Chapter Six

"...I told him a story of two people. Two people who shouldn't have met, and who didn't like each other much when they did, but who found they were the only two people in the world who could have possibly understood each other."

-- Me Before You

Bellamy looks at the shaking girl sitting on the cold edge of the drop ship, and he knows that she won't be getting any more sleep this night. He's more worried than he should be about her.

Clarke is rocking back and forth, her head in her hands, whispering for something to stop. "You lie," she says, and Bellamy turns, but quickly realizes that she isn't talking to him.

Bellamy at last finds a blanket in the box he had been shuffling around in, and walks over to her. The fleece is orange and bright, and is too harsh against the night.

He sighs, but puts the neon blanket around Clarke, patting it around her shoulders. With quivering hands, she takes the edges of the blanket and pulls it tighter over her.

"Thank you," she whispers, and her voice is hoarse.

Bellamy would ask if she was okay, but only if he didn't know better. Earth has erased that strand of words from his vocabulary. He knows better. She is not okay.

So he sits beside her in silence, watching her shivering shoulders slowly stop shaking. He doesn't know how long they sit there, with the silence heavy on their shoulders.

Clarke grunts. And again. Bellamy turns, far more worried than he should be.

"Clarke?" Bellamy asks, and any iciness that was in his tone melts away.

She grabs her head and roars. "It's happening again," she manages to spit as she curls her body into a tight ball.

He reaches out to her and rests his hand on her shoulders—to show her that he's there—and wrinkles his brow. "What's happening, Clarke?" He asks, and he doesn't call her princess.

"That. . . .shrieking," she says, her fingers groping at her scalp. "Can't you hear it?"

Bellamy is more worried than he should be. "No," he replies, and then he holds her in place with both his hands. "But I'm here. Tell me all you can."

Clarke screams—"Stop!"—and then Bellamy can hear a whisper, a sort of fading voice.

Goodbye.

Clarke folds even tighter, if that is possible, shaking and quivering, and Bellamy is terrified. He can't get words out of his mouth, not to comfort her, the girl he saved.

Time passes. He doesn't leave her side. She quivers under his hands, and at last sits up. "Did you hear that? The voice?"

Bellamy clears his throat and nods. "It was like a whisper."

Clarke's eyes are wild, blood-shot and animal-like, and Bellamy should be terrified. He should run. He should run but he doesn't because this is Clarke.

"No," she whispers, and her words are laced with tears. "It was like a scream."

Bellamy, frankly, doesn't know what to say. You would think he was good with crying girls, especially since Octavia. But no. Not when it's Clarke.

How can you comfort someone stronger than you, when they are broken at your feet?

Bellamy sits in silence, and lets her turn away from him. She pulls the orange blanket tighter around herself, bundling her body with that terribly cheerful fleece.

And then Bellamy has a thought. A terrible thought that sends a shiver down his spine and makes sweat form on his skin. "Was it him?"

Clarke almost jumps at his voice, as if the sound was harsh. But she knows who Bellamy speaks of. "Of course."

If Bellamy was good with words, he would have said something then, something so sickly sweet and inspirational. If Bellamy was good with words, he would lift her up.

He would tell her something the way she told him he wasn't a monster. He would tell her something and he would sugar coat everything.

He would do all of this. If it wasn't Clarke. He can't sugarcoat things for Clarke. So he opens his mouth and says the stupid words. "This is bad."

Clarke turns, and her mouth is pressed in a thin line, the corners slanted downward. "Acute observation." Her voice is still hoarse, from screaming and crying and trying not to do any of it. From trying to be brave in front of him.

She is still trying to be strong, even now. She still isn't letting her guard down for him. Frankly, it angers him.

"I wish you could be honest with me." There. He said it. He waits for her reaction, his heart beating, and his fingers folded into his palms.

And then she says the words he never thought he would hear from her, not from Clarke, the one who picks a fight for no reason. "Me too."

"I wish we wouldn't fight," he says, and he can't meet her eyes, those eyes that belong to the strong girl, huddled and half-broken under that terribly happy orange blanket.

Clarke clears her throat. "Do you remember when I asked you what you would wish for? You said you wouldn't know what to wish for anymore."

"Yes." How could he forget? That question has stayed with him.

"You must know now." Clarke must have turned, because he can feel her eyes on him.

He nods, and meets her wild eyes, full of broken fire.

"Say it. I need to hear it." And then the connection is lost. And then she turns away, focusing her eyes at her feet.

"I wish earth wasn't hell."

AN: Hello! The slow burn is starting, guys! Veryyyyy slow. It'll be worth it, I promise. :)

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