Bellarke One-Shots [A Collection of Stories]

The Nightmares We Create

{Stay}

For months, nightmares of Mount Weather have plagued Clarke's dreams. She feels responsible. She feels burdened. Only Bellamy Blake can soothe her ever breaking heart.

Clarke was a ghost and for a moment, she was amongst the living.

She was an invisible specter wandering, watching, waiting alongside the people of Mount Weather. They were talking in hushed voices. Mothers held on to children. Adults clung on to elders. Clarke could taste, smell and feel the fear in the air. Yet, the room was quiet, still – the calm before the storm.

The calm before Wanheda arrived and slaughtered them all.

These were the faces of those she killed. These were the innocent ones, no more than sheep living under a corrupt shepherd. One could not blame the blind, could not blame the victims of a harsh and cruel world.

One could only blame the reaper.

Suddenly, the radiation sirens blared. Clarke's head jerked upwards. People began to scream and people began to cry. She had failed them. She had promised them everything and had given them nothing but death in return.

Clarke found herself choking, falling to her knees alongside the rest of them. Tears stung her eyes as poisonous air filled her lungs.

This shouldn't be happening. She was genetically immune to such high levels of radiation. Why was she dying? Why was her body failing her? Why was she made to suffer amongst them?

High pitched screaming filled her ears as families watched the elderly die first. But, that was nothing compared to the sheer agony that sounded as the children died second.

Clarke vomited all over the floor, over the dead bodies. She became dizzy as headaches tore at her scalp and brain. No longer able to carry her own weight, she fell, face first onto the cold, vomit-covered floor. It stuck to her hair and skin like glue. She had to turn her head just to keep from tasting it and found a pair of lifeless eyes staring at her. They belonged to a child – Lovejoy his nametag read.

In this moment, she was suffering as her victims had suffered. This was her punishment, day in, day out. And it was a worthy punishment.

Clarke knew what would come next – felt it in her bones. All at once, the bodies, the corpses of those she had killed began crawling towards her, moaning, groaning, decomposing. They would kill her before the radiation did.

They came onto her like vultures onto a rodent. They came and clawed at her skin as she screamed bloody murder. One of them jabbed a kitchen knife into her side, cutting to the bone, making everything collapse and explode in agony, shifting her body into a graveyard, a dead –

.    .    .

Clarke Griffin's eyes flew open. She panted.

"You look...," a voice said beside her, and she lurched.

Where the hell was she? She looked down at herself. Where were her weapons? She needed them. She needed them with her at all times –

"It was a dream," said Bellamy, interrupting her frantic thoughts.

Clarke blinked at him, then looked around the rundown warehouse, running a hand across the stained mattress beneath her. Polis. Polis – that's where she was. In the tower – no, in the structure beneath the tower.

She was sweating, the sweat on her back feeling uncomfortably like blood. She felt nauseated, dizzy. Headaches came and went like a relentless tide. It was almost as though she was still dying of radiation sickness, still dying of blood loss. Though the door was shut, an odd draft of wind circulated the room, smelling strangely of her dad's cologne.

"Clarke. It was a dream," Bellamy said again, reaching out, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. "You were screaming." He gave her a shaky smile. "I thought you were being murdered."

Clarke reached down and touched her side, the spot where the kitchen knife had pierced her skin. Her hand came back wet, not with blood, but with sweat. "I was..." she murmured.

It was only then that she began to tremble, recalling the memory from her mind. She began to gasp because of the invisible stench, the weight of so many bodies on top of her. Through her grey shirt and thin trousers, Clarke could almost feel the blood – the sickness and the sweat.

She couldn't breathe. She was choking, having a full blown panic attack.

"Clarke," Bellamy's voice sounded worried and far off. "Clarke, it's alright." He grabbed her hand, stopping her from pulling out her hair. It was warm and calloused.

"The mountain... I killed them. I died with them," she wheezed, struggling to get to her feet. Clarke pulled her hand out of his. "Where are my weapons?"

Bellamy stood with her and prevented her from barreling out the door. His hands were at either side of her face, his thumb stroking her marred cheek. Was she crying in front of him? If she was, she didn't realize it.

Clarke looked up at him, her mouth parting ever so slightly. "Their deaths are on me," she whispered, more to herself than to Bellamy.

"On us," he replied and she watched him, wide-eyed, as his jaw worked. "How many times do I have to tell you that we share our burdens? Can't you get that through your head?"

She brought her hands up and grabbed Bellamy's wrists. By the look of his tousled hair and tired eyes, Clarke realized that she must have woken him. His lips were characteristically set in a hard line as he stared down at her.

"I can't ask that of you."

"And why not?"

"Because I –"

"Because you're stubborn," he finished. "Stubborn as a half-blind pack mule."

That received a light chuckle and Bellamy grinned, triumphant. He leaned down and did something unexpected, something that he would regret in the morning. Bellamy leaned down and kissed Clarke's forehead. His lips were but a feather upon her skin. And when he pulled away, she fell into his chest. He caught her, easily.

She breathed him in, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. He smelled uniquely of firewood, earth and something masculine. Not only that, but he was warm, so incredibly warm and soft. The fabric of his shirt felt good against her tear stained cheek.

Closing her eyes, she reveled in the strength of his arms as they wrapped around her. When she was with him, she felt safe – finally whole. She knew Bellamy. She knew how lethal he was. He could easily crush her, easily kill any foe. He was a finely tuned weapon, as was Clarke.

"Thank you..." her voice was muffled by his chest.

"For what?" He asked and she could almost feel his smile upon her head. His hand was running up her back now, undoing knots of hardened muscle.

"For never giving up on me."

"Clarke," he breathed, pulling away ever so slightly. He gazed down at her and stroked the side of her face like he had all those weeks ago. And, staring at her lips, he wanted to do so much more. "You're a hard person to give up."

The look in his eyes made her reach up and brush his cheek, her fingers eventually disappearing into his thick hair. It took all her courage to ask him what she wanted to ask him.

"Stay," she whispered, her eyes following his lips as they came down and grazed her cheekbone.

"I never planned on leaving," he replied, his kisses slowly traveling down her neck as she fisted his shirt.

Then, he picked Clarke up as though she weighed nothing and, in turn, she wrapped her legs around Bellamy's hips. He walked over to the mattress on the floor and gently laid her down. She ran her fingers down his chiseled and toned back before he fell onto his side.

"Go to sleep," he whispered, his face inches from her own, his arm supporting her head. "We have Grounder ass to kick tomorrow."

Clarke smiled and snuggled against his chest, comforted by the strong arms around her waist. In this cold, damp warehouse she felt at home – she felt as peace.

And, for the first time in a long time, she slept through the night without another nightmare.