A/N: So… here's that part 2 I've been yakking about since the beginning of July. Obviously, I got carried away with the season 4 speculation *sideeyes word count*. But anyways, I was trying to write something more lighthearted than my usual fare, so I hope that worked.

Huge shout-out to wellamyblake on tumblr for beta'ing, covering my ass on the editing side as usual and making sure my smut writing wasn't too laughable. You're the best.

One of the things Bellamy neglected to mention to Clarke during their last meeting was that the type of fern in his quarters doesn't really require that much water to survive.

Really, he could leave it for two weeks— maybe longer— and it'd still be alive. And he knows that it's standard procedure to clear out an Ark citizen's quarters a week after they've died for resource redistribution. So if he dies on this mission, his fern would be found while they're doing the clean-up of his room and someone would take it from there. Sure, by then it might be a little worse for wear, but it'd be alive. It's not a problem; that particular loose end is one that he may have exaggerated slightly for Clarke's benefit.

The thing is, she gave him another loose end that he doesn't know how to deal with.

"Clarke's gonna be pissed," Miller comments, jarring him out of his own thoughts.

Bellamy blinks and feels himself being violently tugged forward by the rope binding his wrists together. "Clarke's always pissed."

"Yeah, but this time she'll be hella pissed," Miller insists.

Bellamy glares viciously at the Ice Nation soldiers in front of them who have captured him and Miller. Word about his and Clarke's argument back in Arkadia before his departure must have spread quickly around camp; Bellamy swears the adults in Arkadia are worse gossips than the kids. "Don't know what you're talking about."

Miller shrugs. "If you say so." There's a teasing lilt to his voice, and Bellamy shifts his glare towards him.

"Did you come back just to talk about Clarke?" Bellamy staying behind to draw the Azgeda soldiers away from the rest of the group was supposed to give them time to escape, but no— Miller had doubled back stupidly and gotten captured as well.

"No," Miller replies. "I came back because I give a shit about you, no matter what you might think."

Bellamy huffs but before he can get a reply in, one of the Ice Nation soldiers whips around and tells them to shut up, or at least that's what it sounds like; for all Bellamy knows, he might be telling them make spaghetti. In any case, he and Miller lapse into silence for a little while.

They attempt an escape a half hour later, and when they're both being re-chained and beaten, one of the Azgeda soldiers grabs Bellamy by the hair and tells him in rough English, "Try that again and I'll break your leg."

Bellamy just spits blood at the ground, unfazed. The soldier seems to realize that, and he adds, "And I'll kill him." He jerks his head towards Miller. "I only need one of you."

Bellamy doesn't try to escape again.

He spends the rest of the trip trying to figure out where they could be taking them. All the Grounders are in disarray— have they picked a new leader so quickly? Or is this something else? Maybe they're just taking them somewhere quiet to be tortured and killed, whispers the cynic— no, the realist— in him.

Clarke's face flashes in his head for a second, her words a husky plea: Just come back.

Miller's right, Bellamy thinks grimly. Clarke is going to be hella pissed.

—

The more they walk, the colder it gets. Bellamy's teeth are chattering now. Even the thick layers he'd put on for this trip aren't helping this far up north— They're being taken further into Ice Nation territory, which can't be a good thing.

At some point, a foul-smelling burlap sack is thrown over his head, and he and Miller are pulled roughly through some trees. Bellamy hears the sounds of people fill his ears— of horses clip-clopping against hard-packed dirt, of the sizzling of meat against a hot grill, of laughter and shouting.

Great. They've hit some kind of Azgeda gathering place. A village, maybe?

Murmurs run through the crowds as their little troup passes through them. But then the sounds dissolve and his feet hit a harder, rougher surface. He finds out what it is a minute later, when he's forced to his knees— it's shockingly cold, biting through his cargo pants— and the bag is ripped off his head. He's left staring at the floor.

Which is… ice. Clouded, scratched up, pebbled ice.

He almost laughs. But then he lifts his head and instead he does a double take.

King Roan is sitting in front of him, on a throne.

Watching him with amusement. And looking healthier than ever, to Bellamy's utter dismay. "It's been a while, Bellamy Blake."

Not long enough.

Beside Bellamy, Miller shoots him a look. Bellamy keeps his eyes narrowed at the Azgeda king.

"What?" Roan looks to be enjoying this too much. "Nothing to say?"

"We thought you were dead," Bellamy says bluntly.

Roan's amusement only seems to grow at that. "No need to sound so disappointed."

Bellamy declines to reply in favour of casting a look around him. It's some kind of throne room, not dissimilar from the one in Polis; except that it's a lot more… ice themed. That same rough, pebbled ice skates over the entire floor— over parts of the walls— and is that, are those icicles on the undersides of the arms of that throne?

Very literal, these people.

Roan stands up. "What were you and your friends doing in Azgeda territory?" He directs the question at Bellamy, not Miller.

Bellamy mulls over his options silently. Lying is his first instinct, but it might not be the best option here. The truth is fairly benign and might get them out of this precarious situation if Roan does believe him.

On the other hand, he's not so sure Roan will believe him.

"An errand," Bellamy settles on eventually before the silence can stretch too long. It's a vaguely truthful answer to buy himself a bit of time to think, an answer that he can really go anywhere with.

"An errand," Roan repeats.

"That's right."

Roan makes an impatient noise and stands up to his full height. "Leave us," he commands the guards. When they hesitate, he adds, "I can handle them."

Bellamy resists rolling his eyes.

As soon as the guards retreat, closing the heavy wooden doors of the chamber closed behind them, Roan doesn't waste any time striding over to wear Bellamy and Miller are still on their knees, wrists and ankles tied, and putting a knife to Miller's throat.

Bellamy automatically surges forward, but his restraints stop him from getting anywhere. He barely manages to keep himself upright.

Meanwhile, Roan yanks Miller's head back and runs the knife almost teasingly along his throat. "I'm waiting for real answers, Bellamy."

Miller closes his eyes, Adam's apple bobbing. Bellamy glares at Roan for about half a second— then he sees a bit of blood fall from the blade and he relents immediately. Truth it is.

"The world is ending again." He talks fast, keeping his eyes on that knife on Miller's throat. "Nuclear reactors all over the globe are melting down. There's only a few months left before most of the world becomes unsurvivable for any of us, and we're trying to keep our corner from getting irradiat— stop!" Roan has dug the knife deeper into Miller's skin.

"Why were you in my territory," Roan says calmly. "You haven't answered the question."

Bellamy glares at the Ice King, now wishing he'd put a bullet in his head instead of in his shoulder. "I was getting to that. One of those reactors are in Ice Nation territory. We were trying to get a look at it, see if the situation was salvageable. That's why we were here." Blood continues to leak from the knife pressed against Miller's neck, and a slight amount of desperation gets through into Bellamy's voice. "That's the truth, all of it. Put the knife down."

Roan holds Bellamy's gaze without moving for a few more painful seconds before he releases Miller and takes a step away. Miller's head hangs forward, and he takes a few deep breaths.

Bellamy spends a moment making sure his friend is okay before Roan says, "So say I believe you." Remarkably, he actually does look like he's considering it. "This reactor is in our territory. Why would you even risk being found? Why didn't you just come to us directly? We all have a stake in the world not ending for a second time, you know." His voice is dry and slightly condescending, and Bellamy bristles at it.

"Talking it out hasn't really worked out in the past with you people. And besides," he can't help but add, "no one knew you were alive. For all we knew, there was a new Azgeda ruler. One just as eager to wipe us all out as your mother and Ontari were."

Roan studies him for a long moment before barking out a laugh and turning to pace the floor, back to them. "Fair enough."

Bellamy and Miller exchange looks behind the king's back. Could this be it? Could it be that they aren't going to die today?

Roan turns back around. "I believe you."

"So untie us," Bellamy replies promptly.

Roan's reply is equally prompt. "No."

"Yeah, I'm not actually sensing a lot of belief here," says Miller.

Roan's eyes flicker to Miller with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "I believe that there are nuclear reactors melting down around the world," he says. "It's too outlandish to be a lie. But I don't necessarily believe that's the reason why you were in my territory."

"What—" Miller starts to say indignantly, but then Roan raises his voice and calls for the guards again. The doors swing open instantly.

Bellamy and Miller are yanked to their feet a moment later. "I think it's time I paid a diplomatic visit to Arkadia," Roan says, "with my prisoners, of course."

Bellamy continues glaring at the Ice King murderously, but can't help but feel a flicker of relief. They're being taken back to Arkadia. Maybe this whole thing is going to work out after all.

Roan turns back to his guards. "Lock them up," he tells them in a bored sort of voice. Bellamy blinks, and Roan elaborates without being asked. "We'll leave in a few days."

"Why not now," Bellamy can't help but ask even as he's being hauled backwards towards the doors.

Roan pins him with an icy stare. "In a rush?" A smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Bellamy thinks about Clarke and the promise he made her to be back in a week, and thinks, kind of.

"Patience, Bellamy." The doors open and Bellamy and Miller are dragged out. "We'll see your people soon enough. But in the meantime," he bares his teeth, "enjoy the best accommodations Azgeda has to offer."

—

"It smells like crap in here," comments Miller after an hour or two.

They're shackled in a filthy, cramped cell cold enough to be a refridgerator. There's no lighting at all, so Bellamy shoots a bland look into the darkness instead. "Or maybe that's just your attitude."

"No, I'm actually pretty sure it's crap," Miller mutters. "Human crap."

Bellamy offers no response. He's probably right. And Bellamy is pretty sure he just felt a rat's tail brush up against his ankle, which he's going to try really hard not to think about. Instead he focuses his energy on hating Roan and his theatrics.

"I just knew you shooting that guy was gonna come back to bite us in the ass," Miller adds, helpful as always.

"Shut up."

—

As it turns out, they never do go to Arkadia.

On the third day of sitting in that damned cell they're brought out again in front of Roan. The two of them are covered in mud and dirt and blood and Bellamy doesn't want to think about what else, and Roan is looking squeaky clean and regal as ever wearing a soft set of furs and his hair pulled back.

He sweeps his eyes over Bellamy and Miller in a cursory glance. "Gag them, check their bindings, and let's go," he orders, and then squints at Bellamy. "Now, I have some advice for you two. Listen closely." Bellamy would like to tell Roan precisely where he can shove his advice, but a dirty, knotted rag is forced roughly into his mouth before he can."If you try to escape on this trip," the king continues calmly, "When I get to Arkadia, it won't be a diplomatic mission anymore."

His threat hangs in the air heavily for a second. Bellamy's not impressed.

"And I don't want to have to do that," Roan adds. Miller scoffs behind his gag; the king ignores him. "I would like to work with your people to save our land. But not if you don't cooperate."

Just then there's a shout suddenly from outside the room, and then a rapid knock. Roan straightens.

"Enter."

Someone comes in, and Roan strides out of Bellamy's line of vision to speak with them. Bellamy's being held pretty damn stiffly, so he can't turn around to see, nor can he really hear the murmured conversation, but it sounds tense. The guards around them stir in agitation.

He exchanges a wary look with Miller. They have to be ready for anything.

But then Roan appears again to stand in front of Bellamy and Miller. "Change of plans," he says curtly. "Looks like we didn't have to go to Arkadia. Arkadia came to us."

—

Clarke is here.

That is what Bellamy gathers as he strains to hear what the Grounders are talking to each other about. He catches the word Wanheda and his heart jumps into his throat.

She's not supposed to be here. She's supposed to be safe in Arkadia—

"Her party is demanding to see you," the messenger is saying, meanwhile.

Roan scoffs. "She can't demand anything. She's in our territory."

"She's got a prisoner. One of our warriors." Roan is silent at that; Bellamy can't help but feel a glimmer of pride. "And she's threatening to kill her."

Roan appears to mull it over for a moment. Then: "Fine. Let her in." He jerks his head towards Bellamy and Miller. "Lock them back up."

"She's demanding to see them too," the messenger says. "She seems to know that we have them captured."

Roan waves a dismissive hand in exasperation. "Fine. Tell them we'll see her."

The messenger nods and heads back out.

"Put a blindfold on this one, too," Roan says suddenly. It takes Bellamy a second to realize the king is talking about him. "I don't want them talking to each other while we're trying to question her."

"He's gagged already," replies the man he's talking to, confused.

"There's more than one way to speak," Roan retorts.

So a moment later, Bellamy's vision is completely obscured by a thick black cloth.

And none too soon, because the next moment there's a heavy knock against the door and Roan says, "Enter."

It swings open and Bellamy's ears are greeted to the familiar sound of Clarke Griffin bossing people around. "Where are my friends?" she's demanding. He hasn't heard her voice in over a week and it's kind of a balm to his soul. "Roan, I will kill her if you don't—"

"Calm down," Roan intones. "They're right here."

There's a silence. Bellamy assumes Roan is pointing to where he and Miller stand.

Then Clarke speaks again. Her voice is dangerous and low. "You hurt them."

"Not as much as we should have, considering they trespassed on our territory. Can you put the gun down? We're all tired of being shot with bullets." He sounds irritated, and Bellamy feels unreasonably smug for about point-two seconds before there's an exploding pain in his knee; Roan's kicked him in the back of the leg, bringing him to his knees with a groan. Then there's the unmistakable cool edge of a sharp blade being pressed to his throat.

"Leave him alone!" Clarke's voice is shaky but not without steel.

King Roan speaks as if bored, as if talking to a small child. "Then put. Down. The. Gun." The knife is pressed harder against Bellamy's Adam's apple, and he feels a twinge of pain that can only mean that Roan has drawn blood. There's a pause, one where presumably Clarke does as asked because the next thing Roan says is, "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

The pressure on Bellamy's throat is suddenly gone; Roan's removed the knife. Bellamy lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Now we can talk, like the civilized people you claim to be."

"I just want my people back," Clarke replies. "I don't want to talk."

"Well, that's too bad, because I do," Roan says rather childishly. "I want to know what your people were doing in my territory."

There's a long silence. A silence in which Bellamy knows Clarke is running through the same set of mental scenarios that he was when Roan asked him this question. Praying that she's looking in his direction, he inclines his head ever so infinitesimally, the tiniest nod he can manage.

Clarke's response is almost instant after that. "They were there on a scouting mission, to get a look at the nuclear reactor—"

"Because of a possible meltdown that might end the world?" Roan says, bored. Bellamy feels the king cuff him on the head for no reason at all, except maybe just because he can. "Well, at least you two got your stories straight."

Someone else pipes up after a pause, making Bellamy remember that Clarke's not alone here— it's Kane. "She's telling the truth. We would have come to you with our concerns about it, if we knew you were alive. But no one had any idea."

There's a pause where Bellamy imagines that Roan is watching Kane and considering his words. Kane is good at the being-diplomatic-with-Grounders thing, and they have more reason to trust him than they have to trust Clarke or Bellamy, both of whom, to put it lightly, do not have the friendliest histories with them.

So it's not really surprising when Roan says, "I'm still not sure I believe that they were here for this purpose. But," he adds, "if this threat is real like you say it is, then we need to work together to stop it."

"I agree," Kane replies.

"Well then," Roan says promptly. "I'd ask your delegation to join me for peace talks tonight, but you're still holding one of my people prisoner."

"And you're still holding two of ours," Clarke interjects. Her voice is loud with anger.

"Calm down, Clarke," Kane admonishes quietly. Then raises his voice. "We'll let Echo go, if you do the same for Bellamy and Nathan."

Echo. A knot twists in Bellamy's gut. He'd wondered when he might see her again.

"Done," Roan says. Bellamy can't see what happens next, but next thing he knows he's being yanked roughly to his feet, the ropes around his ankles falling away, and being pushed forward. He walks uncertainly forward a few steps until a hand curls around his elbow and guides him to the other side of the room.

That same hand unties his blindfold, and when it falls away, Clarke Griffin is standing in front of him, searching his eyes carefully.

They catalogue each other in the same instant, not so much scanning for injuries so much as scanning for are you okay?. She looks fine, if a little dirty. He can only imagine what he looks like.

She brushes a thumb over his cheekbone, where he knows there is a bruise, and her thumb comes away covered in dirt.

"Now we can talk," Roan says from behind him. "Join me in the dining hall." Bellamy finally notices that Kane isn't the only one with Clarke— there are a few other Arkadians with them, including Bryan, Harper and Monty.

"We could talk here," Kane replies guardedly. "We really should be getting back to Arkadia as soon as we can…"

Roan waves this away. "You have nothing to fear from me."

Clarke bends her head over the knots tying his wrists together. The moment the ropes go slack Bellamy pulls the disgusting gag from his mouth and turns around. "Really?"

Roan levels him with a flat stare. "Yes, really. Look, I get it, you don't trust me," he adds. "The feeling is mutual. But our people are ready and willing to help with this reactor threat." he pauses and says softly, "We've noticed that the world is changing, and we'd like to stop it."

"What does that mean?" Clarke asks suspiciously.

"Like I said," Roan reiterates, "we can talk about this in the dining hall, rather than shouting at each other from across my throne room while we have injured warriors to take care of. Don't you agree?" His eyes flicker to Bellamy, then back to Clarke meaningfully.

Bellamy just then notices Echo standing beside Roan, and he feels anger surge in him. She's got a bruise blooming on her jaw, and when she sees him looking at her, she meets his gaze head-on.

Meanwhile, Clarke exchanges a look with Kane. "If that's the way it has to be," Kane says slowly.

"Good," Roan says loftily.

—

They're taken to a different set of rooms to freshen up— it looks like it might be servants' quarters. Miller practically salivates when told about the bathing area and runs off at the first opportunity. Bellamy sits down on a stool without any intention of doing the same.

"No offense, Bellamy, but you smell like shit," Harper tells him.

"I'm not surprised," Bellamy replies drily, thinking about Miller's words in that hellhole.

Harper jerks her head towards the bathing rooms off to the side. "Why don't you take a bath?" When he says nothing, she offers with a grin, "We'll stand watch outside, you know. You don't have to worry about the Grounders jumping you in the shower."

Monty snorts.

"Cute," Bellamy says, unamused, and Clarke chooses that moment to walk over from where she'd been talking to one of the Azgeda guards.

"Go ahead, Bellamy," she says. "I'll be right here."

Or you could join me, Bellamy thinks without really meaning to.

And then he kicks himself mentally. Just because she kissed him once before he went off on a mission does not mean she actually wants anything to do with him, he reminds himself. He is usually very good at keeping unwelcome sexual thoughts about Clarke squashed way down. However. It's harder now.

In any case, he decides to take his friends up on their offer.

When he emerges from the bathing rooms, feeling marginally refreshed, Clarke gives him a once-over. "You okay?" she asks.

He nods absentmindedly, and then they're just staring at each other. Clarke's gaze is somewhat detached and because he's finding it difficult to figure out her headspace, he adds, "Sorry I didn't come back."

She blinks, and he's pretty sure there's a faint blush rising to her cheeks. "No," she agrees slowly. "I guess you didn't. I had to come for you."

"So much for that incentive," he can't help but reply. It feels like a mistake immediately, from the way her eyes widen and she breaks eye contact, chewing her lip for a moment.

"Bellamy, I—" she starts, but then their conversation is interrupted by one of the Azgeda attendants, because it's time to go meet with Roan.

Clarke gives him a lingering look, but he's already feeling his heart sinking. That regretful tone confirms what he already thought— she doesn't want him like that. All she did by kissing him was manipulate his feelings to get her way. She used him again.

But the thing he's angriest about is that this fact is not enough to make him stop wanting her.

—

There's a big feast prepared for them when they get to the king's dining hall. It's a large room, although not too well lit, as is the tradition with Grounders.

There is a long ornate table, at the head of which Roan sits in a grandiose looking chair. He beckons for Clarke to sit to his left, and Bellamy ignores the indication to sit on his right and instead sits beside Clarke. The others follow where they may. Echo takes a seat across from Bellamy, and he has to bite his tongue and look down at the table.

Echo doesn't seem to have the same reservations. "Hello, Bellamy."

He lifts his head only to glare at her. She betrayed his trust. Gina died because of her, and she expects him to speak to her.

"You can't still be angry about the Mountain," Echo says. She has the gall to almost sound a little sad. "I was following orders. Maybe that was wrong, but it was for my people. I thought you would understand that."

Bellamy's face burns and he feels his heart thundering in his ears. His hand curls on his leg under the table, fingers digging so deep into his own thigh that he's sure he will leave a bruise.

At least, until a smaller hand covers it. He's startled for a moment before he realizes it's Clarke's. She doesn't try to take his hand, just leaves the weight of hers on top. She stares straight ahead like she's not doing anything at all, and he manages to take a deep breath.

Clarke squeezes his hand, and he looks over only to realize that Clarke is glaring deeply at Echo as well.

Roan seems to notice, too. "Echo," he barks, followed by a string of words that Bellamy doesn't understand. Echo doesn't seem offended, shooting Clarke and Bellamy one more indecipherable look before getting up, chair scraping behind her.

He lets out a breath and Clarke turns to him."You okay?"

He nods down at the table, and her hand gives him one reassuring pat under the table before she lifts it away.

The delicious smell of the feast wafts over at them and despite himself, Bellamy feels his mouth watering. Roan hadn't starved Miller and him, but the food wasn't exactly top-notch either.

The whole scene sort of reminds Bellamy of the one waiting for them way back when they were having their peace talks with Lexa. Hopefully, he thinks as everyone starts reaching for food, this will have a different result.

He's even more strongly reminded of that fateful dinner when Roan pushes two goblets at him and Clarke. "Drink," he says.

Bellamy stares at the goblet for a moment before shifting his gaze to Clarke. She's already looking at him, probably thinking the same.

Roan mutters something under his breath before saying with some exasperation, "It's just a drink. Ice wine." He grabs one of the goblets he just offered to them and downs it in one gulp. "Look, if I wanted you two dead, you'd be dead already. Especially him." Bellamy bristles but he has to concede that Roan's got a point.

He reaches for the remaining goblet, but Clarke gets to it first, taking a tiny sip before scrunching up her nose. "It's disgusting, but it won't kill you," she tells him, passing it off to Bellamy. Bellamy's stunned momentarily, and she notices, shrugging. "I've gotten familiar with Grounder poisons. From Niylah," she explains. He's still a little shocked that she tested it but he shakes it off when he realizes Roan is watching their interaction closely, and takes a sip.

It burns down his throat worse than even Monty's moonshine, and he can't help but cough. It's almost unbearable.

Roan looks amused and pours himself another glass of the stuff, drinking the whole thing in one go. He raises his eyebrows challengingly.

Bellamy narrows his eyes and tosses his back all the way. Clarke sighs.

It's agony in his throat and his eyes water profusely. It also feels a bit like he just drank gasoline and there was a spark waiting in the centre of his stomach. But he doesn't let it show.

Roan pours them both another shot, and then another for Clarke. Clarke pokes at her food.

Roan rolls his eyes. "What's it gonna take for you two to relax?"

Bellamy almost snorts.

But Kane's the one that speaks up from his side of the table, leaning forward. "Answer me this. Why did you believe us so fast? About the reactors?"

Roan puts down his goblet. "The ice in Azgeda territory is melting." He's met with silence, and goes on. "At an alarming rate. We depend on the ice, that's how we've lived for so long."

"Maybe things are just warming up," Kane says slowly. "Natural climate cycles."

Roan shakes his head. "It's not just that. People are getting sick."

"Sick how?" Clarke asks sharply.

He gives her a level look. "Sick like they got after the bombs."

Clarke leans back in her chair. "Radiation," she breathes, brow furrowing.

"We knew there was something going on," Roan goes on. "The nuclear reactors problem Bellamy explained just fit into place."

Then it's starting, Bellamy thinks. How much time do they have?

"We need to move now," Clarke summarizes, expression drawn tight with worry. "We need results from the radiation readings Bellamy's group gave us, and fast. Raven's doing an analysis back in Arkadia right now," she explains to the group. "She should get back to us soon. In the meantime… we need to plan, coordinate to reach the rest of the reactors and fix them."

Roan downs another glass of ice wine. "That's what I've been saying all day."

—

It's late in the night when all the details get ironed out. Bellamy is practically asleep on his feet.

"Stay the night," Roan offers them. "We can have rooms ready for all of you."

Bellamy scoffs under his breath. He can personally testify to how nice those rooms are.

Roan notices and grins like the dick he is. "Don't take it so hard, Bellamy. You were never in any real danger. I had guards monitoring you two to make sure you were well." Small fucking comfort. "In any case, you're guests here now, not prisoners. You'll get the finest Azgeda has to offer."

Bellamy remains skeptical, but everyone else appears to be on board.

"Rooms for all of you," He murmurs, scanning their delegation for a head count. "I assume you two will share?" he asks Clarke.

It takes Bellamy a moment to figure out what he's talking about, and when he does it's only because Clarke has turned bright red and is shaking her head. "Oh, no. We're not like that." Bellamy hides his own lack of composure by taking another long swig of ice wine.

Roan watches her with a mix of amusement and confusion. "I'm sorry for assuming." And Bellamy thinks that's it, that Roan will for once not be a constant pain up the ass, but Roan proves him wrong with his next very blunt question. "Although, I need to ask— if you're not like that, then what are you two?"

Clarke glances at Bellamy fleetingly, clearly a plea for help, but Bellamy offers nothing. Because he, too, would like to know the answer to that question.

He thinks about how she kissed him that day, and something ugly twists in his gut. Clarke is on her own. He pours himself another glass of the wine; he's getting rather fond of it.

Clarke meanwhile is struggling. "We're not like that," she insists snappishly, "We're— we're like siblings. No, not like that," she corrects herself hastily, as Bellamy accidentally inhales a gulpful of wine and Miller has to slam on his lower back a few times, "no, we're just— we're friends. Good friends."

"You alright, man?" Miller whispers lowly to him as his eyes water. Bellamy nods, although he's wondering which blow Miller is referring to.

Roan, of course, looks highly entertained by watching Clarke squirm. He doesn't pursue the topic, however. After a few moments of silence, Clarke running a hand through her hair nervously, he merely says, "I'll have some of my attendants lead you to your rooms then. Individual ones," he adds, eyes twinkling. He stands up from the table. "Sleep well." And with that, he whirls around and strides from the room without looking back.

Bellamy chooses to focus his gaze on the wall rather than look to the reactions of any of his people around him.

—

The rooms given to them are relatively large and luxurious, with furs covering the bed and wood floors instead of icy ones. It's still cold, though, so the two of them take turns feeding the fireplace while they talk lowly about the mission and about Roan while lounging in Clarke's room. Bellamy's is right beside hers, so he doesn't have to walk far to go to sleep, which he's privately grateful for.

And it's all business until Bellamy rolls his shoulder in the middle of describing the area they'd been scouting and Clarke shoots forward from her chair to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You winced," she explains. She squeezes the muscle experimentally. "Did that hurt?"

He doesn't tell her that her touch always hurts nowadays. In the most beautiful kind of way. In a way that he never wants to stop feeling. "It's just sore," he replies. "Azgeda isn't exactly gentle."

Her eyes soften and her finger places itself on his chin to tilt his head up. She examines his face clinically. "Someone punched you in the face."

"It happens." He's kind of blocked out the dull throbbing in his cheekbone.

"It shouldn't. You should be more careful."

He doesn't like her reprimanding tone. "I can take care of myself, Clarke."

"Clearly not," she retorts, letting go of his chin none too gently and taking a step back.

Tension crackles between them as they glare at each other.

They relent at the same time. It's too exhausting to stand on opposite sides for too long. She smiles apologetically and he shakes his head fondly.

"Sorry," she whispers. "I just worry."

He tips his head in acknowledgement, scrambling for another, less barbed topic. "How're things in Arkadia?"

"Good," Clarke replies mildly. She sounds like she's holding something back. When he quirks up an eyebrow at her, she says in a rush, "Your stupid fern was dying."

He blinks. She goes on, sounding irritated.

"It was was drooping and brown and wilting. You gave it too much water before you left. The pot was practically overflowing."

It takes him a moment to catch up because— she checked on his fern?— but then her words catch up with him. Despite his best intentions, he'd hurt the plant with an abundance of love; smothered it with too much care.

He thinks of his estranged sister, wonders if it's become a habit.

"You checked on my fern," is all he manages. She stares at him, and he watches a faint flush rise to her cheeks. She crosses her arms over her chest, which does spectacular things for her breasts, not that he's looking that way—

"I thought someone should," Clarke replies offhandedly. "I was going to water it, but clearly you took care of that."

He stares. She's trying to play it off now, but— it's just, unexpectedly sweet that she did that for him? He can hardly even picture it, actually.

It's also kind of turning him on for some reason, which is a problem. He decides now is the best time to leave. "Uh, thanks," he manages, and wheels around. "Night."

"Bellamy, wait."

There's something raw in her voice, suddenly emotional more than closed offlike she's been for a good part of the evening. He takes a deep breath, turns and waits.

He's even more surprised that her eyes seem brighter than usual when she says, "I'm really glad you're okay."

"You too," he replies, but she continues to look distressed. He takes an automatic step forward to place a comforting hand on her elbow. "Clarke, why…"

"I was so worried!" she bursts. Her voice is too loud for the room, ricocheting off the walls. He actually reels back a step at the volume of it. It's like she's been bottling this up for hours. She doesn't give him a moment to interject. "All week, I could hardly think about anything else. Except that I let you go, and how was I going to live with myself if you died?"

"You didn't send me," he scoffs. "I chose to go."

"And I chose not to go with you," she retorts. When he tries to speak again, she actually holds her hand in front of his face in the universal shush gesture. "I was relieved when the group came back, Bellamy. I stood at the gate and waited for you to come through with them. Except you never did." Her eyes shine brighter than before. "I waited and waited, and you didn't come back." Her voice fades into a whisper at the end. There's an ancient sort of pain there. He wishes he could make it go away.

Clarke lifts a hand up to his face. He barely stops himself from flinching, but her touch couldn't be more different than the ones he is used to— her hand lays gentle on his jaw. It's far too intimate for them.

He thinks maybe the ice wine did more than just burn down their throats.

"They told me you let yourself get caught to help them escape. And I knew I had to go after you," she adds softly. "I wasn't going to let you play the hero again."

"Not playing the hero, Clarke," he replies. "Just doing what needs to be done. What you would've done."

She squeezes her eyes shut briefly. "I know." The truth tear agonizingly from her throat. This is who they are. They love their people, far more than they love themselves. More than they love each other.

Or maybe that's not right, he thinks as he watches a tear escape from under her eyelid. Maybe they love each other because they are unified in that love for their people.

Her eyes open and he instantly drowns in their brilliant blue; and he thinks that's not quite right either. There's something else entirely about her that keeps him ensnared.

"I can't lose you," she murmurs. Her hand hasn't left his jaw this entire time, and he finds himself leaning slightly into this soft touch. "You get that, don't you?"

"I get it," he reassures after a pause, even while his heart pathetically leaps with joy at the words, just as it does every time.

She tilts her head, studying him. "Do you, though?"

He's about to nod, that yes he does; but then her warm gaze flickers down to his lips, staying there for a breath before back to his eyes. He feels rather like there's a lack of oxygen in this room. They're standing too close together, chests almost brushing, and she won't stop looking at him like she wants to devour him.

He wants to let her. "I get it," he repeats. His voice is pitched lower without meaning to be. And also without meaning to be, his hands have found their way to her sides, where they're ghosting over her waist. Not quite touching the material of her jacket. And he's leaning closer to her face. She tilts her chin up to meet his gaze, shoulders rising rapidly with shallow breaths. Their breaths mingle somewhere in the middle, warm air recycled between them for a long, heavy moment.

Right when he's decided to close the distance, she blinks, brow furrowing, and takes a large step back.

Cold air rushes in, and an invisible barrier with it. She's shutting him out again.

He closes his eyes to gather his composure before looking at her squarely and steadily in the eye. All business again.

(He wishes he could hate her.)

But surprisingly Clarke is not all business, not at all. "I'm sorry for kissing you that day," she confesses.

He can't help the sardonic tone his voice takes on right then. "Clearly." He turns on his heel again to go, but again Clarke stops him.

"Wait," she says. "That's not what I meant."

"I don't care," he says to the wall. He meant to sound spiteful, but he just sounds tired. In any case, her words make him pause, giving her a window to explain.

"I'm sorry for kissing you, because I didn't ask what you wanted," she says in a small voice to his back. "It was what I wanted, so I took it without asking. I acted like… like I was your grand prize for coming back alive. Like you should be grateful to have me. Like I was more than you deserved."

He's shocked.

"And that's not true at all," she adds. She sounds near tears. "You deserve better."

That settles it. They definitely both had too much damn wine.

He turns around to see her with her hands clasped in front of her, looking very strangely small. "Clarke…" he swallows and shakes his head because she's wrong, all wrong. Is this really what she's been thinking for the past week? "Why would I kiss you back if I didn't want to kiss you?"

She answers readily, like she's given it thought. "You'd do it if you knew I wanted to."

She lifts her eyes to meet his, and he has to wonder suddenly what Raven might have told Clarke about the one time they had sex.

He realizes Clarke is biting her lip, waiting for a response, and he makes sure to inject his tone with certainty. "Didn't even occur to me."

Her lips part. "Oh," she says finally, softly. And they watch each other for another long moment, recalculating, re-assessing, shifting world view.

Drifting closer.

"Where does that leave us?" she asks him. Even as she wonders it, her hands come back up to his chest, sliding to the back of his neck.

"Asking whether this is a good idea," he replies. He places his hands decisively on her waist. Her eyelids lower over her ocean blue eyes, leaving them at half mast.

"It's definitely not," Clarke agrees. They're both recovering from past relationships. They're both still trying to lead their people. They're both trying to stop the world from ending. They really shouldn't.

But he wants to. He's tired of depriving himself. He's too selfish, he thinks, to be able to do that right now; too weak after everything that's happened, especially knowing that she wants him too. "Good thing bad ideas are our area of expertise."

Her lips quirk up, plump and pink and absolutely begging to be kissed. This is the worst idea ever, he thinks to himself.

And yet, the distance between their lips closes anyway.

The kiss is soft and sweet in the low light of the room. Their hands remain in the same places they put them in, both caught up in the exploration of each others' mouths. Her lips against his reminds him of when they landed on earth. New, exciting, enthralling; and yet all at once familiar in the most instinctive, comforting way. It's like he's been living off tanked oxygen his entire life and only now got a breath of fresh air.

When they part after a few moments, she's crying.

He feels strangely close to tears himself. But he says dryly, "That bad, huh."

Her eyes crinkle up at the corners and she giggles, an unrestrained sound that topples out from her lungs. He's suddenly reminded how young she is. How young he is, too. They've lived through so many harsh eras on Earth that it's easy to forget that they aren't as old as they feel.

But when she laughs like that… it's easy to remember.

He feels his own mouth stretch into a smile before she wipes her eyes with the inside of her wrist and kisses him again with enthusiasm, and it's sloppy at first before they get back into it. This time she winds her arms around his neck, arching her body to mold into his. He slides his hands down to her hips to haul her as close as he can, until he can feel the whole length of her body pressed against his.

They make out like that for a minute, until they're both driven crazy with the slowness of it and the heat of their bodies blocked by layers of clothes. She snags the zipper of his jacket and drags it down as she walks them backwards toward the bed.

She tips herself back and he falls on top of her, barely remembering to brace himself on his elbows in the haze of Clarke's small hands creeping under his shirt, sliding over the muscles of his abdomen.

"Wait," he gasps. "Wait."

She stills under him, fingernails pausing in scratching against his hipbones. He leans his forehead against hers and squeezes his eyes shut, calling on any scraps of control left in him.

"Are we just doing this because…" he trails, and Clarke picks up his sentence.

She wraps her legs around him, drawing him in close to her warm core. "Because the world is ending? Because we're screwed up? Because we drank too much?"

"Did we?" He doesn't feel drunk. She doesn't look it, either.

She cocks up an eyebrow. "You tell me." She slides a hand out of his belt loops and brings it in front of his face, waggling three fingers in his face. "How many?"

She's clearly teasing, unconcerned with the question he's brought up. So fuck it. He swats her fingers out of the way to bestow a bruising kiss on her. "The number of times I'm gonna make you come tonight."

"Ambitious," she gasps, and helps him lift her shirt.

There's not too much talking for a hot minute after that— they're both too concerned with getting each other naked.

Clarke wins that particular battle— he's completely bared first, and she's still in her panties— but he doesn't mind too much. Not when she flips them so that he's on his back under her, and she slides down his body to wrap her mouth around him without any fanfare.

He digs his fingers into her hair while she takes him deeper into her mouth and wraps her hands around whatever her lips can't reach— and he thinks in a haze of lust, no, he doesn't mind at all.

He tries to pull her back up when he feels a tightening in his lower body. She resists, makes a whining noise in the back of her throat and it reverberates through him. He can't hold it back anymore and comes with a groan, Clarke's lips still wrapped invitingly around him.

"Fuck," is all he seems capable of saying. "Fuck."

"Yup, that's next," Clarke says snarkily after releasing him with an obscene popping sound.

He throws his head back against the pillows and stares at the ceiling, still seeing stars. "Fuck. You didn't have to do that."

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and crawls back up to him. "I've always wanted to do that." He barely has time to process that she's apparently fantasized about giving him a blow job before she's kissing him again.

He kisses her back lazily for a minute, but then it's time to get back to his ambition for the night. He runs his hand down from her jaw to her breasts, squeezing one of them and circling his thumb over the nipple to draw a moan from her, and then sliding down her belly to slip under her panties.

He palms her center and she ruts against it, desperately chasing friction. He runs his hand up and down her slit smoothly, teasingly, not giving her what she wants. She pushes down again, this time pinning his hand to his own thigh with the grinding of her hips.

She frowns at him from where she's straddling him. Her fingers tighten on his shoulders. "Not fair. I didn't tease you." Wisps of hair are sticking to her forehead and neck, and it's frizzing at the edges. The skin of her face is flushed from arousal, not to mention how that pretty pink colour extends down her neck to her breasts— fuck. He's thinking his recovery time is gonna be record fast tonight.

"Not very patient, are we," he cajoles in answer to her remark, but she's right, so he obliges her with two curling fingers into her wet heat.

Her movements becomes more wild, bucking against him, and when he thrusts his fingers fully into her she leans down and hides her face into his neck while he fucks her slowly. His hand is still resting against his own thigh and she's meeting the movements of his fingers in time. He can tell she's close when she bites at his collarbone, pinching so hard that he's sure there will be a bruise.

In a silent urging, he places his free hand on her lower back, pressing her closer as his fingers deliberately rub against the most sensitive spot inside her. When she comes, he feels it around his fingers— how she flutters and her inner walls grip at him strongly, as if not wanting to let him go.

He pulls out his fingers and lets her ride against his palm as she pleases through the aftershocks, finally removing his hand entirely in favour of pulling her panties off.

"You sure you want to do this?" he can't help but ask one more time.

She kicks off her panties the rest of the way and swings her legs on either side of him, her slick center pressed against his hipbone. "I'm not sure about anything," she replies. "But I'm tired of overthinking everything. Can we… can we just do this?"

"Do this," he repeats, watching her adjust her position on top of him. It strikes him as funny for some reason and he feels a small smile curl the corners of his mouth. "Do this and regret it later?"

She seems to mull that over for a minute and then shrugs. "Only if it's not any good," she breathes, and leans back in.

He's only half-hard, so they simply make out for a while first, feel each other up, and it's just as enjoyable— Because it's her, he thinks. Because their teeth clack together and they laugh like little kids, and he licks into her mouth and it makes her jump, her arm shooting out and smashing the decorative vase on the bedside table to the floor, and they both break away to look at it.

"Shit," Bellamy mutters. It's a mess of shards beside the bed.

She looks at the pile with wide eyes. "Roan's not going to be happy with us."

At the mention of Roan, and the realization that it's his vase, Bellamy feels a surge of satisfaction instead of regret. "That's right," he says slowly. "He won't be." He grabs her hips and flips them over, putting her on her back. "I think we should try and break the bed next."

She smirks and says teasingly, "That can only happen if you get it up." Her eyes flicker down pointedly, brows lifting in challenge.

He scowls as if in outrage although he's not offended by the joke at his expense. He's ready for her now, but Clarke's just teasing. "If I can't, we just take all the screws out of the frame," he suggests, and she huffs a laugh.

She's still laughing as he rubs himself experimentally down her folds, and then she reaches between them to guide him into her.

They both stop laughing the moment he slides inside her slowly, and she nods frantically until he's bottomed out. Then it's silent except for the sound of their breathing mingling together; Bellamy keeps himself braced on his elbows, but most of his body is skin-to-skin with her.

They're pressed against each other and into each other as much as they physically could be, but he still thinks he'd like to get closer.

The humour in her eyes has faded somewhat as they stare at each other. As always, he finds himself a little entranced by her eyes— except this time, he notices that he's not the only one.

Then she bites her lip, almost nervous, circling her hips. When he doesn't, one of her hands drops low to squeeze his ass. "Move," she whines.

He obliges, slowly starting to thrust into her. He doesn't withdraw all the way, preferring to keep the distance between them short as possible but taking care to grind against her deeply at the end of every push. If the noises she's making at the back of her throat are any indication, she likes it.

She closes her eyes, and he does too; sinking his face into the pillow next to her head, focusing only on the feel of her softness against his hardness, the quiet sound of their skin coming together and their unsteady breathing, the smell of her, woodsy and salty and sweet all at once.

Her noises quiet somewhat in the following moments, and he lifts his head slightly off the pillow and turns it to look at her, only to find that she's already looking at him.

"What?" she asks quietly, even as they continue to move together in almost lazy fashion.

He searches her eyes. There's no indication of distress. "Just making sure you were still with me."

She smiles, a small almost-sad one, and her legs tighten around his waist. He takes the cue, letting her flip them over again. When she settles on top of him and he braces his hands on her thighs, she leans down to press a lingering kiss to his cheek. "I'm always with you."

It feels like an apology for the times she wasn't, and a vow for the future. A strange peace steals over him then, with her lips brushing the shell of his ear— he feels the closest he's felt to anyone in a long time.

The sweet moment ends when she then smiles wickedly, leans over him, and starts fucking down on him. The lust kicks back in full force, and he snaps his hips up to meet her and reaches for her breasts because— well— damn.

She pants above him, sweaty hands slipping against his chest and shoulders, until she braces one instead against the headboard and fucks him with renewed vigour. He slides a hand down to her clit, applying the gentle pressure he knows she needs before she flies apart above him with a cry.

She slows, leaning against the headboard. But he's not done yet. He flips them over again.

However, at this point it seems that they've run out of bed to roll over on, and they topple off the edge of the mattress.

Clarke tries to save them, grabbing wildly onto the bedsheets, but only succeeds in bringing those down with them, the light fabric floating gently over their joined bodies.

Bellamy curses from under the bedsheet, and slips out of her. "You okay?" He presses a hand on her shoulder, on her hip, trying to see if she's bruised somewhere.

Her body shakes, and he panics momentarily until he realizes that she's laughing silently.

He grimaces and pushes the bedsheet off of them with one hand. He thinks he's ruined the mood, but then she says, "Get back up there." She slaps his ass for effect and he grins, helping her up too.

They arrange themselves back on the bed, Clarke flopping on her back. She sighs.

"You tired?" he asks, pausing in his clumsy effort to clamber on top of her.

She gives him a rather sharp look, like she's offended by this. "You haven't come yet," she points out, squirming against him.

"Yeah, I did."

"Not inside me, you didn't." She hooks her legs around his back again.

Well, fuck. "We can't have that," he agrees huskily.

So they go at it again like the best friends that they are.

It's more sloppily rough and vigorous now, both of them breathing hard due to exertion. It's not having quite the effect Bellamy wants. Also, he's way too close to climax and she's not, and he intends to deliver here. So he pauses and, ignoring her protesting whine, says, "How flexible are you?" As he says this, he pushes one her thighs high and out experimentally.

"Oooh, that's a stretch," she breathes, tossing her head up. He lets go of her leg, but she insists, "no, keep it there."

So he does, hooking the knee onto the crook of his elbow. He thrusts back into her, but it still doesn't have quite the effect he wants. Inspiration hits in the form of the pillow beside her head; he stops to grab it and she arches her back, reading his intention to slip it under her body. And then, licking his lips in concentration, he drives back into her, deeper than ever. The angle causes the bedframe to slam against the wall.

He hums in satisfaction. Clarke chokes out a laugh that ends in a moan, and he gives her a cheeky grin.

He picks up the pace, telling her, "Watch your head,"and she gets the message, bracing herself with one hand against the headboard so that she won't be pushed up any further.

That's better.

They both get driven over the edge at almost the same time— him first, because he can't take that lustful look on her face as she watches him above her— and then she does only a moment later with a few swipes of his thumb.

They pant harshly into each other for a moment. It's only in the silence as they come down that he realizes how loud they (and the bed) were being a few moments ago. Sweat drips from the ends of Bellamy's hair onto her chest, pooling at her collarbone. He leans his head down to lick it away from her throat but ends up just resting his head there for a moment as he tries to catch his breath. He feels her lips against his hair, her arm encircling his neck like a hug.

He realizes he's crushing her and tries to lift himself on shaky forearms, but she simply draws him in closer. "You okay?" he asks her with his voice muffled against her sweat-coated skin.

There's a pause before she says, "I'm fine," which would seem normal except it's almost a perfect impression of how he says it. He lifts his head; the blissed-out look in her eye is being replaced with mischief. "You?"

He props himself up on his elbow. "Fine," he replies gruffly, with the straightest face he can manage.

They both break into quiet laughter at the same time, and after pressing his forehead against hers— although, his exhaustion messes with his coordination so much that it's more like they butt heads gently— he rolls off her to finally find something to clean them both up with.

There's not too many words after that— they lie in companionable silence, and eventually the drowsiness becomes too much. His last thought before they fall asleep sprawled next to each other is that, well, he's kind of glad the bed didn't break.

—

Clarke wakes up the next morning without the unwelcome help of her nightmares.

That alone is unprecedented, and she frowns into the pillow in confusion before remembering where she is— Ice Nation— and she's naked, why is she— ?

She rolls over slightly on her side and cranes her neck behind her to see Bellamy sleeping soundly next to her. He's lying on his stomach just like she was but with his leg tangled with both of hers, and his arm resting on her lower back.

She waits for inevitable panic to seize her— she slept with her strictly platonic co-leader last night— but strangely, it doesn't.

Yes, she muses as she watches him breathe in and out, warm puffs of air rustling her hair slightly; yes, she slept with her co-leader last night. It was decidedly not platonic. But it was something else. Something that sex hadn't been in a long time for her.

Sex with Bellamy was fun. Unexpectedly so.

The last few times weren't like that. She'd had sex with Niylah as a distraction. And with both Finn and Lexa, in emotionally charged situations; she'd been sad. But the most prominent thing she remembers from last night was the feeling that had taken flight in her chest as they laughed and broke things and fucked like horny teenagers— that she felt happy for the first time in a very long while.

She knows she's living in a bubble right now, but she doesn't care. She wants to stay here for as long as she can.

Just then his hand on her back twitches, and his whole body stirs. She watches him wake up; awareness seems to come in waves over him. His eyes finally open, meeting hers; and she falls into the warm brown depths of them.

Neither of them say anything; perhaps he's just as cognisant as she is that the bubble they exist in right now is very fragile. Instead, he simply rubs the hand on her back up and down a few times, and she turns her face back into the pillow, and that's that.

They don't exactly fall asleep again, but they just… exist, for a while, breathing in almost-unison. Clarke thinks she might never move. At least, until a distant scream cuts through the air, making them both startle.

A second later she's jumping from the bed on her side, and when she turns, he's standing on the opposite side, hair adorably mussed from sleep (and her hands) but his expression dead serious.

"The hell was that?" he demands, voice almost foreignly brisk after how soft he's been the whole night.

Before she can answer, the scream comes again, longer and more drawn-out this time, and they both move simultaneously, scrambling for their clothes.

(Bubble effectively popped.)

It's a flurry of movement, the two of them throwing their respective clothes at each other at a frantic pace. She throws on her bra and shirt in record time and tugs on her panties only to realize they're ripped slightly at the seams, hanging loosely around her hips.

"Couldn't be a little more careful?" she hisses at him.

He eyes her, not without attitude, as he tugs on his jacket. "Chew me out later." There are more shouts from outside, and Clarke yanks on her pants and strides for the door.

Bellamy's hand shoots out to wrap itself around her elbow right before she can reach for the knob.

She turns around to find him watching her, a much softer look on his face. He doesn't say anything, but he's searching her eyes. Looking for something.

Clarke understands.

And in lieu of answering his silent question, she steps right into his space, tilts her head up. His arms automatically wrap around her, drawing her in close. He doesn't move, letting her close the distance between them. And as their mouths meld together, Clarke feels her heart kick and lift up all at once in giddy joy before settling slowly back down into a more comfortable place.

It's brief but it feels like it lasts a lifetime, and Clarke tries to push what she can't say into that kiss— that yes, they're okay.

She thinks he gets the message, because he looks more relaxed when she takes a step back.

But there's no time to bask in this warmth— not right now. So Clarke turns and wrenches the door open.

She steps out and nearly bumps right into Miller, who's out of breath.

His eyes widen at the sight of both of them emerging from Clarke's rooms. She gets ahead of the remark before it can get out of his mouth. "Get your mind out of the gutter, we were just talking," she snaps. "What's happening?"

Miller's eyes flicker past Clarke to Bellamy behind her and then back. Without answering, he simply points up.

Clarke follows his finger, lifting her eyes up to the ceiling of the hall.

She hadn't noticed it last night, as dark as it had been— but the ceiling appears to be made not of glass, but ice. And as she watches, it's getting speckled steadily with dark, oily drops.

Clarke stares up, barely processing it— black rain— before there's a sizzling on the ceiling above, and one of the black droplets falls towards them.

They all take an automatic step back, and the drop falls on the ground. Before Clarke's eyes, it makes a loud hissing sound and burns straight through the floor.

"The storms have gotten stronger," another voice says, urgent. Clarke wheels to see Roan skidding to a stop next to them. There are reddened patches on his face and hands— from the rain, she realizes. It appears to eat through skin just as easily. "We have to get out of here." He beckons to them. "Come on. We've got somewhere safe to go."

He says this just as the ceiling above them makes a tremendous splintering sound and crashes down on them.

Clarke and Miller easily leap out of the path of the oncoming ice. But it topples sideways, jagged edges pitching downwards towards Roan's head instead.

Bellamy moves fast, so fast that Clarke doesn't even realize that he's shoved Roan out of the way until she hears his quiet grunt of pain.

"Bellamy!" she gasps, surging forward, but Miller grabs her arm and holds her back.

With the ceiling ripped away, a monstrous howling fills her ears— a dark, murky storm swirling above them in the night sky, and the black rain has no barrier to go through anymore. She feels a drop of it hit her forehead, and with it a burning pain.

On the other side of the hallway, she makes out Bellamy staggering out from under the ceiling. To her relief, she sees that the piece of ice only caught his shoulder.

But he'd saved Roan. He'd saved Roan's life, and from the way Roan looks at him with a wary respect as he pulls Bellamy from the wreckage makes her think he knows it, too.

"This way," Roan shouts, beckoning, and Clarke and Miller run through the open area as fast as their legs can carry them. The winds are strong, buffeting at them and making the walls creak, and Clarke's heart thunders throughout the entire sprint.

She barely feels the rest of the rain falling on her, and eventually Roan leads them all to a metal door. It's already open, people flooding inside.

"This storm is worse than they've ever been," Roan explains shortly. "Get in."

It's a bunker of sorts, steep stairs causing them to stumble down in their haste into a metal tang-smelling prison. It's a large room, though; it's filled with people who have taken refuge down here.

Clarke whirls around in the sea of bodies, searching for her friends. Miller— Harper— Monty— Bryan— Kane—

"Bellamy?" she gasps, clutching onto Kane's arms as he catches her mid-stagger. "Where's Bellamy?"

Before Kane can answer, she hears his familiarly deep voice behind her: "I'm here."

She whirls around again and into his arms. Hugs him tight, and he envelops her just as strongly with his arms, his smell, his warmth.

"You're hurt," he observes, pushing her hair away from her forehead to observe the burns from the rain.

He's got some too, and when she pokes at his shoulder he winces. "We need medical supplies," she says urgently, casting a look around them finally. It's not just the two of them; everyone's got the burns, some of them far worse than others.

They let go of each other, and she misses him immediately. But there's work to be done.

—

Roan comes over after a while to hand her bandages. "Found these."

She accepts them. "Thanks. How long do we have to sit here?"

He watches her wrap bandage around a little Azgeda girl's arm. He himself looks completely unbothered by the angry red blemishes marring his own face, although they must be hurting him. "Until the storm leaves. Could be a little while."

She offers no answer, and he speaks again instead.

"I spoke to Bellamy and Kane. Apparently your party is leaving for Arkadia after this. I'd like to send some of my people with you."

"If you want," Clarke murmurs, tying off the knot on the girl's arm and nodding at her. The patient hops off the stool and scampers away.

"Bellamy saved me," Roan says out of nowhere. Clarke's eyes slide over to him. He looks thoughtful. "Pushed me out of the way. Got injured himself, to save my life." He sounds like he's marvelling at the fact.

Clarke looks away. "He wasn't saving you. He was saving our coalition." Which she now thinks might have been in vain.

"That's logical," Roan acknowledges. "Still." Clarke follows his eyes, sees him watching Bellamy speaking to Monty with a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. She thinks Roan sees it now, the kind of person that Bellamy is. And there's definitely a glimmer of respect in the king's eyes as he murmurs, "I owe him."

He seems reluctant to admit it. Clarke rolls her eyes and lets her voice become stern. "You can repay him by not beating him up or throwing him in a cell to rot anymore. Better yet, apologize."

"Sorry," Roan says immediately.

"To him." Clarke sighs.

He squints at her. "I felt like I should apologize to you as well." Before she can reply, he adds, "you two may not be lovers, but you're very close, aren't you?"

Clarke cannot find it in herself to deny this.

"To hurt one of you, is to hurt the other. So I apologize." He bows his head slightly.

There's suddenly a shout from the front of the room, and Roan's head shoots back up.

"What?" Clarke asks, standing as well.

He tilts his head, as if straining to listen to something. "The storm is over."

But that's not quite right, Clarke thinks as they ascend from the bunker. Really, the storm has just begun.

Because when they slowly filter out of the bunker and into the sunlight, the palace is unrecognizable.

The foundation is still standing, but it looks worse for wear. To put it lightly. The entry door into the bunker had been in the heart of the palace, but emerging from it now, the walls and ceilings of the place are so torn apart that it feels rather like they are now standing outside in the watery sunlight. A hush falls over them as they take it in.

A radio hisses from Bryan's belt, and Raven's voice filters through the air. "Arkadia to team two. Can you read me?"

Clarke whips around, and Bryan unhooks his radio, still staring with awe at the destruction around them that the storm and its black rain has done. He hands it over to Clarke without taking his eyes off, as if in a trance.

"It's Clarke," she says lowly, taking a moment to walk a little distance away from Bryan and the others. "Got results for us?"

"It's not good," Raven says grimly. "We did the analysis of the radiation readings you guys gave us, and…"

Clarke takes another step forward, feels her heel sink into a puddle of water that she realizes must have been ice. It's a crater of water up here that they're sloshing around in.

"And it's too late," Clarke finishes Raven's sentence, now taking in the trees around them that are blackened and broken and laid to waste just like the rest of it. "It's too late, isn't it?"

There's the crackling of static for a long moment before Raven replies. "Yeah." Her voice is sad. "We're too late, Clarke. We can't stop it." Silence for a moment. "The world is gonna end, and there's nothing we can do about it."

Clarke lets out a loose breath. Her heart plummets.

"Okay." Her voice is barely a whisper. "We're headed back to Arkadia now."

"Clarke—"

"We'll talk there," Clarke cuts her off a little curtly. There's no need to incite a huge panic about this. Not when they've already been doing a good job keeping the reactor problem from the general populace at Arkadia. "Until then—"

"Keep it on the down-low," Raven finishes, somewhat begrudgingly. "Got it. Over and out."

Raven's gone before Clarke can thank her, and she lowers the radio to her side.

After a moment, she turns back to the people behind her, sees Bellamy in some kind of tense conversation with Roan. As she watches he nods at the larger man and sloshes over to where she's still walking slowly from the group.

She toys with the radio, feeling his curious eyes on it. "What'd he say?" she asks, delaying the question.

"He said sorry," Bellamy replies blandly.

"And what did you say?"

"I said it might actually have meant something to me, if you hadn't told him to say it."

She smiles inwardly. There's a smile in his eyes, too, one that fades as he opens his mouth again.

"So what's the verdict?" He nods at the radio.

She looks at the thing, then back at him. He looks like he already knows the answer, if his grave expression is anything to go by, but she confirms it. "We're too late to save the reactors." She swallows past the lump in her throat. "All we can do now is try to get out of here before it's too late to save us."

He takes the blow impressively well, simply nodding and pursing his lips. But if he's anything like her— and she knows he is— the revelation is hitting him hard on the inside. "Then we need to move."

"Get back to Arkadia," she agrees.

"Roan still wants to help," Bellamy says. Clarke blinks. "He guessed it, too. But he thinks the best chance any of us have for survival is if we keep up our coalition."

She chews her lip. "And what do you think?"

He's silent for a moment before he speaks. "I think," he begins, pauses before he starts again. "I think I don't trust him, but he's got to have resources, connections, information about this land that we don't."

She nods to herself. "Then we keep him on board. For now."

In unison, they turn back to their people, still picking their way through the wreckage that is the palace. Clarke shifts from boot to boot, only now starting to feel the toll of her injuries of the day creep up on her.

She also can't ignore a pleasantly burning sensation in her inner thighs as she shifts, and reaches down unconsciously to rub at the tender muscle.

Bellamy notices and there's a flash of concern in his expression before it clears and he shoots her a distinctly boyish grin instead, one that takes her a moment to process.

Right. Last night. She'd known that was gonna be a stretch. But damn it had felt good. She feels her face heat up slightly, eternally glad that the adventurous morning gives her plenty of excuses to wave away concerns if anyone else notices.

But with those thoughts comes another, and with it a sinking realization. She straightens and clears her throat.

"Bellamy—"

"I know," he cuts her off. "We can't do this."

She scrambles to explain herself. "It's not that I don't want this, it's just—"

"I was going to say I agree," he interrupts again, the self-satisfied twinkle faded completely from his eye. He's now staring intensely down at the mud. "We have to have full focus on saving our people. There's no time for…" An awkward pause fills up the space until his next word, "...us, right now."

Clarke searches his expression for signs of disingenuity but finds none. His expression is open and slightly vulnerable, full of acceptance and maybe a trace of sadness. It's the same that she's feeling. "I wish there was," she can't help but say, sounding very small.

He doesn't reply.

"I don't regret it, Bellamy." She has to say it fiercely, to keep her voice from shaking. It's the truth, as much as it scares her to say it. "I felt happy."

His gaze lifts to meet hers again and the corners of his mouth lift mischievously. "Orgasms tend to do that."

She snorts, relieved he's taking it all in stride, and punches his arm lightly. "It wasn't that. It was you."

"Okay," he replies, serious again. "Okay, me too." They stare at each other for another moment before he adds, "We should get going soon if we want to make it back to Arkadia by dark."

She nods, and they both start making the walk back to where their people are waiting. There's a lot of work to do, and Clarke's already thinking hard about how they might escape this latest impossible situation.

But she can't help but let herself think one more time about the possibility of them. "Bellamy," Clarke all but whispers, in the last private, personal moment they might have together for a long time, "If we make it through this— when we do—" because she has to believe that— "I'd like to try this. Us. For real."

"Yeah?" he asks slowly, staring straight ahead.

"If that's what you want, too," she confirms.

Bellamy nods thoughtfully, and doesn't reply for a long time. She's already accepted that he won't when he gives her one last look, right as Miller and Bryan make a beeline for them.

"Gotta hand it to you, Clarke." He grins unexpectedly. "You're good at giving incentive."

A/N: And that's a wrap folks! This was a TON of fun to write and I hope it was some fun to read as well. And if you thought it was, please do consider leaving a review (aka making my DAY!). :D

Side note, can we start a prayer circle for a season 4 with more Roan/Bellarke dynamic because I'm trash for that.

Find me on tumblr: wellsjahasghost