[ Somehow, Bellamy needs to find focus. He tells himself that even as Lexa's unease claws at his own feeble attempts at composure and tilts everything sideways. Her distress compounds Bellamy's distress. (She will not forgive.) The throne room in Polis is awash in grief, the shock of Gina's death and the adrenaline of battle and Clarke with blood on her skin and her hand shaking in his and Ontari's black blood pooling across the floor. Nothing good is attached to that setting, and Lexa's memory of children's upturned faces is jarring for him to process.
He sniffs hard, tastes blood in the back of his throat. Murphy's not waiting for them. Bellamy's ringing ears and wash of unsettling memories can't hold them up. He doesn't have any kind of verbal comfort for Lexa, but he presses down on her fingers in silent apology and plea even as their minds tangle, overlapping. He can't disengage. Every time her thoughts spin one way, Bellamy's mirror it with memories of his own. It's going to make this a difficult journey. ]
Stop where? Why?
[ It's subspace. Bellamy's understanding of it was that the mess of blood on his face wouldn't be all that worthy of commentary. Or he just has a skewed perception of how used to visible wounds people would be. They're moving briskly down the sidewalk, but he's still turning heads, even if he's still too wrapped up in his own to pay attention to it. ]
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He sniffs hard, tastes blood in the back of his throat. Murphy's not waiting for them. Bellamy's ringing ears and wash of unsettling memories can't hold them up. He doesn't have any kind of verbal comfort for Lexa, but he presses down on her fingers in silent apology and plea even as their minds tangle, overlapping. He can't disengage. Every time her thoughts spin one way, Bellamy's mirror it with memories of his own. It's going to make this a difficult journey. ]
Stop where? Why?
[ It's subspace. Bellamy's understanding of it was that the mess of blood on his face wouldn't be all that worthy of commentary. Or he just has a skewed perception of how used to visible wounds people would be. They're moving briskly down the sidewalk, but he's still turning heads, even if he's still too wrapped up in his own to pay attention to it. ]