I mean literally, Bellamy. [There's a sense to her that he's not getting it. Perhaps she's more insistent because of her pain, because of what she's suppressing. Determination courses through her, but it's tinged by something else: something wild and uncertain, like a blaze that's threatening to run free.
She doesn't seem to recognize it. This is the Clarke that sets her mouth in a straight line and attempts to make things happen, no matter what.
Who bears it alone.
Who's come to appreciate the empathy bond.]
All of us reacting to those experiments could cause problems for the world. That dream is evidence of us being connected, of being tied to gods in some way, and we've already altered reality as we know it. We can't just live in denial of that.
[He's certainly starting to get what mental state she's in. He's never felt it so directly before, but he recognizes it—from Mount Weather, from Luna's rig, from the bunker. His grip on her hand tightens again, thumb brushing over her knuckles.
But with that explanation, it does click fully. This isn't just about some kind of Mount Weather style round up to Clarke.]
You think them testing on whoever shows up is going to trigger something large scale like that again. Maybe worse.
And if they somehow know about it and are able to prepare for it, what then? They get that power, Bellamy. Rey knows what we're capable of doing. She knows that our powers can impact this world more directly than the little bit we're capable of early on. [Meaning: whatever he's capable of now doesn't compare to the group power, to that power of their dreams.]
Rey can dress this up whatever way makes her feel better, but I won't be letting this happen.
[He's listening to everything she's saying, but part of it also feels off. This is the way Clarke talks when her back is against the wall, not when they've just discovered a new problem. There's usually a period where she's all about finding solutions, not pure "this can't happen" panic. And sure, it's been six years, but this still feels wrong.]
So what do you want to do?
[It's a little more probing than it might be normally. He's trying to get a handle on where her head's at.]
[And meanwhile, deep down, it's more evidence that she made a mistake. This world isn't a solution. She hasn't given her people a solution. All she's done is reveal a hope to change this world into what she thinks it should want to be.
And for what? For the same things to happen? For the powerful people to take more of it?
Though that's not even at the heart of it all. Clarke isn't exactly succeeding at remaining in sensible territory.]
If they have answers, we take them. [A beat.] I take them. I use my powers and make it so that they have no choice but to let us all go and back off. If we have to bring down Riverstone with us, we will.
[Clarke looks at him with a hint of frustration. It seeps through the bond. The problem is that Clarke isn't great at telling what the source of her problems is, not really, not when she's still drowning in them. She can feel the weight holding her down, but she doesn't know how to get herself free.]
It's because they're powerful that we need to act. [Like she's made up her mind.
It may not be a typical Clarke plan, but it is the type of plan that got him chained up while she carried the burden of stealing a bunker for herself. It's the kind that doesn't have a lot of sense, but seems like there's logic somewhere in there.
It's just that she's grieving more now than she was then, so any degree of projection toward this plan is difficult to follow.]
There's a difference between doing something and going to war with them.
[Because that's what this is, essentially, isn't it? "Taking them down" can't really mean anything else.
He can still feel that grief, though, buried underneath all the frustration and desperation, and he exhales, the last few pieces clicking into place. When he continues, his voice is softer.]
You think this is the only way we can start to make this place safe for our friends, don't you?
[The question strikes a chord. Can she make it safe for their friends? For her mom, who only stood a chance of coming here while she was alive? For Madi? Grief surges to the surface, mingling with that hopelessness that people never thought Clarke was capable of. She only finds hope to be contrary these days. To prove there's another way.]
I think it's too late.
[It's a common refrain to what he heard immediately after the monster attacks.
[It isn't that he hasn't been having similar thoughts—that this place might not be the miracle Clarke was hoping for—but this hopelessness seems rooted in something deeper. It's tangled up in grief and fear, not objectivity, and isn't Clarke the one who pushed him so hard to use his head more? Even if staying here isn't an option, he can't let her slide into this sort of wild despair.
Still, he knows what she's feeling. He felt it too, after his mother had been floated and Octavia was locked up. It's a hard nosedive to pull out of, and Bellamy doesn't think he would have been able to manage it himself if it hadn't been for Clarke.
The planning can wait. Bellamy untangles his hand from hers in favor of wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, one hand cradling the back of her head.]
[No, she doesn't. But Jason Todd had been right about one thing: control is an explicit factor in how comfortable Clarke is at any given moment. Right now? She feels like she has none of it. She's not so controlling that she needs to be in charge at all times, but she does feel as if her motivation and determination has hit a solid wall. It's a creeping, uncertain feeling. It's going through the motions, not unlike in the days after she was left alone on the recently burnt surface of the planet, knowing that she had lost everyone.
She has people here. She has friends.
But all her future holds is a dead parent and a daughter who had bone marrow ripped from her bones. How much more pain will Madi need to go through, and how little will she be able to help and stop it? Clarke doesn't even know where to begin.
This current wave of Displaced makes it hard. Clarke is used to creating hope out of what's available to her. Pragmatism as a light in the darkness. But it feels like what she knows is rapidly slipping away.
She leans into Bellamy and begins to cry. Because she needs it. And more than anything, it's good that he's being rational in the face of her pain. Good that he's becoming the person she wished she saw him become, and for the first time in a while, she's a little selfishly glad she gets to see it herself this time around.]
[He adores Clarke, and it always breaks his heart to see her like this. It's almost worse with the empathy bond, knowing every nuance of her fear and grief, but he's glad for it, too. At least she knows that he's here with her, and there's no need to stumble through explaining what she's feeling.
The truth is, he doesn't know how to make this easier on her. There's no real way to assuage her grief. He knows from experience that she'll just have to work through it, bit by bit.
Bellamy can be here for her, though, let her break down in that way she rarely seems to allow herself to. He doesn't try to hush her or even say anything, just settles his chin on her shoulder, cheek pressing against her hair, and holds her. There's no point in hiding his emotions, either—love and echoed mourning—but maybe they'll help in their own way.]
[As a creature of forward momentum, Clarke doesn't like grieving. She doesn't like wallowing in the pain of the moment, unable to keep herself stable. She doesn't like being reminded of the pain running through her. It's a useless feeling: dwelling, being reminded of the pain. For all that she'll tear up, she doesn't like being weighed down in this way.
So, there's a hint of frustration, too. When Lexa had told Clarke that dwelling on pain was useless, it had spoken to a part of Clarke that was already there. She saw the inherent weakness in it. The problem is that she has a hard time turning off the need to care.
She does care.
More than just the fact of caring, she needs this from Bellamy, just like she needed it with Murphy (and he needed it from her). Needs comfort, even if she doesn't seek it out.
The problem is that Bellamy will also feel Clarke trying to seal away any open holes. She let herself cry, let herself openly grieve, and now she's trying to patch it all away. It finally ends with her pulling away. Not fully, not so much that he can't feel her anymore, but enough.]
Thank you. [As if that ends it. But there's a sense that Clarke doesn't like being in pain like this. It doesn't make her any good for other people.]
[Maybe it's better than the way he deals with grief, that immediate lashing out, but not by much. Neither option is really dealing, is it?
Back home, he would have let it go. There was always another crisis, always something else trying to kill them, always another war or the more mundane fear of starvation and exposure. That isn't the case here, though, and he doesn't want her running herself into the ground. He wipes a tear from her cheek, eyes still locked on hers.]
Go easy on yourself, Clarke. You don't need to deal with this alone.
I know. [A squeeze of his hand.] It's not just—it's not just losing her. [Her mother. She feels alone and lost in the world, aimlessly dangling in the wind. Clarke hates being like that.]
It's knowing that we need something else. Something that works for all of us. And I couldn't come up with it in time ... [After all, Murphy wasn't here like this for a while. She doesn't think the previous Murphy was lying about what he knew, where he'd come from.]
[He does, because he's been feeling the exact same way. He can't really force himself to relax and enjoy the relative peace they've been given knowing they have family and friends back home who can't.]
Maybe we should focus on the big picture. Table Riverstone for now.
I probably shouldn't have gone after Rey like that. [She's upset and she knows it. But there is a hint of frustration with Rey, over how their relationship has fallen apart yet again.] But I'm trying to create protections for everyone, and it feels like a losing battle. That's a part of the big picture, too.
[The responsibility she's taken on with the Displaced, even if she refuses to think of them as hers.]
Everything I've done since I've came back has been for our people. [Desperate, searching. Trying to be a better person, one who's deserving of her people, and who gives them better lives. Couldn't she do that?]
The Displaced aren't all my responsibility, but our people are.
[Even if she doesn't deserve to be the one making those decisions for them.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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She doesn't seem to recognize it. This is the Clarke that sets her mouth in a straight line and attempts to make things happen, no matter what.
Who bears it alone.
Who's come to appreciate the empathy bond.]
All of us reacting to those experiments could cause problems for the world. That dream is evidence of us being connected, of being tied to gods in some way, and we've already altered reality as we know it. We can't just live in denial of that.
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But with that explanation, it does click fully. This isn't just about some kind of Mount Weather style round up to Clarke.]
You think them testing on whoever shows up is going to trigger something large scale like that again. Maybe worse.
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Rey can dress this up whatever way makes her feel better, but I won't be letting this happen.
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So what do you want to do?
[It's a little more probing than it might be normally. He's trying to get a handle on where her head's at.]
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And for what? For the same things to happen? For the powerful people to take more of it?
Though that's not even at the heart of it all. Clarke isn't exactly succeeding at remaining in sensible territory.]
If they have answers, we take them. [A beat.] I take them. I use my powers and make it so that they have no choice but to let us all go and back off. If we have to bring down Riverstone with us, we will.
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Clarke, we don't know anything about this and you're already talking about taking them down. You know how powerful they are.
[And it's... what? Best case scenario, fifty of the Displaced against them? This isn't a Clarke plan.]
What is this really about?
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It's because they're powerful that we need to act. [Like she's made up her mind.
It may not be a typical Clarke plan, but it is the type of plan that got him chained up while she carried the burden of stealing a bunker for herself. It's the kind that doesn't have a lot of sense, but seems like there's logic somewhere in there.
It's just that she's grieving more now than she was then, so any degree of projection toward this plan is difficult to follow.]
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[Because that's what this is, essentially, isn't it? "Taking them down" can't really mean anything else.
He can still feel that grief, though, buried underneath all the frustration and desperation, and he exhales, the last few pieces clicking into place. When he continues, his voice is softer.]
You think this is the only way we can start to make this place safe for our friends, don't you?
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I think it's too late.
[It's a common refrain to what he heard immediately after the monster attacks.
The loss of her mother just sealed the deal.]
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[It isn't that he hasn't been having similar thoughts—that this place might not be the miracle Clarke was hoping for—but this hopelessness seems rooted in something deeper. It's tangled up in grief and fear, not objectivity, and isn't Clarke the one who pushed him so hard to use his head more? Even if staying here isn't an option, he can't let her slide into this sort of wild despair.
Still, he knows what she's feeling. He felt it too, after his mother had been floated and Octavia was locked up. It's a hard nosedive to pull out of, and Bellamy doesn't think he would have been able to manage it himself if it hadn't been for Clarke.
The planning can wait. Bellamy untangles his hand from hers in favor of wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, one hand cradling the back of her head.]
I'm so sorry, Clarke.
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She has people here. She has friends.
But all her future holds is a dead parent and a daughter who had bone marrow ripped from her bones. How much more pain will Madi need to go through, and how little will she be able to help and stop it? Clarke doesn't even know where to begin.
This current wave of Displaced makes it hard. Clarke is used to creating hope out of what's available to her. Pragmatism as a light in the darkness. But it feels like what she knows is rapidly slipping away.
She leans into Bellamy and begins to cry. Because she needs it. And more than anything, it's good that he's being rational in the face of her pain. Good that he's becoming the person she wished she saw him become, and for the first time in a while, she's a little selfishly glad she gets to see it herself this time around.]
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The truth is, he doesn't know how to make this easier on her. There's no real way to assuage her grief. He knows from experience that she'll just have to work through it, bit by bit.
Bellamy can be here for her, though, let her break down in that way she rarely seems to allow herself to. He doesn't try to hush her or even say anything, just settles his chin on her shoulder, cheek pressing against her hair, and holds her. There's no point in hiding his emotions, either—love and echoed mourning—but maybe they'll help in their own way.]
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So, there's a hint of frustration, too. When Lexa had told Clarke that dwelling on pain was useless, it had spoken to a part of Clarke that was already there. She saw the inherent weakness in it. The problem is that she has a hard time turning off the need to care.
She does care.
More than just the fact of caring, she needs this from Bellamy, just like she needed it with Murphy (and he needed it from her). Needs comfort, even if she doesn't seek it out.
The problem is that Bellamy will also feel Clarke trying to seal away any open holes. She let herself cry, let herself openly grieve, and now she's trying to patch it all away. It finally ends with her pulling away. Not fully, not so much that he can't feel her anymore, but enough.]
Thank you. [As if that ends it. But there's a sense that Clarke doesn't like being in pain like this. It doesn't make her any good for other people.]
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Back home, he would have let it go. There was always another crisis, always something else trying to kill them, always another war or the more mundane fear of starvation and exposure. That isn't the case here, though, and he doesn't want her running herself into the ground. He wipes a tear from her cheek, eyes still locked on hers.]
Go easy on yourself, Clarke. You don't need to deal with this alone.
[He means her grief, not Riverstone.]
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It's knowing that we need something else. Something that works for all of us. And I couldn't come up with it in time ... [After all, Murphy wasn't here like this for a while. She doesn't think the previous Murphy was lying about what he knew, where he'd come from.]
It feels like we're treading water.
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[He does, because he's been feeling the exact same way. He can't really force himself to relax and enjoy the relative peace they've been given knowing they have family and friends back home who can't.]
Maybe we should focus on the big picture. Table Riverstone for now.
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[The responsibility she's taken on with the Displaced, even if she refuses to think of them as hers.]
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The Displaced aren't all my responsibility, but our people are.
[Even if she doesn't deserve to be the one making those decisions for them.]