"Bellamy."

A very distant, very loud, and very obnoxious voice snapped. He didn't even bother looking up from his glass of whiskey. All he wanted was to be left alone, to be left in isolation. A black void had taken the place of his heart and he no longer had the energy for anything or anyone.

And he definitely didn't need to be thinking about Clarke right now.

All the alcohol in the world couldn't rid her from his memory, no matter how hard he tried. Most nights he would just pass out in Camp Jaha's bar and other times he would wake up and find himself in some random girl's tent.

"Bellamy Blake, so help me God, if you don't get your ass out of here, I'll haul it out for you." Raven barked, taking his metal cup and tossing it to the other side of the bar.

Bellamy only grunted in protest, in part because he was just that drunk and, secondly, he just didn't care. He ran a calloused hand through his already tousled, thick, black hair. It was at times like these, times when he was in between soberness and being wasted, that he wondered what Clarke was doing – where she was.

Raven growled in frustration and slammed her fist down on the bar top.

"Your sister has been worried about you, you know. You haven't spoken to any of us in days, haven't slept in days," Raven started, listing off his recent faults while boring her eyes into his glazed ones. "Wick said he asked for your help with the radio tower and you blew him off."

Bellamy grunted again, unable to form coherent words. Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind, a pleasant thought that consisted of two girls in his bed – blonde girls preferably. He rose to his feet and managed to stand when he was immediately shoved back onto the stool. Bellamy glared at Raven.

"I was just leaving."

"And I was just talking." she shot back.

Bellamy huffed and reached for the nearest canister of vodka, sitting patiently for him on the steel bar top. That would definitely knock him out. He grinned. Perhaps if he blacked out, for once he wouldn't have nightmares.

Raven Reyes slapped his hand away.

"It's Clarke, isn't it?" she said, posed as a statement, not a question.

Bellamy's fingers curled inward and he shut his eyes. His already slouched posture, not for the first time, reflected his own defeat. He saw her face, wet with tears that he could not catch, marred with cuts he could not mend, dirty with soot he could not clean, played itself like an old movie strip across his closed eyelids.

What was one half without the other? What was a soldier without a gun? What was a king without his queen?

"She's gone…" he whispered to the air.

Raven snorted and dragged his stool forward with her good leg. She placed both hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. Bellamy did so with reluctance and with broken eyes.

He had done all that Clarke wanted him to do – he had taken care of their people. Jasper, Monty, Harper, Miller, all of them, he had made sure that all of them were okay and that all of them were settled.

He watched over all of them, all but himself.

Bellamy Blake, his own punisher, his own executioner, was inflicting emotional torment unto himself. He told himself that he deserved worse than this. After all of the people he killed or that had died by his will – for that, he deserved worse than death.

"May we meet again…" he breathed, thinking of their parting words.

"You listen to me, Blake," Raven ordered and tilted his head back. "You are going to fix this, but more importantly you're going to fix yourself. Clarke needs you and you need her."

Their faces, inches apart, resembled a commanding officer scorning his charge. Raven sniffed and crinkled her nose. "You smelt better when you were sane."

"But, she doesn't want my help –"

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"No matter how wasted I seem to get, you're still the same, cranky wrench monkey." Bellamy slurred.

Raven slapped him. The sound resounded throughout the entire room.

Stunned, Bellamy held a hand up to his face, his cheek quickly turning red from the impact. "What the hell?"

Raven ignored him. "Shut up or else the only wrench you're getting is a wrench to the forehead." she barked. "Look, Clarke is hurting just as badly as you are – if not more. And right now she's out there and you're in here. You told her that she's not alone. Well then, go prove to her that she isn't. Who knows what she'll do if she doesn't think anyone cares about her, that she's beyond saving."

"But, we deserve this –"

"For fuck's sake, you're not martyrs! Stop feeling sorry for yourself, get your brooding head out of your ass and go find Clarke." Raven yelled and roughly hauled him to his feet.

Bellamy stumbled into her and she nearly fell backwards under his weight. She made a throaty sound and shoved him upright. For such a skinny girl with a limp, Raven was stronger than almost anyone. But, no matter how straight he thought he stood, no feat of strength could hold Bellamy together.

"Wick!" shouted Raven. "A little help here?"

"Oh yeah," he said, appearing from around the corner and jogging towards them. "Sorry, I was just calibrating the fermentation barrels. The hydrophobic parts weren't lining the interface with carbon dioxide gas –"

"Wick." Raven snapped impatiently.

"Sorry, sorry." Wick apologized as he came around to Bellamy's other side and placed an arm under his shoulder.

Bellamy attempted to tell him that his girlfriend was a real keeper, but his tongue went limp in his mouth. Wick stared at him with a strange expression on his face. "Dude, when was the last time you took a shower?"

"I –"

"Don't, it's rhetorical."

Bellamy grumbled under his breath as they led him away from the one thing that could quell his raging emotions. He would have been perfectly happy drinking himself into oblivion every night. He would have been perfectly happy being labeled a drunk instead of a hero. He didn't deserve that title – hero. Heroes were honest, selfless, compassionate, everything that Bellamy wasn't. And he was tired of being treated like one.

Everywhere he went, everyone he met, he couldn't escape their praise, their admiration. The whispering and hushed conversations were the worst.

Is that Bellamy Blake, the one who helped Abby's daughter rescue the kids from Mount Weather?

Yeah, I heard that he was the one who pulled the lever.

Really? Someone told me that he stabbed their President and that the mutilated body washed up in the lake.

The rumors, the gossip, the festering lies and glorified stories, they all circulated amongst the people of Camp Jaha like a contagious disease. As the weeks progressed, the rumors didn't dissipate – they escalated. And Bellamy resented it, all of it. He wanted nothing more than to return to the days of the dropship that, for so long, had been considered home.

"Which one is his?" Wick asked and the question brought Bellamy back to reality.

They had stopped just outside a row of pop-up tents concealed under the massive shadow of the Ark. It was calmer here. Less people wanted to sleep outside, preferring the salvageable rooms inside. Bellamy hated the confined feeling of that metal prison. He had a hard time understanding why anyone would want to return to it.

Raven pointed to the right and both her and Wick walked Bellamy into his tent, more or less throwing him onto his bed.

"I'll arrange a pack for you tonight." Raven exclaimed. "Sleep off the alcohol, pray that you don't get hungover. You're leaving in the morning."

And just as quickly as she entered, she left. Wick followed her out, casting a sympathetic look in his direction. Bellamy fell backwards against the mattress and slipped into a dreamless sleep.