Post-Biological warfare within camp was anything but pretty. The camp was in ruins, the panic of quarantine between the ill and those who haven’t been tainted—Well, eventually ended up getting sick anyway.

Bellamy groaned at the sight, still feeling rather weak, but not as nearly as horrible compared to when his body was quite literally fighting a life-threatening virus concocted by the Grounders. Hell, if it were only up to Bellamy, he would’ve left Murphy’s sorry ass outside of the gates. Maybe then there wouldn’t have been eight or more graves to dig.

With the recovered Delinquents around the perimeter, burying the dead and tidying things up, Bellamy walks into your tent, observing you, tilting his head over so slightly as he takes in as many details as his mind will allow.

“Feeling better?” He chimes in, drawing you out of your concentrated headspace as you were folding your freshly dried set of spare clothes—Ones that were bloodied from the virus, that you managed to clean out.

“Getting there,” You breathe, taking a soft breath as you turn to face him, your eyes finding his in the dim light of the tent. Bellamy can only slightly smile in response, his hand coming up under your chin to brush the skin just briefly.

“Good,” He nods, because if he ever lost the very few things that make him feel alive, like he’s breathing, then he’d surely lose his mind. You make things feel so real. Make him feel human. Like it’s okay to want something for yourself, to accept something sweet and good in his life. To love.

“Tell me if you need anything.” Bellamy says, his voice quiet as his nose brushes against yours, his lips lowering to yours in a soft, tender kiss. “Anything,” He mumbles against your lips. “And I’ll handle it.”