Between Us

Candles in the Dark

She has run out of bandages. The white linen is stained, balled up at the bottom of a waste basket. Just as well; they don't seem to be helping her much and the suit just ruins the ones she's already applied.

It takes nearly three weeks before everything begins to heal and she can actually speak without gritting her teeth against the nails dragging down the chalkboard of her throat.

Clarke doesn't remember reaching the lab, only what came after, when she woke up inside it. She doesn't have to have any medical training to know there will be scars. They're already showing, blooming like white poppies over her skin. As if they're a primary concern of hers. She nearly scoffs. No, being able to tolerate radiation was only part of the bigger issue at hand. Now there are greater obstacles to face, like the most immediate one of her having finally reached her last ration. It's tasteless in her mouth and chafes at her raw throat.

She swallows the last of it and picks up the radio, weighing it in her palm. After a moment, she lifts it to her lips and thumbs the receiver. "Day one-hundred-and-ten. Sorry it's been over two weeks since I last updated. I've been . . . A little preoccupied."

A part of her relaxes into the comfort of this familiarity, as she imagines the face of the man hearing her words. Praying he hears them. "Radiation levels are the same. Not much of a surprise there. On the brighter side, I'm not dead, which leads me to believe the Nightblood treatment worked. I have to test it again today. If I want to live, I mean. The rations are gone so it's time for me to start improvising." She stops for a breath before continuing, gauging the details she should relay. "Still no word from the bunker. If everything works out, I'll be able to travel over there soon. I'll check for damages on the outside, make sure it's all still sealed so you can be confident Octavia and the others are safe." The image of her mom flashes through Clarke's mind and she squeezes her eyes shut against the pain. How much she wishes she'd gotten the chance to say goodbye. To say more the last time she saw her. To have hugged her mother for a heartbeat longer.

Clarke shakes off the thought; buries it among the other needless wishes that are dust in her hands.

She opens her eyes again. "I hope things are going well up there. That it's not too hard to be without the sky. It's not an appealing sight anymore, if that's any consolation. You can't even see the stars." She leans her head against the seat, looking up at the ceiling as if picturing the vastness of space beyond it. "Trust me," she murmurs wistfully, her voice floating about her in the stillness. "I've tried."

***

It takes seventeen days for her voice to appear again.

Within that time, Bellamy nearly believes her to be dead. Again. But after doubting her the last time, he holds onto whatever faint glow of hope he has that she is alive today.

He tries to keep busy, doing his normal rounds, pulling his workload, making his daily check-ins to ensure their tiny metal world is not in jeopardy of falling apart. Inside him though, right between his ribs is a fist of nervous energy, unraveling more and more until a bite has appeared in his tone and his hands are perpetually clenched at his sides. The others take notice but they don't ask, already knowing what it's about. They all work, and Bellamy's fear gets a little louder, a little more tangible with every day that passes.

Maybe something went wrong.

Maybe she's not immune.

Maybe she's really gone this time.

Maybe she's really gone this time.

But he doesn't give up, and it is then that he hears it, the usual time he drops into the cell for a moment of quiet. The moments that used to be filled with her voice. One second there is nothing. In the next, the radio crackles, and Bellamy drops by the metal box, scrambling for the speaker. Everything in him pulls taught, an arrow ready to fly. He shuts his eyes. Please. Please.

"Day-one-hundred-and-ten. Sorry it's been over two weeks since I last updated. I've been . . . preoccupied."

Bellamy let's out a breath he's been holding for seventeen days and his relief actually makes him smile. He rests his back against the wall, radio in hand, taking in the fact that she's alive. There's a strain in her voice that tells him not everything is all right, but she's breathing, and for him that's good enough.

"Radiation levels are the same. On the bright side, I'm not dead . . ." Bellamy listens to her update, trying to shove away his worry at the mention of her diminished supply. She may be immune, but not even Luna tried to consume materials with those levels of radiation. The end of the world changes a lot, and there is no guarantee Clarke's reaction will even mirror Luna's. But it's not like she has any alternative.

Bellamy presses a fist to his forehead, hating again that all he can do is listen to her struggle. But it's more bearable than her silence.

For the most part.

He listens as she tells him how she plans to go after the bunker. Don't do anything stupid, he wishes he could tell her.

"I hope things are going well up there," she continues. "That it's not too hard to be without the sky."

I miss the land more, he concedes.

"It's not an appealing sight anymore, if that's any consolation."

It's not.

"You can't even see the stars." He hears the small catch in her voice. "Trust me, I've tried."

Bellamy pulls himself to his feet, taking the radio with him. He shoves aside the battered, metal door and enters a stretch of corridor, coming to a stop before a window that displays a cluster of novas, burning like candles in the dark.

They're still here, he thinks. Trust me.