No One But Me

The camp looks like hell just broke loose. The 100 are partying for the umpteenth time. They aren't even trying to find an excuse anymore, they simply wait for the night and then they all burst into chaos at the same time, as if they were telepathic. Apparently the bigger the dangers, the louder and more frequent their venting moments are.

Clarke rolls her eyes and sighs, trying to mask her annoyed face. She can't bring herself to blame them completely-she understands their point, after all-but she can't stop the irritation from acidifying her throat. The resources are already extremely limited and they all need to rest if they don't want to end up weakened against the threats they face on a daily basis.

Seriously, what the hell are they thinking wasting time and energy and supplies like that?

As she walks toward the exit of the camp she wonders how everything went downhill so suddenly. Normally she can count on Bellamy to keep the situation under control, but this time Octavia had come looking for her and told her to go check on her brother's hand because he had hit someone.

A right-handed blow directly on the eye, judging from what her sister had told her with a smug look on her face, as if there was really something to be happy about. It hadn't been a brawl, just that one punch, and the victim had already been seen shouting with his friends as if it hadn't even hindered his fun.

Clarke had asked Octavia what had happened and why had Bellamy snapped that way-she had been hoping they were finally over the phase in which Bellamy acted as the entropy variable-but the only answer she had got was her shrug and the slight motion of her head, hinting at the direction outside of the wall where she will find their rebel leader.

Octavia is, without a doubt, the worst liar she has ever seen. It's obvious that she knows exactly what happened, and most likely she had watched the show from the first row. But for some reason she wants Clarke to know the truth from Bellamy.

She reaches the makeshift gate and looks at the darkness in front of her, breathing in the cool air. With the fires and the squalls behind her, she finds a familiar figure leaned against a tree about a hundred meters away.

Clarke sighs closing her eyes, gathering her strength. She hopes they won't end fighting again, because she doesn't think she'll be able to stand it. Not after having her energy drained by Finn's attempts to make her change her mind about them. So not going to happen. She already has enough on her plate without adding a fight with Bellamy.

In addition, their pact of mutual tolerance has been assuming strange shades lately. Too many times she has surprised herself about to touch him, or has found him staring at her without any apparent reason.

She's never lied to herself, she knows all too well she finds Bellamy attractive. One has to be blind or deluded to deny it. But admitting to being attracted to him somehow doesn't cover what is happening to them.

Again, she doesn't have the time to lie to herself, not here on the Earth with the solid possibility of dying at any moment, dragging their regrets into the graves and leaving things unsaid.

She knows that what she's feeling has nothing in common with what she felt for Finn. He had been easy and immediate, fresh and sparkling. The flirting, the banter, the sweetness, it had felt all natural because he inspires that. He just brings it out of you, willing or not.

But with Bellamy it's different. With Bellamy she's never had to become someone she isn't to adapt to a foreign appeal; on the contrary, he had made his way under her skin with a determination and tenacity that she honestly finds remarkable, until one day, when she wasn't looking, she had suddenly found him right next to her, in her most inner core.