Clarke awoke with light streaming through her tent and a strong arm around her. She couldn't help but smile as she stretched and yawned, feeling his arm squeeze her tightly before releasing her.
"Don't get up yet," his throaty, sleepy voice sounded behind her. She turned onto her back and looked up at him. His dark hair was ruffled and his expression let her know that he'd only been awake for a few minutes.
"We need to get up," she said, in between yawns. He moaned softly and rolled onto his stomach.
"I'm sure we could stay in bed a little while longer. No one will notice. No one's even awake."
Although his argument was valid – albeit muffled into his pillow, she knew they'd have to get up anyway, to check the perimeter of the Wall. She was still for a moment, just laying, watching him rest. He looked so young, so at peace. He looked less like a leader of delinquents, and more like
"An angel." she couldn't help but mummer. He opened his eyes then, an eyebrow raised and a small smirk on his face.
"I know my freckles add a sense of innocence but I've never quite heard that one before."
Clarke laughed at his response, which turned his smirk into a grin. She turned onto her side and kissed him lightly on the lips.
"Okay. Now we can get up." He teased, and pulled the blankets away.

"Clarke? Clarke!"
His voice, and the sound of urgency within it, made her bolt upright.
"Hey Princess. Quit dreaming. I need those hands of yours, it's an emergency."
She stumbled to her feet, rubbing her eyes. Bellamy's usual smirk was missing from his expression, and when she looked down at his hands she noticed the blood, and how it was soaking its way into her blanket. She yanked it away from him, throwing it back onto her bed before asking:
"What happened? Whose blood is that?"
He was silent for a moment, his dark eyes trying to answer instead.
"Bellamy?" She repeated. He blinked and grasped hold of her elbow, leading her out of her tent.

It was dark out, but Clarke could tell that it was near dawn. The camp was completely silent. Bellamy led her to the edge of the campsite, as though afraid the sleeping souls might overhear him.
"Bellamy!" she barked out through gritted teeth. He whipped his head around, making sure no one was in sight, before unzipping his jacket and lifting his blood-soaked shirt to reveal a long, deep cut, making its way from his ribcage to his jeans.

Clarke's breath hitched and she put her hand out to touch the skin around it. But Bellamy cringed and dropped his shirt back down.

"What the hell happened?" she asked, and the amount of concern in her voice struck her slightly. But Bellamy looked to be having trouble breathing. And standing. She weaved her way between his torso and his right arm, wrapping her arm around him to grab his other hand. She stumbled back to her tent, where she knew her extra medical supplies were, and sat him back down on her bed.

"Bellamy, I need you to tell me what happened," she said firmly, gathering what she needed. He looked to be losing consciousness, but he held himself up and managed to answer her.
"It was my dream. It was my... It was in my dream and now it's in real life."

He was unable to elaborate, as a moment later he was on his back, unconscious and bleeding out on her bed.

•••

Bellamy could sense movement next to him. His eyes fluttered open just long enough for him to make out his surroundings. Firstly; he was horizontal, which struck him as odd because the last thing he could remember was heading towards her tent. Which was where he was now.

In her tent.

In her bed.

And there she was too. Lying next to him.

Although he would have admittedly enjoyed being there in different circumstances, the dull stinging and tightness on his abdomen informed him that those different circumstances had definitely not occurred. He sighed and blindly felt his way to his injury. His shirt had been removed, but gauze blocked his path and he suddenly became aware of his bandages, and how firmly they were wrapped around his torso. His fingers ran over the outline of the long scar and the ridges of the stitching, and he made a mental note to ask Clarke what she had used to sow him up.

Speaking of Clarke.

He opened his eyes and slowly turned his head her way. She mummered something under her breath, and her shoulder twitched at the same time. She was asleep, but in a bitter state of that. The beautiful Princess had forsaken her calm, leader mask, and worry and fear streaked her face, like thick brushstrokes over a smooth, clean canvas. She looked vulnerable. And timid. Two things Bellamy was sure she was not.

Clarke turned towards him, still sound asleep, and her hand crept up to his shoulder, and then to his chest. Bellamy froze beneath her touch, unsure of how to react. Should he move? Should he wake her up? But the warmth from her fingers was seaping beneath his skin, into his bloodstream. It was too warm, too lovely and too unexpectedly calming for him to stop it. He closed his eyes and gently placed his hand over hers, hoping it wouldn't wake her.

If it did, she didn't pull away.