A/N: I have finally expanded my work from Once Upon A Time. This is my first 100 drabble so I hope it's a good attempt.

As always, I don't own anything. Please enjoy and review.

"Even though stars are the scars of the universe we don't see them as these broken pieces of gaseous matter, we see them as these majestic astrological blessings that give hope to billions." – Ricky Maye

...

Clarke reflects on the group that landed on Earth, drunk on freedom and the fresh scents and wonders if those people still exist. She can no longer call them children – they have may been when they landed but children do not survive on the ground.

The easiest difference to spot is the scars, they all have scars now. Clarke herself has one on her temple, a souvenir from her adventure with Anya.

Bellamy seems to have more than the rest. After their reunion, the desperation, relief and joy at knowing he was alive, that she hadn't killed him, Clarke took it upon herself to clean up his scars.

They'd given him basic care as his time as a prisoner at Camp Jaha, doing nothing more than wiping the blood off his face and it fills Clarke with rage.

"Easy there, princess," Bellamy winces, as Clarke realises she is cleaning his wounds with a little too much force.

"Sorry," she mutters, "I got a bit distracted."

"I don't particularly need another scar, Clarke."

"No, you don't," she says sadly, stepping back to admire her work. The cuts to his face will take some time to heal – especially knowing Bellamy, who was likely to get in another fight sooner or later – and they would be a permanent feature, but somehow it suited him. He was a man who had fought, failed and most importantly survived.

Before she can stop herself, Clarke lifts one hand to gently trace his scars. Bellamy freezes under her ministrations and she can feel his brown eyes staring intently at her but she is focused on the contours of his face.

Something has shifted between them since their reunion, an energy that hadn't been there, or had simply bubbled beneath the surface of their sometimes volatile but co-dependent relationship.

She feels energy spark along her skin as she traced the strong lines of his face, moving through her fingers and fluttering through to her stomach.

"You don't need any more either, Clarke," Bellamy whispers, his hand lightly brushing her temple. Clarke is surprised at the delicacy of his touch, that his large hands are capable of such a gentle gesture.

A yell outside startles her and she jumps back. She avoids meeting Bellamy's gaze as she gathers her tools and rushes out of his tent, determined to outrun the spark crackling between them.

It somehow becomes a ritual. Clarke would treat all those who were wounded on the trips out and then make her way to Bellamy's test, who would be half-heartedly attempting to bind whatever wound he picked up on his outing.

"I'm fine, Clarke," he sighs, as he always does, "Go treat the rest."

"I've already done that, Bellamy, now stop squirming and let me fix you."

Bellamy stills and she fingers the tear in his shirt, a slight arrow wound along his right bicep. He is quiet as she works, his face displaying the pain he refuses to vocalise.

She steps out of his reach when she finishes and catalogues all of his new scars.

"Come to me straight away next time," she insists.

"The others had more serious injuries," he replies, as she always does.

Clarke resists the urge to grind her teeth with frustration and the urge to slap him on the head, only because that would be terrible patient care.

"How about next time you don't get injured," Clarke retorts, storming out of the tent.

She doesn't hear Bellamy's reply, nor does she care to. She walks out of the tent – away from him – before she can do something embarrassing like trace his scars again. It's something she desperately wants to, to try and draw out his pain and ensure he isn't hurt anymore, but Clarke has been down this road before and doesn't intend on letting anyone else in.

Clarke cringes under his touch, unused to being on the receiving end of treatment.

"Stop squirming, princess," Bellamy reminds her with a smile, obvious amused by her reaction.

"You're lucky you dodged in time," Bellamy continues as he dabs her right temple, "But now you've got a matching scar."

It had been a simple scouting mission that turned into so much more, Clarke turning to investigate a plant she saw out of the corner of her eye had saved her life.

Now Bellamy was in her space, enveloping her with the smell of damp earth and fresh air that always seemed to cling to him. She had a moment to simply look over his features, noting his cheekbones, full lips and warm brown eyes, currently crinkled in amusement.

His eyes meet hers for a moment and Clarke flushes, quickly glancing away.

Clarke is absently observing her tent when Bellamy's voice jerks her back to reality, "You really had me worried there."

Her eyes are drawn back to his and she is taken aback by the intensity, the worry.

"I'm fine," she says, annoyed at how breathy she sounds.

Bellamy gives a quiet chuckle, "You always tell me off for saying that."

He takes a step back and Clarke suddenly feels like she can breathe again.

"I'm pretty sure you'll live, princess."

Bellamy turns to leave and suddenly she can't stand it, reaching over to grab his wrist.

His wrist is warm and solid beneath her and she gets lost in his eyes. The next moment, his hands are cupping her face, hers are in his hair and they're kissing like there's no tomorrow.

His kiss sends shivers down her spine, igniting her wildest dreams. They pull back after a moment, foreheads together, chests heaving.

Clarke can explain her condition scientifically, understand the adrenaline rushing through her veins, but it makes it no less potent, especially as she notes Bellamy's darkened eyes and moist lips.

"Are you sure you want this, Clarke?"

The fact that the questioned it in the first place made her sure, "Yes, it's been long enough."

Bellamy's response is to kiss her again, moving from her lips, to her neck and down her collarbone.

"What are you doing?" She whines, arcing into his touch, wanting more.

"Worshipping a princess, isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

She can feel the amusement radiating off him, intermingled with his desire and she is determined to change that.

"Worship me later," she says as she pulls his shirt over his head.

"If her highness insists."

She would have slapped him, but in the moment, Bellamy picks her up, kisses picking up in intensity and Clarke lets all other thoughts drift out of her mind.

She traces his scars as they lay together, moving up the planes of his chest, to his arms and finally settling on his face. He watches her the entire time, thumb brushing against her back.

"You've got too many scars," she whispers.

"It's the price of freedom down here, Clarke. It's a price I'm willing to pay."

She snuggles closer, mapping the scars across his body. In the dim light, with Bellamy's arm around her, the scars almost seem beautiful, a tribute to the fact Bellamy Blake is a survivor.

...

He knows it's purely psychological, but when Bellamy wakes the next morning, princess still in his arms, one of her dually life-saving and deadly hands resting on a scar beneath his ribs, his scars somehow feel lighter. Like the constant ache of multiple wounds across his body have been cured by a gentle hand.

She shuffles closer in her sleep, sighing softly into his chest. Bellamy takes a moment simply to watch as the sunrise begins to peek through her ramshackle tent. This place has even given Clarke scars and although there is an ache in his chest about the idea of her being in pain, it represents her better than any jewels or crown.

Clarke Griffin is a fighter and she has the scars to prove it. Clarke smiles in her sleep as his tracing continues and drunk on his own happiness, Bellamy considers their scars to be beautiful.