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The 100 (TV) fic: Every Time We Say Goodbye

everytime

Bellamy/Clarke

Saying good-bye gets harder and harder. Bellamy hopes this one isn’t forever. Episode tag for S02e16.

586 words | rating: PG


Every time we say goodbye, it gets harder and harder to let you go.

I want to tell her that. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but my pride stops me every time. Or fear. Fear of being rejected. Fear of being accepted. Fear of losing a part of me. I prefer the pride theory—it doesn’t sound as pathetic.

This goodbye just might kill me, though. My heart races when I realize she’s serious about leaving. Is she insane? Maybe there’s a tentative peace with the Grounders, but there are other dangers out there. And who knows how long the Grounders will honor the truce. Or if they all will. A lot of them dislike Clarke with a passion. She tends to have that effect on people. You either hate her or love her.

I know. Because I really hate the way her mouth keeps repeating, “I’m so sorry,” over and over. And I hate how defeated she looks. How defeated she makes me feel when she looks at me with those haunted eyes. I hate her for making me hurt this damn much.

“Clarke-”

She cuts me off, as she did the other four times I tried to talk some sense into her. “I just can’t, Bellamy. You have to understand.”

I’m trying. I really am, but panic is setting in and overriding whatever part of my brain is left for empathy. It’s selfish of me to want her to stay just for me, but I’m damn near close to begging her. The thought of her out in the forest alone scares me a lot more than losing my pride, but I bite my tongue and hold my breath.

My heart pounds in my head. I wonder how it got up there when it’s supposed to be in my chest. There’s probably no room left because I still haven’t let out that breath. She looks sadly over her shoulder at the camp. We worked so hard to get this started, I want to tell her. You can’t go now. Not yet. Not without me.

I’m ready to offer to go with her, but she catches me off guard when she leans up and kisses me softly on the cheek. It’s not my pride that keeps my mouth shut this time, but unbridled fear. Because I don’t know what that kiss means. I do know it’s not enough. The only thing keeping me from throwing her over my shoulder and dragging her back to camp is the fact that she’s carrying a knife and could carve my still-beating heart from my chest if she wanted.

That, and my unyielding respect for her. She walks away from me as I’m forced to swallow another breath, to keep pushing air in and out when it feels like the world is crushing me. She’s really doing it. And I’m letting her. And I think it might kill me, but what choice do I have?

If I told her the truth—that I needed her, that I didn’t think I could get through a day without her—would she change her mind? I almost died for her. I don’t ask, though, because it would hurt too much if she left anyway.

Maybe the next goodbye will be easier. If there is one. Because as I watch her disappear into the treeline, I vow there will never be a “next time” because I won’t let her go alone. Next time she won’t get rid of me as easily.

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