He grips her tighter, holds onto her like
a lifeline. He wants to spill it all, he wants
to press his ear to her chest, listen to her
heart beat – steady at first, thump, thump,
thump, and then faster, harder as she
hears what was done to him, as she hates
and seethes and rages. He wants to feel
her want to defend him, protect him, kill
for him, because right now all he needs is
to be l o v e d, the way only O can love him.
The way they love e a c h o t h e r. Protective
and fierce and angry and wholeheartedly.
But he can’t do that to her, he can’t fill her
mind with those images, he can’t make her
see that. He can’t make her look at tools
and objects and think about their alternate
uses, look at people and wonder if they could
hurt the way the Mountain Men hurt.
If she’s anything like him, she’d blame herself.
She’d blame Clarke loudly for sending him,
until the whole camp knew what had happened,
until Clarke was crying bloody tears and
apologising over and over, maybe even begging
for her life, but inside she’d blame herself. It’d
be her fault for the rest of time that he got hurt,
that she didn’t go with him, that she didn’t stop
him from going.
He can’t let that happen.
He draws back from her, blinking a couple of
times as he tries to pull back into himself, as he
tries to stop showing how he feels, tries to stop
desperately longing to let her in.
Octavia deserves happiness, she deserves to
feel safe in her own skin and never hate herself
in the ways Bellamy has learned to hate himself.
He has no intention of leaving and he wonders if
she can see that in his eyes. The remaining
delinquents need to be looked after and protected,
and the adults sure as hell aren’t going to do it.
That leaves him, and her, and Clarke, and he can’t
leave them, no way.
But it’d be nice to talk about; the idea of somewhere
just for the two of them.
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