sir?" Bellamy asked the driver, realizing he hadn't caught it and trying to keep a sob from welling in his throat.

"Henri, monsieur," the man smiled back at him.

Bellamy balled his hands into fists to try and stop them from shaking. "Thank you both, so much."

…

"Is it safe to stop here?" Bellamy glanced around at the truck stop, grateful at least that only one other vehicle occupied the parking lot at the moment.

"We know for a fact zat zaire security cameras do not work," Henri chuckled. He tossed a coat back to Bellamy. "Here. It is too warm for this but it will cover your uniform long enough for you to go to ze showers."

Victor tugged a shopping bag from the floorboard and handed it back. "In there you'll find a fresh change of clothes, some toiletries, and change for the showers. Go clean yourself up. You must feel a bit grimy, I'd imagine."

Bellamy wasn't complaining. The communal showers had been less than ideal, especially for over a quarter of a year.

The two men walked in with him, flanking him and keeping him from view of the cashier as Bellamy slipped down the hall toward the showers.

He looped the handle on the back of a stall door and inspected the contents of the bag.

Jeans, underwear, a touristy t-shirt, a Washington Nationals baseball cap. Some plain gray tennis shoes. Soap and shampoo. A razor for his face. Some deodorant, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a plain white towel.

It was all wildly thoughtful. Bellamy wasn't sure how he'd ever repay his rescuers.

Bellamy's hair dripped down over his nose and ears as he stood under the hot, strong spray of the shower. No one had given him a chance to cut it in prison, and it was getting a bit long.

Nothing he could do about it now.

He soaped up once, twice, relishing in the privacy and the hot water for the first time in months.

He dressed himself and double-checked for cameras at the sink as he shaved away the rough beard that had grown while he'd wasted away in his cell.

The tacky t-shirt and baseball cap disguised him from looking like himself, but at least he looked - and felt - human again.

Bellamy almost smiled as Victor passed him a bag of cheese puffs once they were back in the car.

Clarke had loved cheese puffs. She'd always laugh over her orange fingers every time she had them.

Bellamy closed his eyes against the bright, dying light of the sun pouring in through the windshield.

The next time he saw the sun, he'd see Clarke again.

…

Clarke sat at the lake-facing window of the cottage, perched on a stool as she daintily dipped her paintbrush into a dab of white.

She approached the canvas on the easel with a steady hand, dabbing lightly to mimic the sparkle of the lake water in the early afternoon sun.

She'd begun painting a month or two ago. It had been so long since she'd created anything new, but starting again had been like muscle memory. Her brush was drawn to the canvas like a magnet.

She also loved that it put her brain in neutral - not so engaged in painting a scene that she was stressed out, but not so idle that her mind drifted to things that hurt like pressing on a bruise.

Clarke smiled faintly to herself.

This painting was finished.

She pushed the easel back to the corner and washed her brushes at the sink.

The afternoon was still young.

Clarke tugged her hair tie out, letting her hair fall to her shoulders. It had grown out a little, and the pink was now completely washed away.

She went to fetch her swimsuit and a towel. Fall was almost here, and the tourists had been appearing with less and less frequency. Her little cove of the lake was finally starting to return to its private, unsullied state.

Clarke's eyes still scanned the hillside and the village below as she headed down to the shore.

Always looking.

Still hoping, despite the fact that her contacts in the government had stopped responding to her questions about Bellamy.

That hope grew smaller and smaller with each passing day.

She still wept over him at night.

The lake water bit unyieldingly at Clarke's skin when she plunged through the surface.

It was even colder than usual.

…

Bellamy should have been exhausted when he arrived at the consulate. He was hungry, dirty, and he hadn't slept in over 24 hours.

Instead, he felt electrified.

The consulate was gracious enough to feed him some smoked sausage and cheese as they briefed him, and directed him to a much nicer shower than he'd used at the truck stop yesterday along with some fresh clothes. The sweater and pants they'd left him were perfect - it was almost fall here. The air was decidedly nicer than it had been in the blazing DC area heat.

"Where's Clarke? Does she know I'm here?" had been the first question Bellamy had asked.

The councilmen had smiled to each other. "We've decided to let it be a surprise."

The taxi driver had dropped him off in the village nearest Clarke's cottage. There wasn't a real road leading up the hill - only a worn path flanked by soft, swaying grass.

Bellamy stepped in a slow circle, looking around him.

The lake shone gold in the late afternoon sun.

A market stall owner called out on the other side of the square, holding up deep purple plums in her hands and shouting something in French.

The trees surrounding the village swayed with the light breeze.

It was beautiful.

Bellamy couldn't believe he was finally free. Here.

His heart rate stuttered as he began to climb.

…

Clarke's hair was almost dry from her steaming hot shower.

The lake had been colder than she expected, and she'd needed help warming up.

It would probably turn out to be her last swim of the year.

She padded over to the sink, wearing only underwear, an oversized sweatshirt, and some slouchy woolen socks.

As she stirred some milk into her cup of tea, she gazed out the kitchen window, watching the sinking sun start its descent over the lake.

She wondered where Bellamy was now.

Sometimes, she was afraid that he'd been set free and had just stayed. Decided she wasn't worth it.

Not that she could ever blame him for making a decision like that.

She wished every night that he was safe. That at least he wasn't being hurt.

She still wished to see him climbing toward her up that hill.

Clarke blew gently on her tea, waiting for it to cool a little.

When she looked up again, a figure was at the bottom of the path, slowly ascending upward.

Surely it wasn't.

It couldn't be.

Couldn't.

And yet - she'd know that silhouette anywhere.

Had she finally lost her mind, alone up here in this little dreamland cottage?

Was she so heartsick that her eyes had started showing her things that weren't really there?

No.

This was real. This was real, somehow.

Clarke dropped her teacup into the sink, oblivious to the clatter it made.

She pressed her fists to her heart, as if her hands could keep it from beating out of her chest.

He was at the top of the hill now.

His eyes met hers through the open window. He fell still.

"You got any room for a weary traveler?" He called out, his voice cracking.

Clarke needed to scream. She needed to cry. She needed to lay down on the floor and shut her eyes and open them again to make sure that this wasn't a hopeless mirage.

Instead, she ran to the front door and yanked it open.

He stood at the threshold, inches from her.

"You're real," Clarke's voice ripped from her throat in a sobbing gasp. "You're real."

Her hands went to his face, her fingers running over his freckles and her thumbs tracing the deep circles under his eyes. "And now you're here," she cried, throwing herself into his arms.

He hoisted her up against him, wrapping his hands around her thighs as she hooked her legs around his hips.

He kicked the door shut behind him.

"I'm here," he nodded. She could feel his heart pressed up against her own chest, beating wildly. Or was it hers?

"I'm here." Shaking, Bellamy sat her down on the kitchen counter, her eyes level with his. His hair had grown, curling almost into his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Bellamy asked her in a low voice, his hands wrapping around her waist. He leaned his forehead against hers.

His question made her want to weep.

"Am I - am I okay?" Clarke spluttered. "I've been living here in this paradise all summer. And you, god knows where you've been - where have you been? And what people have done to you, and-"

Bellamy's mouth was on hers, kissing her breathless. Kissing her until there was nothing left in the world but his lips on her lips and his hands on her waist and the heat of his body rolling down her in waves as her joints weakened into water.

He finally broke free, breathing heavily. "I have all - all the time in the world to tell you what happened, Clarke. Let's not do it tonight."

A tear trickled down her face as she nodded.

The question she'd been wanting to ask him for months boiled to the surface with a pang in her chest.

"Bellamy…" she paused, sweeping his hair away from his forehead and weaving her fingers through it. "Bellamy, did you hear the last thing I said to you that night when the plane door was closing?" Her other hand began to tremble where she rested it against his neck.

He shook his head. "I couldn't hear anything over the wind from down there. Why?"

"I said…" Clarke broke off, her heart in her mouth. She dragged her eyes back to his, holding his warm gaze there. "I said that I love you. I still do."

She pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

"I should have told you long before that."

Bellamy held her gaze. Something in his eyes shifted - settled. Moved into place. He seemed to relax into her hands.

The pace at which he leaned toward her was achingly slow.

When his lips finally met hers, they moved against them like honey, warm and smooth and devastatingly slow.

Everything else began to melt away as he picked her up again, holding her body up against his as he walked them through the open door of the bedroom.

The fading sunlight trickled gold and pink through the window.

A heat began to build between Clarke's hips as he laid her gently on the bed, finally abandoning her mouth to smother the skin of her jaw and her neck and her shoulder in kisses.

God, she wanted him.

And she was going to have him.

She pulled the sweater over his head, relishing in finally having the chance to run her hands over the smooth, golden skin of his chest, soaking in an eyeful of the freckles that dotted his shoulders as well. Her heart lurched at the sight of the pale scar on his shoulder that was left by the bullet wound the morning he saved her life. One of many times he saved her life.

She raised her eyes back to his face, and the dark circles beneath his eyelashes struck her again.

"You must be really tired," she said reluctantly, her hands falling to his hips. "Are you sure-"

"I'm sure," he cut her off hoarsely, his hand tracing her hairline and tangling in her blonde waves. "I've never been more sure of anything," he said against her skin as he pressed another kiss to her neck.

A pulse of longing shot through Clarke's abdomen, and her fingers curled around the waistband of Bellamy's pants.

"Take my shirt off," she said breathlessly, pulling him down against her.

Bellamy pushed up her hem slowly, higher and higher up her rib cage.

Clarke swallowed as she remembered the fading scars on her hips. She shrank inwardly a little as she thought of the size of her breasts and the way they didn't always look so perky if she was lying down.

She relaxed a little as she watched Bellamy feast his eyes on what he saw once he tossed the sweatshirt to the floor.

His eyes returned to hers as he lowered himself over her again, kissing against the hollow of her throat, sucking lightly.

Kissing a few inches further down.

And a few inches further.

Clarke's back arched involuntarily as his mouth closed around her breast, his tongue flicking lightly over her nipple.

She lifted a hand to the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair as her eyes rolled shut.

He dragged his mouth across her chest and let his tongue brush over the other nipple. Clarke felt it harden as his tongue, hot and wet, grazed over it again.

Clarke felt her breathing grow shallow as he began to kiss further downward, over her belly button and toward her hip bone.

She tensed suddenly as she realized how scarred the skin he was currently kissing was.

"You're okay," he whispered against her, his hands grasping her hips. "You're beautiful."

Clarke's heart turned a flip in her chest.

Her breath caught as he ran the tips of his fingers down the inside of her thigh. He gently tugged her underwear down by the waistband, discarding it on the floor.

She was totally bare before him.

Before she had time to feel self-conscious, he pressed his hand gently to the inside of her knee and raised it slowly, pressing it back against the bed and holding it there. He laid a kiss on the soft skin there and slowly - agonizingly slowly - started to kiss a trail higher and higher up the inside of her thigh. He sucked on the soft skin at the highest point of her inner thigh, and Clarke twitched involuntarily.

She knew she was already soaking wet.

Her thighs began to shake of their own accord in anticipation.

Smiling up at her, Bellamy laid his other hand against her hip bone, pressing her against the bed.

Clarke grasped the bedcover - hard - as his tongue swept over the tiny bundle of nerves hidden between her legs.

"Bellamy," she groaned, bucking her hip against his hand.

He hummed inquisitively against her, which only made her quiver more.

"Please," she gasped out. "More."

He swept over it again, flicking the tip of his tongue against it.

And again.

And again.

He held her down against the bed, his hands hot against her skin as his tongue traced its path slowly, over and over, in tantalizing circles and torturous sweeps.

Clarke screwed her eyes shut so hard she saw stars.

Her whole lower body was trembling now, and she had no control over it.

She began to pant as she felt herself nearing the edge. She gripped the sheets harder, bracing for it.

Suddenly, the space between her legs went cold.

"Bellamy," she whimpered, her eyes snapping open. He had to keep going. She was going to burst.

He was standing at the foot of the bed, his pants and underwear tossed behind him on the floor.

He was already hard.

And he was definitely bigger than Finn.

Clarke sat up, scooting down toward him at the edge of the bed.

"I...I just realized I don't have a condom, Clarke, I'm so sorry-"

"It's okay," she said, placing her hands on either side of his hips. He hissed at the contact. "I have an IUD." She inched closer. "And I trust you."

And she did.

She felt Bellamy's muscles ripple under her hands as she took him into her mouth. A low groan escaped his lips above her, and encouraged, she kept going, moving her head back and forth.

"No," he said suddenly, his hands reaching down to gently push her back by the shoulders. "Come here," he said in a low voice, grabbing her waist and slowly lowering her onto the bed. "Let me give you what you want."

His hands trailed gently over her breasts, his thumbs grazing her nipples.

"Because it just happens that that's what I want, too."

He loomed over her, and Clarke's eyes locked onto his as she felt his knees nudge in between hers. Her back arching slightly again, she widened the space between her legs, ready.

She needed him.

She'd beg if she had to.

Her hands slid to his hips, pulling him down toward her.

Her breath caught as she felt the tip of him nudge up against her center.

"Bellamy," she moaned, her hands pressing against his hips, willing him to keep going.

His head fell to kiss her neck as he slowly pushed himself in. Further, further, filling her until Clarke's eyes rolled into the back of her head.

"Oh my god," she breathed, feeling her muscles contract and expand, adjusting to him.

She heard him suck in a shaky breath as she clenched around him.

Still sucking gently on the soft skin beneath her ear, he began to move slowly inside her, in and out, in and out.

She huffed in frustration, bucking against him when he teased her, never picking up the pace.

She felt a muffled laugh against her skin, and he resurfaced, kissing her with no room left to breathe as he began to thrust faster.

Clarke's legs began to shake uncontrollably again. She wrapped them around Bellamy's back, pushing him deeper. He groaned against her lips.

Something inside Clarke began to rise rapidly, higher and higher toward a fever pitch.

"Bellamy I'm - I'm going to-"

He sucked against the hollow of her throat again and at the same time lowered a hand to brush his thumb over her swollen clit.

The touch sent her over the edge, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, crying out as the climax rocked through her body in waves. The clenching that it sent through her tightened around Bellamy, and a low growl rumbled in his throat as he continued to thrust. Finally coming down, Clarke caught her breath. She put her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her.

"I love you," she said in a rough whisper, and leaned up to suck the skin at the base of his neck.

Bellamy thrusted wildly for a moment before tensing up, the veins standing out in his neck as he stopped breathing.

He relaxed against her with a deep sigh, taking care to keep his weight off her and on his forearms instead.

"Oh my god," he muttered, disentangling himself from her and rolling onto his back.

"I know," she replied, slowly shaking her head.

After a silent moment of them just breathing, she felt Bellamy's hand wrap around hers. He lifted it to his mouth, kissing her palm. Kissing the tip of every finger.

"I love you," he said in a low voice, gravel at the edge of his tone. Clarke turned her neck to look at him, and found him already staring.

His warm, deep eyes, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to laugh.

She wanted to kiss him again.

So she did.

"What do we do now?" she asked him, smiling as he nuzzled the tip of his nose against hers.

He grinned back at her, his impossibly sweet mouth turned upward with joy.

"Whatever the hell we want."