Clarke can understand why Octavia is annoyed at Bellamy for forcing her to stop seeing Atom, but over two hours of complaining has her dreaming of the days when Octavia's complaints were about betrayals and kill orders. At least then it was easier to pretend to care – after everything, it's hard to view the end of a three-day relationship as something that matters.
She's fairly sure she became Octavia's confidante today due to the lack of other people. What with Atom pointedly ignoring her, Bellamy being the cause of her anger, Jasper and Monty busy fiddling with her wristband, Wells and Finn huddled over the map trying to figure out where they are... well, Octavia's kind of out of people. That Bellamy banned her from leaving the camp and Clarke just volunteered to go hunting was probably an additional incentive.
That doesn't mean Clarke's particularly happy about it. At her best guess they have maybe an hour until the first yellow fog happens, and they have to get back to camp before then – and hopefully make sure everyone else is there too. If she was out on her own, she would have already caught something. Octavia's chattering has kept all the animals away from them until right now.
Apparently, this deer likes tales about overprotective brothers.
Clarke's just lining up her throw when a noise surprises her. Her knife hits a tree only two feet away from her target, the deer startles and flees, and she curses.
Clarke's wristband drops to the ground. She stares at it for a second, then strides to the tree and pulls her knife out.
"I guess they didn't manage to make my wristband work as a radio," Octavia says, eyeing Clarke and not looking particularly concerned. "I'm sorry."
Clarke shrugs. "We knew it was a long shot. We'll come up with something else." It doesn't really matter, after all. In a week Raven will be here, and Clarke can get to the radio before Bellamy this time.
What does matter is that she's lost the deer.
No, scratch that. She's being negative.
What matters is she still has her people. What matters is that Wells is still alive and spends all his time with her or Finn, so she thinks he'll stay that way – surely Charlotte won't kill him with people around. That Jasper doesn't have a scar and PTSD. That yesterday when she brought back her kills, Bellamy gave her a smile and a compliment, giving her hope that someday they can find their partnership again. What does matter is that Octavia is here with her, wanting to talk to her and spend time with her, even if it's annoying. That Raven will be here soon and there won't be any Finn between them to taint their friendship. That's what matters.
She's getting them all back, all of her people (nearly all her people. All but one). In the original world, when's the last time she had a good moment with one of them? With no arguing and hurt feelings? She can't remember.
Clarke looks at her unbloodied knife and sighs. "Now we have to find something else to hunt." She holds it out to Octavia. "You should take this."
"What?" Octavia automatically takes the knife, then stares at it, frozen. "I don't know what to do."
Clarke almost laughs, it's such a contrast to what she knows about Octavia. About who Octavia will be. "There's no real trick to it. I have another knife. This way, next time we find something, we can both throw. Double the chance. I was going to give it to you for the deer, but I forgot."
After a short pause, Octavia tightens her loose grip on knife. She passes it from one hand to the other. Her soft face hardens, eyes narrowing, growing intent and purposeful.
Now she looks like Clarke's Octavia. Less butterflies, more blades.
"You should practice," Clarke suggests.
Octavia throws it against the tree and it sticks. A grin splits her face and she retrieves it. A few more throws and she's already hitting around the same area every try. Clarke marvels at it. Indra wasn't wrong when she said Octavia is a natural.
Clarke can't help but think of Lexa, so carelessly deadly with her blades. In battle Lexa always moved like a dancer, a gracefulness in her movements that Octavia's untrained savagery barely mimics. Someday she might have the effortless poise and tension in her body that Lexa has, but that day is far off.
What if she never sees Lexa fight again? What if she never sees Lexa again?
No. Even if it works out, even if she saves everyone and the Ark's higher-ups are the ones to deal with Lexa once they come down, Clarke will bullshit her way into at least one meeting. She will stand there and she will let her gaze trace Lexa's face, tangle in her hair, become lost in her fierce eyes. She'll see Lexa alive and flushed and proud and perfect. Clarke promises herself this one indulgence, after all of the effort and sacrifice she's put in for her people and will put in again: she will see Lexa one more time. Breathing. Beautiful.
"I bet I can hit that high branch there," Octavia says, eyes narrowing even further at the challenge, tilting her head up.
Before Clarke can suggest they go hunt actual food, Octavia throws the dagger hard.
It misses the branch. It flies through the air. And there is a deep groan of pain.
Clarke and Octavia glance at each other for a horrified moment, and then scramble in the direction she threw the knife. There's a thud as a large body hits the ground, fallen from a tree.
It's a man, tall and muscled but currently curled up into himself on the ground. He's bleeding copiously from the knife in his thigh, his pants already soaked, the blood beginning to pool on the ground. As they reach him, he manages to raise his head and look at them.
Clarke only just manages to stop herself from saying his name.
Lincoln.
Octavia's already reaching for him. "Clarke, oh shit, he's not one of us," she gasps. "There are people here. There are people here! On the ground! He's a Grounder! And I stabbed him!" Her breath comes in shocked pants. She reaches for and pulls out the knife before either Lincoln or Clarke can stop her.
She's trying to help. She doesn't realise she just made this much worse.
Clarke yanks off her top outer layer and forces it into Octavia's hands, snaps "Put pressure on the wound!" at her, and grabs for Lincoln's bag. He's already losing consciousness, she can see.
"Clarke, what are you doing?" Octavia nearly screams, pushing down hard on Lincoln's leg. Her hands are bright red, the cloth soaking through. "This is not the time to be going through his stuff! Help me!"
The bleeding seems to be slowing a bit already, thankfully, so Clarke allows herself to hope that they haven't hit an artery.
Clarke ignores her friend and finds what she was looking for, unscrewing the pot. She scoops out some of the greenish-grey mixture and pushes it into Lincoln's mouth, then dribbles some of her water there as well so he swallows it. Then she continues pulling through his bag and finds the other vial she was looking for, giving it a sniff to make sure. She takes the cloth off a shocked Octavia and pours a hefty amount on the wound.
Clarke only knows basic Trikru medicine. It will have to be enough.
The needle is sharp, though she's pretty sure the thread is made of some kind of animal intestines. "Hold the wound shut as best as you can," she snaps at Octavia.
It looks like the knife hit at an angle, creating a slice nearly as much as a stab wound. They're extremely lucky that's the case – it could have been much deeper. If it had been a direct hit, Octavia removing the knife might well have been a death sentence.
Clarke sews neatly and methodically. Lincoln has passed out cold, between the blood loss and the painkiller she gave him. She hopes she didn't use too much.
Clarke doesn't know how long it takes to sew the wound and bandage it, but when she's done both she and Octavia are covered in sweat, blood and grime. She thinks he'll be fine, though. Octavia still looks stunned.
"What the hell... how did you know where those were?"
"I was looking for anything we could use to bandage it," Clarke lies. "We were just lucky he turned out to have medicine." Fingers crossed she hasn't given him any of the poisons accidentally.
"He's a Grounder. Shit, Clarke, he's a Grounder!" Octavia is dazed. She peers at his face. "He looks just like us. I mean, except hotter."
"Speak for yourself," Clarke says, giving Octavia a sly grin. It's probably the adrenaline, but at the same time they both start laughing.
Clarke's laughter abruptly cuts off when she looks at the sky, checking the time. The sun's further than she thought. They don't have time to get back to the drop ship. She casts around for places near here.
The bunker is closest. The thought makes her shudder.
"We need to go," she says sharply. "Help me carry him." They both take one of his arms and put it around their shoulders, still staggering under the weight of all that muscle.
"Uh, Clarke, I'm pretty sure that the camp's the other way," Octavia says doubtfully.
Clarke grunts with the effort of pulling Lincoln along, praying that she has enough time. She can't stand the thought of leaving Lincoln to die in the acid fog while they run for safety. "You haven't been out here much. Trust me, this is the fastest path."
It's a bald-faced lie. She's been saying a lot of those lately.
"Maybe we should go back and get some people. This guy is heavy, Clarke," Octavia says after a while.
Clarke's back and legs ache with all the unfamiliar activity. But they're only steps away. "Hey, look," she says, pretending to be surprised, raising one heavy arm to point at the top of the bunker. A few more steps towards it and she thankfully lets Lincoln go. Octavia, surprised by the sudden extra weight, lets him slide to the ground.
"Not really the time to check things out, Clarke," Octavia huffs as Clarke opens the bunker. "I mean, it's cool and all, but we can have a look later. Not now." She glances meaningfully at Lincoln. Blood is starting to seep through his bandages again – they really should not be moving him. Even less should they do what Clarke's about to do.
Agonised screams slice through the air. The deer from earlier races through in absolute terror, foaming at the mouth in fright. Acid fog begins to appear at the edge of the trees. Octavia gasps, eyes widening.
"Or now," Clarke says frantically. She rolls Lincoln over, says "sorry" with feeling, and pushes him down the hole.
Recommended treatment for stab wounds rarely involves a sheer drop.
She pushes Octavia to start climbing down the ladder then follows, slamming the door shut as soon as she can. Several wisps of fog follow her and settle on her hand and she whimpers as blisters form. Octavia swears when Clarke steps on her hand but keeps climbing down.
And then it's just them, the darkness, Octavia's panting breaths, and Lincoln's groans. He's already split his stitches, unsurprisingly.
Clarke lets herself lean against the wall for a second, regaining her strength. Then she straightens and reaches for Lincoln's bag again.
This is not where she thought this day would go.
>>> Author's note: I've chosen to have Wells and Finn strike up a friendship in this fic, if you're wondering why they're spending time looking at the map together at the start. Mainly because in the books they're actually the same character (the 100 decided to make Wells black, then kill him off and replace him with a white guy. Because WHY NOT.) But they do also share a lot of the same views and an instinctive ability to understand each other (such as Finn knowing Wells didn't turn in Clarke's father), and without Clarke showing interest in either of them, I think they wouldn't have much to fight about.