Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Clarke! Stop, no!” Bellamy cries, struggling against his restraints.

They were being held in a room in Mount Weather, and apparently, the Mountain Men had some very interesting ways of getting information. He blamed himself for this situation - yes, it had been Clarke’s idea, but he shouldn’t have let her go through with it, it was too much for even her to bear.

The interrogator raises his hand again, and sends it lashing down on Clarke’s cheek, causing the blonde to cry out in pain.

“Stop it!” Bellamy yells.

“I’ll stop this when you tell us the information we seek,” the man says, glancing at Bellamy. “Just say the word, and all of this can stop,”

Terror waves through him like water breaking over ice. He can’t tell them what they want to know, but he can’t stand watching Clarke suffer for any longer. It isn’t fair.

“Don’t, Bell-”

Clarke’s voice is broken off by a scream as another volt of electricity surges through her body. Bellamy hates himself even more for agreeing to this; for agreeing to let her be the distraction they needed whilst the extraction team went to free the 47.

“Tell us!” the man demands.

“I-”

“Bellamy, don’t!” Clarke yells.

Bellamy glares at the man, who promptly sends more electricity into Clarke. It’s sick, how they get information, it’s horrifying. They test your loyalty to your friend and your camp at the same time, by torturing your friend until you betray your camp. It’s disgusting. Inhumane. He doesn’t know how they do it.

“This isn’t working,” a voice crackles on over the intercom. “Switch them,”

“No!” Clarke yells.

“Clarke-” Bellamy starts, and he can hear the desperation in his voice. Please. Take me instead. Spare her of this pain, and put me in her place.

“That might just work,” the man has a twisted smirk on his face, and Bellamy longs to punch it off.

He curses himself for letting them see that their weaknesses are eachother. He should have known that they’d use it against him.

“No!” Clarke repeats, and her voice is somehow strong, even though her eyes speak of exhaustion. “You can break my soul, take my life away, beat me, hurt me, kill me, but for the love of God, don't even think about harming a single hair on his head,”

She is quiet, and she demands attention, and her eyes are wild and flashing and Bellamy can’t think of a single moment where he’s loved her more than he loves her now.

“Wait,” the intercom speaks. “Continue like this,”

“No!” Bellamy yells, thrashing out wildly. Please. Let it end.

A scream works it’s way out of Clarke’s throat as the man hits the switch for more electricity, and he can hear the agony oozing out of it.

“Ready to speak yet?” the man asks.

“No…” Clarke’s voice is barely a whisper now, the last dose of electricity having sapped most of her remaining strength.

Bellamy stares at her; see’s the way her body is limply hanging in her bonds; see’s a bruise welling up on her face; see’s little cuts all over her body, and he loathes himself for what he knows he has to do. He grits his teeth, and slowly - ever so slowly - shakes his head, his eyes on her face the entire time. A flicker of something crosses her face (pride?), before she cries out again. This time, when the electricity cuts off, her eyes don’t open.

“Clarke?” he asks tentatively.  

She doesn’t respond.

“Clarke!” he yells, panic infused in his voice, because he can’t do this without her; he won’t.

“Pity,” the man says, sounding vaguely unimpressed.

Then several things happen at once - the door slams open and there’s a spray of bullets. The man falls to the ground, quite obviously dead. Bellamy’s restraints come loose, as do Clarke’s, and she crumples to the floor. Without hesitation, he rushes over to her, not bothering to spare a glance at his rescuers. He scoops her up in his arms, clutching her tightly, and feels around for a pulse. Every muscle in his body seems to relax at once when he finds one, and he’s quite happy to be lead away, out of that horrible room and the unspeakable terrors it holds.

*****

“So Lincoln has finally recovered. Octavia’s ecstatic, really, you should see it, it’s amazing. I’ve never seen her so happy,” Bellamy says, taking Clarke’s still-warm hand in his own.

It’s been one week since they rescued the 47. One long, torturous week. Seriously, it’s amazing that Bellamy even lasted one day without Clarke, let alone seven. He’s been glued to her side in her tent, barely eating and sleeping. He just can’t function properly without her.

“Clarke, please, if you can hear me, we need you here,” He sighs, and maybe it’s selfish for him to add this, but he needs to say it. “I need you,”

He fights back tears, and reminds himself that he’s Bellamy Blake, and Bellamy Blake does not cry for anyone, dammit. But he can’t stop all of them, so he gives up, letting the tears come, fast, thick and hot against his face. He’s perversely glad that Abby won’t check on her daughter for at least another two hours, so it means that no one will be around to see him break down.

“Dammit, princess,” he chokes out. “You’re supposed to be the strong one, not me! I can’t do this, not without you,”

Her words flash back into his mind - for the love of God, don't even think about harming a single hair on his head. Brave princess. Stupid, selfless, adorable, brave princess. His chest aches at the thought of losing her.

“Come back to me, princess. Please,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her hand.

His tears dry on his cheeks, crusted with salt, and he wipes them away half-heartedly. He knows that the camp is talking about them, about how brave they are for sacrificing so much in order to get their kids safe. He thinks about how twisted that is - how they think that he’s brave. No, Bellamy isn’t brave. He’s a coward. He couldn’t even save his princess when she needed it.

“Bellamy?” a voice asks, and he thinks that he must be dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Bell? Wha--”

“Clarke?” he asks, in disbelief after hearing the voice again.

He looks at her, and her eyes are open - they’re tired and he can see pain in them, but they’re open and that’s all that matters.

“You’re alright,” he almost collapses in relief.

“Yeah. I think,” she smiles at him - despite everything she’s been through, she fucking smiles at him - and struggles to sit up.

He rushes to help her up, and she clutches at his bicep thankfully. He blushes, and god dammit, Bellamy Blake does not cry, and he certainly does not blush.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and her eyes trusting.

He feels a rush of guilt, because he knows that she’s thanking him for not selling out the camp as well, even though he caused her pain.

“Hey,” she says, and he looks at her. There’s so much sincerity in her eyes that it hurts, but he can’t look away, he owes her that much. “I’m okay,”

It’s a lie, and they both know it, so he smiles bitterly, and without thinking, he hugs her. She’s warm, and hugs back almost immediately, resting her head in the crook of his neck, and winding her arms around him. No, he thinks, she’s not okay now. But then, who on the ground is okay? She will be though. Maybe not for a long time yet, but Clarke is the strongest person he knows, so he’s positive that she will be okay. And perhaps someday, when the sky is blue and the grass is green and they don’t have to worry about the imminent threat of death, maybe he will be too.