Chapter Text
Never in a million years did she think that needing another packet of birth control pills would flip the universe on its head.
The CVS is stuffed with people, a chaos of coats and indistinct chatter. Outside, the snow is falling from the blackened sky like powdered sugar while her roommate is scowling, her arms crossed over her chest. Knowing how Raven copes with post-exam stress, it’s easy to figure that she’d rather be at home, stuffing her face with leftover pepperoni pizza. But she came along anyway, and — as it turns out — Clarke needs her now more than ever.
She’s hallucinating, that’s the only explanation. The weeks of minimal sleep are causing her brain to melt. Why else would the man at the front of the line have his hair? Those soft, dark curls that she spent years running her fingers through.
Digging her teeth into her bottom lip, she can still remember how it felt.
Without a word, Raven interlaces their fingers, anchoring her to the present moment, and Clarke manages a grateful smile. But just as her heart begins to slow, the man at the front turns. Her heart doesn’t stand a fucking chance; it shatters, flies apart in a million pieces.
She doesn’t hear her own cry, though everyone else does. Including him.
As he stands there, frozen in place, the store falls silent; it’s the kind of quiet that could swallow one whole — until it’s broken by the light thump of a bag being dropped to the floor; he starts towards her, his first step taken as though he fears the ground will dissolve beneath his feet. Then his full lips part, most likely to form her name, but no sound emerges.
He tries again, and this time it almost works, “Clar—” yet it’s cut off by the roaring echo of his own shoes as he crosses the store in seconds, crashing into her. Right when his body hits hers, there’s a forceful blow to her chest which knocks the air from her lungs, but then his arms wrap around her waist, and… the warmth; it seeps into her, pulls a broken sob from her throat.
This can’t be real.
Yet somehow, it still is.
The memories that she’s been trying so hard to drown over the years come flooding back, bleeding through every thick layer of denial: Lights flashing blue and red, sunlight dripping onto the sheets, laughter bouncing off the walls.
Her best friend.
“Bellamy,” she gasps, choking on another sob. Thinking she might break, she buries her nose in his shoulder, breathes in his scent, but there is no hint of spice or lemongrass soap. Whimpering, she brushes her fingertips through the hair at the back of his neck, aware that she’s crying in the middle of a crowded CVS but unable to care.
Clarke tugs him closer, though it’s barely possible, feels his ragged breath against her cheek. Then he draws back, just enough to look at her, his earthy eyes glistening with tears. As her heart quivers in her ribcage, she reaches out to cup his face and is surprised when she feels the coarse stubble prickle her fingertips.
“When did you get out?” for some reason, she hasn’t regained her breath.
A shadow drifts across his face just before he averts his gaze to look at the floor. “It’s been fifty-three days.”
Fifty-three days. Six fucking years.
Who’s counting?
After he’s said it, he tries to step away, slip out of her grasp, but he freezes when she starts to caress his cheekbone, her thumb memorizing the stars along it.
“I’m sorry,” she stammers at his reaction, pulling her hand away. His lower lip wobbles for a second until he takes it between his teeth.
While she’s searching her mind for something, anything to say, he turns away and walks back to the register to retrieve the plastic bag that he dropped. Just as Bellamy grabs the handle, the cashier behind him shouts something to a coworker, and his body jolts, causing him to drop the bag again. Clarke sees him squeeze his eyes shut as he moves to pick it up again, his hand trembling.
When he finally comes back, he’s still shaking. Even though she wants to reach for his hands, Clarke’s not sure it’s the right thing to do.
Glancing at her, Raven seems to sense the unspoken words hanging in the air. “If you want to go outside and talk, I can get the pills for you.”
“Thank you, Rae.” Turning to Bellamy, she asks, trying not to sound pitiful, “Do you need some air?”
He nods, his eyes glassy. Side-by-side, they walk out of the CVS and straight into frosty arms of the night. Leaning against the brick wall, Bellamy takes a ragged breath; when he exhales it, the cloud of air from his lungs glimmers in the silvery glow of the street lamps.
It takes him a full minute to look at her, and even then his gaze is fleeting. “You mind if I smoke?”
Smoke? He never…
Forcing a smile, Clarke shakes her head. While he pulls the packet out of his pocket, she rocks a little on her feet and tries not to stare at him, but it’s impossible when he fumbles with the lighter, his hands still jittery. She watches him struggle for a moment longer than she really wants to, feels the hurt that cuts into her heart like a knife; unable to stand it, she closes her hand around his wrist to steady him.
He gazes at her as he lights the cigarette, his eyes wide and gentle.
His Adam’s apple bobs. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
Don’t come visit me again, his voice echoes through her mind, the remains of a suppressed memory. I don’t want you to see me like this.
This time, Clarke knows how to respond, “Better to see you like this than to never see you again,” because she’s played it over in her head a thousand times, what she should’ve said instead of walking away. Bellamy’s jaw slackens, though he tries to hide it by blowing the smoke skyward.
“Where are you sleeping tonight?”
“On Murphy’s rotten couch,” he replies, stubbing the cigarette out against the brick wall and putting the bud in his pocket.
Along her sides, her hands clench into fists. “No...”
“It’s a lot better than what I’m used to. I promise, Clarke.” At first, all that she can focus on is that this is the first time he has uttered her name in nearly six years. Then she shakes herself out of the momentary fluster to grab the sleeve of his coat, desperate for him to look at her.
His eyes are longful once they finally settle on hers, as if he’s staring at a dream.
“I meant,” is how she starts, struggling to keep her voice forceful. “You’re not sleeping at Murphy’s tonight. I don’t want you to. Please.”
The heavy bags underneath his eyes and the tension in his shoulders are the lasting stain of sleepless nights. More than anything, she needs him to be somewhere warm, somewhere comfortable, and ‘Murphy’s rotten couch’ — despite what he might try to argue — doesn’t sound any less shitty than a stone cold bunk bed.
“You can see where I live now, how terribly messy my room still is…” as she trails off, tears spill from her eyes to roll down her cold cheeks. Feeling desperation tear at her heartstrings, Clarke lets her hand slip into his, runs her thumb along the back of it. Although his skin is as warm as she remembers, it’s rougher, calloused, bearing signs of hardship.
Bellamy jolts a little at the touch, but unlike the first time he doesn’t freeze. Instead, his eyes flutter shut.
Since her apartment is indisputably homier than Murphy’s, it’s the place where Bellamy deserves to sleep, but he doesn’t seem to think so. As soon as they’ve stepped over the threshold, his eyes widen. “Clarke, this is too nice, I can’t—”
“Please.” Of course, she’s aware of how pathetic she sounds, but she doesn’t know what else to do. She’s missed him for too long, and if he leaves now it’ll break her. “Don’t you want to stay with me?”
Without saying a word to disrupt their conversation, Raven passes them to walk into the kitchen. Seconds later, she reappears carrying the family-sized box of pizza, only to take it to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. Now that they’re alone in the slim hallway, Bellamy glances at Clarke just long enough for her to notice that his eyes have been softened by the few tears that cling to them.
“Of course I want to stay with you,” he chokes out, but before she can think of how to respond, he asks, “Where’s your bathroom?”
Resisting the desire to follow him straight to the door, she simply points at it. While he’s in there, she busies herself by changing her clothes and lighting a few candles, just to build a cozy atmosphere in the room. Still, the sound of him retching reaches her ears, breaks the calm. Her heart shivers at it.
A couple minutes later, he finds her. Even though he isn’t looking directly at her, she still notices that some of the color has seeped from his face and his eyes are clouded, stripped of their warmth. “I’m sorry, the medicine I’m taking—”
“Bellamy, don’t apologize. Come on.” After a second of hesitation, she grabs his hand, intending to pull him into her room, but he hugs her before she can do so, all but throws his arms around her. To her sheer relief, his skin doesn’t feel cold or clammy. When he presses his face into the crook of her neck, familiarity strikes her heart like a beam of light, and she hopes that he senses it, too.
At least the tremors in his body die out.
“You wanna see my room?” she whispers, drawing random patterns on the back of his neck with her fingertips.
A beat. Then he draws back slightly, but Clarke recognizes the soft longing that paints his eyes, so she pulls him in again. He whimpers, causing her to tighten her embrace. How long has it been since anyone hugged him? As his tears soak the skin of her shoulder, she buries her hand in his hair, runs her fingers through it exactly how she used to, because it always soothed him. Now, it just makes him cry harder.
“Bell—”
At the sound of his nickname, he lets go of her, tries to calm his breathing as his eyes dart around her bedroom. “This is so you.”
You. Somehow she knows exactly what this imaginary adjective implies. But just in case she didn’t, Bellamy steps away to let his fingertips dance across the water lilies that she’s painted next to the window sill. Afterwards, he looks at the succulent on her nightstand, the midnight blue bedspread, the graffiti art that covers the largest wall.
A sunset that painted the sky the with the colors of amethysts and buttercups.
“Clarke…”
With careful steps, she walks closer. “Do you remember it?”
At that question, Bellamy turns around, and to her utter amazement a tiny smile has adorned his lips. She wants to capture this moment, grab her sketchpad and etch the curve of his mouth onto it until her hands are covered in charcoal bruises. “Of course I do. You were so—I couldn’t help myself.”
They were fifteen, sitting on the rooftop to watch the glorious sunset. Their stomachs were full of her dad’s delicious Labor Day barbecue and the S’Mores that they’d roasted over the fire pit. That’s when he kissed her for the first time.
She still remembers how deep it was, even though he didn’t try to shove his tongue down her throat. It caused warmth to make a home out of her body, and blood rushed to her cheeks as she tasted the dark chocolate on his breath.
Everything was a lot simpler then.
Unwilling to dwell on the past, Clarke asks if he’s hungry. Given that he just threw up, he probably is, but she can tell that he wants to say no, just to stop her from offering him a meal. The fact that he does end up saying yes tells her that he must be starving. Because of this, she piles his plate high with homemade Mac’N’Cheese, fried mushrooms and broccoli — their old favorites.
Bellamy looks a bit overwhelmed when she brings it to him, his eyes wide, but as soon as she sits down next to him on the bed with her own plate, he eats the first forkful. As he chews, his eyelids flutter. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is amazing.”
Heat rising to her cheeks, she’s just about to say that it’s just some pretty generic Mac’N’Cheese, but considering that he hasn’t had a real home-cooked meal in six years it probably tastes nothing short of heavenly. Instead of commenting on it, she offers him a warm smile; he’s just too immersed in eating to notice. His dark eyes capture some bright stars and there’s an easy smile on his face, which makes him look much younger.
“I, uh,” he swallows, places the empty plate on her nightstand. “I’m—I want you to know that you don’t have to worry about me. I’m going to therapy.”
“That’s great, Bell. But I’m always gonna worry about you. I didn’t stop just because—”
“—I killed a man.”
Him stating his crime so matter-of-factly reveals that he must’ve had to admit it to himself countless times over the last six years, but nothing can make these words sound normal. No amount of practice. Because of this, darkness lingers at the edges of his voice, and Clarke bites her lower lip when he lowers his gaze.
“You didn’t kill a man,” she says, placing her hand on top of his, but he pulls it away as if she’d burned him. “You killed a monster.”
“And I lost six years of my life!” he barks, his hands trembling. “It was a terrible mistake, I—” In the matter of a second, she notices his entire body tense up, his eyes dart, and she starts to caress his shoulder, recognizing the panic attack before it’s fully seized him.
“Hey, I know. Just breathe. Nice and easy, okay?”
Gently, she presses her hand against his freckled cheek. When he leans into the touch, she moves her fingers to his temple, where they play with a loose curl. “You remember the Blue Raspberry suckers we used to eat as kids? I thought they were discontinued, but I found some last week.”
“Yeah?”
Reaching her hand out, she opens the drawer in her nightstand and pulls out the last bright blue lollipop. When she twirls it in front of him, his eyes light up despite the fact that he’s still trying to control his breathing. “In case you’re wondering, I bought fifteen and ate all of them but this one.”
“I—” his smile wobbles a bit, yet it persists. “I don’t remember what they taste like.”
That’s how they end up spending the rest of the evening in her bed, Clarke flipping through her sketchbooks and Bellamy smiling, the Blue Raspberry lollipop stuck between his teeth. Usually, she would try to draw something, but he’s too distracting now that the nostalgia softens his features. As if she’d planned it, the next drawing that she sees is one of them: two happy kids, swinging side-by-side on a sunny afternoon. When your best friend is locked up and ripped from the real world, discerning the blissful memories from imagination becomes difficult.
That’s why she’s tempted to reach out and touch him every few seconds, to make certain that he’s not the projection of a pointless dream.
Looking at the stick of the lollipop as if fascinated by it, Bellamy says, “So, where am I gonna sleep? The couch seems nice.”
The one that Raven stole from her ex-boyfriend’s basement after he cheated on her. As if.
“Forget it. You’re not sleeping on any more couches. I have a big bed.”
For a few long moments he looks at her, his brow furrowed in confusion as though he would’ve never expected her to say that. “But Clarke, I can—”
“Nope.”
To her relief, he knows that she won’t yield. Once they’ve both changed into their sleepwear and have crawled beneath the comforter, Clarke chooses to keep some distance in case the sudden closeness is overwhelming for him. At first, Bellamy has his back towards her, curled up in a fetal position, but after a while he begins to shift, stretching his legs out as his muscles slowly lose the tension. When her hand grazes his broad shoulder to feel it relax, he flips around to face her.
“Will you—can we...?” he tries, his voice weak.
Knowing what he’s struggling to say, Clarke wraps her arms around him and moves closer until their legs entangle. “Is this what you need?” she murmurs against his temple, playing idly with his hair. Bellamy hums against her neck, which sends light vibrations through her body.
Like they were made to fit like this, they curl up next to each other and drift off to sleep.
Bellamy isn’t the only one who committed a crime.
Two weeks after his arrest, sleep was but a realm of nightmares for her. The second she’d close her eyes, she’d see bruises on his cheeks, blood on his lips, terror in his eyes, and the quiet in her bedroom would be broken by the cacophony of metal bars slamming shut and the rough voices of people roaring like caged animals.
One night, after tossing and turning for what felt like an eternity, she slipped out of the window and ran with no aim, or so she thought, until her feet brought her to a halt at the back of Aurora Blake’s bungalow. When she saw that the window to his bedroom was open just a couple inches, she put her knowledge to good use: At seven, Bellamy taught her how to slip her hand in and unlatch the lock.
She crawled in. Broke in, technically.
Immediately, the wind was knocked from her lungs, because everything in here still echoed with him; his mom hadn’t changed the bedsheets, so she lay on them, rested her cheek against his pillowcase as silent tears streamed down her face, making it feel numb. Then she got up just to slide his closet open, her fingers dancing along the fabric. Every time she found his favorite items, she tore them off the hangers, pulled them off the shelves.
She left, holding the pile of stolen clothes, because they still smelled like him; nothing else mattered.
That night, she was an uncaught burglar, and he was her love lost.
Chapter 2
Notes:
hi everyone :) i'm so thrilled by the amazing response on the first chapter. your excitement makes me so very happy! <3
Chapter Text
As the first weak beams of the ruby sun peek through the curtains, Clarke wakes only to realize that it wasn’t the light that roused her, but the absence of Bellamy. Touching the sheets next to her, she finds them radiating his warmth and frowns. Where the hell did he go? Oh no.
In a heartbeat, about a million panicky thoughts squeeze themselves into her brain. He could’ve had a panic attack in the middle of the night and wandered off in the freezing cold weather; he could’ve thrown up again and fainted in bathroom, he—
Just then, the mattress shifts, causing her head to snap up. Then, her eyes fall on him: he’s at the end of the bed, sitting cross-legged next to Athena, her beautiful yet reserved cat. Her jaw slacks when she finally registers that the feline is purring, budding her black forehead against Bellamy’s hand as he scratches her ear.
“I see that you’ve met the head of the household,” Clarke says, sitting up straight to get a better look. At the sound of her voice, Bellamy looks over his shoulder for a moment, and though the bags under his eyes have lifted, his shoulders still seem to carry tension.
“Why’d you move? You didn’t have to do that.”
A couple seconds pass before he mutters, “Didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”
“Why would I be— Oh. ” When she realizes what’s going on, Clarke turns away, feeling her face flush with heat, her cheeks turn hot and blotchy.
“Oh,” he echoes cooly, the corner of his mouth twitching. Then Athena presses a paw to his knee, demanding that he go back to petting her, which he does, shifting away from Clarke again. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t—”
It’s only been a few hours since they reunited, but she has already decided that she doesn’t like this new habit that he’s made out of apologizing for everything. Annoyance surging in her chest, she says, “You remember we’ve had sex, right? Tell me why I’d be repulsed by your morning boner. Please, I’d love to hear it.”
If the way his brow furrows is any indication, the idea that she wouldn’t find it repulsive is baffling to him..
“We had sex once. Six years ago, before I was a murderer,” he points out. Still, Clarke only rolls her eyes at him, surprising even herself. Last night, she would’ve never dreamed of doing it, but he’s being ridiculous.
“If you think I look at you and see a murderer, you’re…” Usually, her chosen adjective would be ‘delusional’, but that seems too insensitive considering he was just released from prison. “... Wrong. Terribly wrong. Astronomically wrong—” When he arches his eyebrow at her, she cuts to the chase with a sigh, “I look at you, and I see my best friend. My person.”
At six years old, Clarke broke her wrist while playing soccer with the neighborhood boys, so Bellamy offered her his pink Starburst and ran to get help. Four years later when her favorite teddy bear was ripped apart he brought it to his mom, begging her to sow it back together. In seventh grade, she got her first period in the middle of an English class, and Bellamy cursed out all the boys who did as much as snicker at her, which resulted in him being sent to the principal’s office.
From the very beginning, he has been her person. He went away, but some things never change — just like how she longs to hold him as she’s always done.
Gazing at her, Bellamy worries his lower lip. “You still take your coffee the same way? I can make some for you, if you want.”
“Right now, I want you to crawl back under the sheets with me. Get some rest. We can drink coffee later.”
While he gives in to her request, moving up the bed to sink beneath the comforter again, his eyes don’t leave hers. She recalls how much they wandered yesterday, as though everything about being in her presence made him anxious. At least he’s no longer flinching away from her, but his muscles are oddly stiff and he keeps more distance between them than there was when they went to sleep last night.
But that’s most likely because he’s still hard.
“If you felt so guilty about this, why didn’t you just… fix it?”
Bellamy releases a low groan. “You have no idea how tedious masturbation becomes when it’s your only option.” His freckled cheeks flush a little before he continues, “Also, you don’t exactly have the right to privacy when you’re locked up, so after a while you just realize it’s not worth the struggle, you know?”
Clarke smirks, hoping that it will cheer him up, if only a bit. “Well, if you don’t wanna do it yourself, I could—”
Immediately, Bellamy’s eyes widen. “No, I’ll deal with it. Can I take a shower?”
Deal with it. Is that really how he views pleasure now?
She wishes she could pretend to be shocked but she knows him better than that. Since he was a kid, he’s always resorted to self-loathing and punishment whenever things went wrong. Distinctly, she remembers him refusing his favorite ice cream on a night where he picked a fight with his mom about her dreadful work hours — and he was only eight at the time.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
When he practically flees from the bed, she pretends that she doesn’t feel her heart clench. While he’s showering, she whips up some breakfast: Omelets with green onions, cheddar, orange bell peppers and diced bacon. He seemed surprised at her cooking skills yesterday, which isn’t weird considering that she could barely boil an egg as a teenager, and she’s eager to see his reaction for this.
The way he takes his coffee is easy to remember: Standard black (‘no bullshit’ is what he called it). Clarke always preferred hers with a splash of milk. As she’s pouring the coffee, Raven walks into the kitchen wearing her favorite NASA sleepshirt, and eyes the two plates of breakfast.
“I’m guessing the second one isn’t for me.”
Shit. “Sorry, Rae. I can—” But before she can finish the sentence, her roommate holds out a hand to silence her, shaking her head in understanding.
“I get it. We have a VIP in the house who, by the way, is gonna use up all the hot water if he doesn’t come out soon.”
As if summoned by Raven’s mild irritation, Bellamy appears in the kitchen doorway, trying to comb his damp hair with his fingers. Although her roommate doesn’t say anything to him, she offers him a sly smirk, glancing at the omelet that Clarke prepared for him. Then she heads for the bathroom.
At first, there’s an awkward amount of space between them, since he hasn’t moved from the doorway, but then he speaks, breaking the barrier, “You made me breakfast?”
“A Griffin speciality. My dad taught me how to make it a couple years ago when he decided that having me in the kitchen was no longer a fire hazard.” To her disappointment, her self-deprecating joke doesn’t draw a laugh out of him, though it tugs his lips into a genuine smile that lasts a couple seconds until the shadows fall on his expression again.
“How is your dad? And your mom?” There is a specific kind of soft longing in the words, and her first instinct is to say ‘they’ve missed you’, which wouldn’t be untrue, but at the same time she fears that it’ll make him sad. In a way, he spent more time with them than his own mom, since she was forced to work abominable hours at the Emerson steel factory to provide her children.
“Eat,” she says, pushing the plate to him. “I’ll give you an update.”
Even though he raises an eyebrow at her, he doesn’t fight her on it. They sit at the dinner table together, and once he’s taken the first bite of the omelet she starts telling him about her mother’s new assistant Eric Jackson as well as her dad’s plans to retire early to pursue his passion for art. He listens without commenting, his attention devoted to the food on his plate, but when she stops talking he pokes at the last few pieces with his fork, his lips drawn between his teeth.
Oh no.
Feeling her heart quiver, she moves her hand closer to his, so that their fingertips are just an inch apart and doesn’t push further. Bellamy, however, lets his thumb brush across hers before drawing back.
“I think they’d want to know you’ve been released,” she says as he digs his hand into his pocket. When he pulls it back out, there’s a green and white pill in his palm, which he swallows quickly, wincing as it goes down.
Clarke knows enough about pharmaceuticals to recognize the pill as Prozac, and while it doesn’t surprise her it causes her heart sink to the bottom of her chest.
Only a few seconds of heavy silence pass before she breaks it. “Do you have anything planned today?”
It delays his response, but Clarke’s relieved when he finishes his breakfast. “I was thinking about seeing Miller. He was the first person I called after I was released, and he offered me a job at Second Dawn , but as much as I need the money I don’t—trust myself around alcohol at the moment.”
Clarke doesn’t want to dwell on that statement. Instead, she offers him a supportive smile. “Luna’s hiring at the plant nursery. She’s Raven’s girlfriend.”
“But she doesn’t know me. Are you sure she’d be comfortable—”
“That woman can work with anyone, trust me. Just please consider it, you don’t have to make a decision right away.” Though, if his choice stands between a crowded, rowdy nightclub and a chill shop full of plants Clarke can guess what will be more compelling to him.
“I’ve been without a paycheck for almost two months. I can’t keep living like this.” Running his hands idly through his hair, he explains that he’s been using the money he started saving up while working his first job at the diner at age sixteen. Back then, a huge chunk of his salary went straight to his mom, but she let him keep his tips. Now, that’s all he has to pay his expenses, including the outrageous prices for his meds and his therapy sessions.
“The psychiatrist doesn’t think I’m fit to work, but what the fuck does she want me to do? Go bankrupt? Live off the few friends I have left and stay at home like a hermit?”
Although Clarke was planning on spending the rest of the morning finishing a painting that’s been three months in the making, she says, “I have a shift at the ER later, but I can come with you to the plant nursery and help you with the application if…”
The proud smile that graces his lips causes her to trail off.
“You’re an ER doctor?”
“Not yet. I’m a third-year student. We, um, just go on rotations at the local clinics,” as she speaks, his eyes become brighter and his smile grows, sending warmth to her cheeks. At the sight, her heart flutters; it’s filled to the brim with radiant light, because this is the smile she remembers: the boyish grin that leaves sparks in his eyes. Last night, she thought it had been lost forever.
This moment proves that it’s not fully gone, and yet it doesn’t last longer than a second, as it falters. “You don’t have to come with me. It’s fine.”
“Do you still drive? Because it’s quite a walk.”
“I can walk. I need the exercise,” is his excuse, but when she arches her eyebrow at him, he sighs, “I don’t like cars that much anymore, okay? Just...”
Clarke nods in understanding, offering to go with him nonetheless. “We don’t have to talk or anything. We can just listen to music.”
When Bellamy manages a small, soft smile she knows that he’s sold, then his head quirks up. “That reminds me, I still have your old music player. If you want it back.”
Oh, she forgot about that. On her last visit to the prison, she brought him her Ipod, an azure one that was really expensive in 2013 but is way outdated now. She put all their favorite songs on it, in case the silence ever became too loud — too much for him to handle. “Nah, you can keep it.”
When the corners of his mouth curve upwards again, she notes that it’s the fourth time he’s smiled since he woke up. “Thanks. I’ve grown a little attached to it.”
At his words, Clarke has to bite back the sudden urge to kiss his cheek.
We've both got a million bad habits to kick
Not sleeping is one
We're biting our nails; you're biting my lip.
I’m biting my tongue.
The thin layer of snow coating the pavement crunches under their boots. Every once in a while, a driver defies the downtown speed limit, causing Bellamy to freeze for the fraction of a second, but when her hand slips into his, their fingers interlacing, he seems to relax. Something about walking next to him, sharing headphones and holding his hand has a sweet memory bubbling to the surface of her mind:
(“Will you marry me, Princess?” he said, a playful grin dominating his freckled face.
“Shut the fuck up.” Laughing, she pushed at his shoulders while she took the watermelon-flavored Ring Pop from his hand.)
Desperate to soothe herself as the tears threaten to break through her eyes, Clarke caresses the top of his hand with her thumb. When he senses it, he halts, and immediate dread creeps into her chest, but then he turns to lean his forehead against her temple. Her breath stumbles a bit in surprise. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For coming with me.”
The words are soaked in soft sincerity.
Of course he didn’t want to be alone.
He’s just grown so damn used to it, behind metal bars and concrete walls. The brutal isolation has ended now, but she reckons that it hasn’t let go of him, that he can still feel the heavy chains; though they’re not there anymore, they keep holding him down.
The plant nursery is well-situated at the outskirts of town, tucked away from rumbling cars and bustling people. After looking around for a couple minutes, they find Luna tending to some Christmas roses near the back of the largest greenhouse. When she turns around to face them, Clarke sees Bellamy swallow hard.
“Clarke!” the woman exclaims as she approaches them. “What can I do for you? Did you kill another succulent?”
Brushing the teasing comment off with a chuckle, Clarke glances at Bellamy and gives him a discreet nudge with her elbow. To her relief, he starts talking right away, “Actually, we’re here because of me. I heard you were hiring, and I’d—I’d like to apply.”
Smiling, Luna takes her right gardening glove off to shake his hand. “And what’s your name?”
He swallows thickly. “Bellamy Blake,” then releases her hand as though he expects her to flinch away. But she doesn’t; instead, she offers him a smile.
“Oh, so you’re Bellamy. Welcome back,” she says, her hazel eyes glinting at Clarke.
But the easy atmosphere only lasts a moment, because he asks, cautious, “How much do you know about me?”
Aside from Raven, none of the friends that Clarke made after high school know the full story of she and Bellamy’s relationship. For the most part, she was unable to talk about it, but she also wanted to make sure that when he was released he’d be able to make his own first impression on these people. She didn’t want them to assume anything based off a poorly recited horror story.
And that’s why Luna says, “Not a lot. Just that you left town. Where were you?”
Bellamy chokes on thin air, causing Clarke to feel terrible for not preparing him. Nevertheless, when he replies, he sounds surprisingly calm, “... In prison.”
Naturally, a few seconds pass before Luna manages to respond, “Oh, can I ask what you were charged with?”
When panic clutches at Clarke’s chest, she opens her mouth to protest, but Bellamy — sensing what she’s about to do — interjects quickly, his voice rough and raised, “Voluntary manslaughter. Clarke, don’t. She deserves to know what I am.”
What I am. Those words tremble as they fall off his lips, leave her stunned.
Upon recovering from the impact, all that Clarke can say is, “Why you did it matters.”
“But it doesn’t change anything. I’m still a killer.”
For the first time in a while, Luna chooses to speak up, “I agree with Bellamy,” she states, pulling the rug from beneath Clarke’s feet. Before she can start to scream, however, the gardener adds, “But I’m sure that Griffin would’ve kicked your ass to the curb if the person you killed hadn’t done anything to deserve it. You’re a killer, sure, but I’m willing to give you a chance.”
Bellamy blinks, his jaw slackening, and it takes him several long moments to form a reply, “Thank you, I— thank you, Luna.”
“One strike, you’re out.”
“Of course,” he concurs, nodding before expressing his gratitude again. Then he asks when he can start working, and Luna tells him that he needs to be there the next morning to begin his training — as their conversation flows, Clarke’s mind is aflame with anger at both of them.
How dare Bellamy talk about himself like that? How dare Luna agree with him? She doesn’t even know him!
When a small voice at the back of her brain chirps: ‘Well, maybe you don’t either. Not anymore.’ Clarke tries her best to ignore it and calm down by focusing on the positives: Even though this could’ve gone smoother, at least he has a job, which he will hopefully master and enjoy.
In the end, that’s the most important thing.
It’s past 9 PM when Clarke returns from the clinical rotation, her hands dry and irritated from being washed in antiseptic countless times. As rewarding as the experience is, the work hours are long already, though they will only become worse once she enters her residency in a couple years. When she was a kid, her colorful crayons and sharpies were her most precious possessions, so everyone who knew her assumed that she would major in art, maybe even open her own gallery one day, but her passion shifted.
She locks the door behind her, then heads for the living room. In there, she finds Bellamy and Raven sitting next to each other on the couch, eating large portions of microwavable lasagna while watching Interstellar.
“Oh hey,” her roommate perks up. “I figured that Bellamy would wanna watch some of the great movies he missed. We’re starting with the best one.”
“Of course you are. Did you leave some lasagna for me?”
At her question, Bellamy shakes his head, taking his eyes off the television for a moment. “I made something else for you. It’s being kept warm in the oven.”
Her heart flips. Trying not to appear too eager, though her stomach has been growling in protest for a solid hour, Clarke steps into the kitchen. When she looks through the oven door, her whole chest swells with warm fondness: It’s a pie — as soon as that’s clear, she knows which kind it is: Chicken pot pie. When they were teenagers, he would make this for her whenever she begged him to, which was… often, but she hasn’t had it in years. Because she couldn’t even think about eating it without hating the fact that she couldn’t share it with him.
Once she’s scooped her dinner onto a plate she goes to join her friends on the couch; they move to make room for her in the middle. Refusing to wait a second longer, Clarke cuts a huge piece out of the pie. Luckily, she’s so hungry and dazed with nostalgia that she doesn’t even care when it burns the roof of her mouth: The pastry is perfectly crisp, the chicken is tender and juicy — just how she remembers it.
“Is it good?” Bellamy asks when a low moan tumbles from her lips; to her amazement, his dark eyes are twinkling at her.
The stars are back. She’s missed them.
So much that she leans in and presses her lips to his cheek.
Chapter 3
Notes:
i'll say it again: i really appreciate your excitement about this fic! it makes me really happy :) <3
before this chapter starts, i just want to say that it's a lot more emotional than the previous ones, and it also includes a discussion of panic attacks + some violence (general violence, and a mention of violence against women/domestic abuse).
just be aware of that.
Chapter Text
Bellamy always loved flowers.
When he was a kid, he’d pick daisies and cornflowers while walking home from the bus stop, put them in a vase for his mom to admire once she managed to escape work. He discovered that it was an easy way to make her happy, even if that happiness didn’t last long. As a teenager, he started picking flowers for Clarke, though it wasn’t a grand romantic gesture: Usually, he’d pull the prettiest buttercups from her lawn and let them drizzle into her golden hair.
(“One day, you have to make me a real flower crown,” she said, smiling at the small yellow petals in her palm. “Which flowers would you pick for that?”
Without missing a beat, Bellamy replied, “Peonies. Those light purple ones, just before the reach their full bloom.”)
Clarke figures that his love for flowers will make him a great employee at the plant nursery — and she’s right , because his first week at the new job goes well. By the third day, he starts getting out of bed before her in the morning; his showers are brisk rather than drawn-out, and he no longer steps out on the fire escape to smoke a cigarette after eating breakfast. Having something to wake up to is visibly calming to him.
But everything soon comes crashing down.
It seems as if one day he’s sitting on the couch with Athena purring in his lap, rambling excitedly about creating a tiny garden on the balcony once spring arrives, and the next Luna’s dialing her in the middle of her lunch break at the ER.
Despite the exhaustion that’s already making her eyes droop, Clarke tries to seem upbeat, “Hey, what’s up?”
“It’s Bellamy,” Luna rushes, her voice weighed down by worry, and Clarke’s body tenses at an instant, her fingers tightening around the phone as panic flares in her veins. “I—I think he’s having a panic attack. This older woman came in to buy some roses for her friend, but she kept insisting that she knew him from somewhere. He kept denying it, and he seemed nervous, but I didn’t think much of it until she left and he couldn’t catch his breath anymore. Then he curled up in a corner outside, and Niylah’s trying to talk to him, but he—”
“Okay, slow down. Talking to him probably won’t help, just remind him to breathe, make sure someone stays with him until he’s breathing normally. If he appears distant or frightened, don’t try to touch him. Hopefully, he’ll calm down on his own, but it might take a while. That’s fine. Just please stay with him.”
Though the image of Bellamy wrestling against panic and anxiety outside in the bitter cold is making her heart clench painfully every time it beats, Clarke forces herself to be practical about the whole thing. She can’t leave work to talk him down, and he probably doesn’t want her to, so the best thing she can do for him right now is tell Luna how to handle the situation. Usually, she’s a steadfast woman with a plan for everything, but this has clearly caught her off guard.
There’s a short pause at the other end of the line, followed by a ragged breath. “What about when it’s over? Do I send him home?”
Biting her bottom lip, Clarke considers this for a moment. Had the circumstances been different, she would’ve probably agreed that some time off was the best thing, but Bellamy… “If he wants to keep working, let him. Feeling as if he can’t do his job and the fear of disappointing you might trigger more anxiety. It’s better to let him decide for himself.”
In prison, the authorities must’ve called all the shots for him, limiting the control he had over his own life, his freedom. He deserves to have some autonomy back, even though he might not be sure what to do with it. Clarke carts her fingers through her hair, ignoring the concerned glances of her fellow med-students.
Then she suddenly remembers what Luna told him on the day that he was hired, and raw bitterness starts pulsing through her veins. “But, of course, maybe you count this as a strike. ”
At the back of her mind, Clarke knows she’s being unreasonable considering that Luna called her out of obvious concern for Bellamy, but she can’t help it. There was so much she didn’t get to say that day, because he wouldn’t let her, and now it’s bubbling to the surface.
A moment of awkward silence passes before Luna replies, confused, “What do you mean?”
“One strike, you’re out. You told him that, so do you count this as a one or not? Are you going to fire him?”
“No, of course not!” Luna gasps, sounding nothing short of offended at the insinuation, but when Clarke doesn’t take the callout back, her friend turns apologetic. “Look, Bellamy’s a wonderful guy. Hardworking and enthusiastic. I would never fire him because of something he can’t control… Do you know if he’s getting help?”
“Ask him about that.”
Telling his boss private information about his prescribed antidepressants and his weekly support group meetings without his consent would be a terrible thing to do. If he wants her to know about all of it, he should decide how and when it’s said.
“All right. Thanks, Clarke. I’ll go check on him.”
Her lunch break ends soon after the call, and she’s sent back to work, but she still can’t resist checking her phone at the chime of a message fifteen minutes into her shift. When she sees it, a sigh of relief escapes her mouth.
He’s doing better. Giving the pansies some extra attention 🌼
While it pains Clarke that something like this happened to him, she still decides to act as if she doesn’t know about it when he comes home in the late afternoon with dirty hands and slumped shoulders. Before he can catch her watching him, Clarke turns her attention back to the pot of steaming tomato sauce, stirring it as calmly as possible.
Defying her expectations, Bellamy doesn’t try to hide. Instead, he joins her in the kitchen, stands behind her to wrap his strong arms around her waist. Her breath hitches in her throat at the unexpected touch, and her heart swells when he buries his nose in the crook of her neck, seeking comfort. Determined to give that to him, she reaches back to brush her fingers through his hair, which is soft as ever.
Bellamy sighs against her skin, hugs her waist a little tighter as he says, “I had an attack.”
God, she hates how small his voice is. It can’t be easy for him to admit this. Maybe he’s even angry at himself for what happened, frustrated because he couldn’t control it.
Still, she refuses to pity him. He doesn’t need that right now, so she simply asks, “You wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Then he sways slowly back and forth, his nose pressed into waves of her hair. Only now it occurs to her what he longs for. She whips around, folds her arms around his neck, securing him an embrace.
When their cheeks brush against each other, a low whimper tumbles from his lips — and to her sheer surprise, the truth pours out of him, like the rain from a clouded sky, “I’ve seen people get beaten to bloody pulps and get stomped on, I’ve heard bones break and—” he heaves as he takes his next breath. “But this, I don’t even know where the fear comes from, but this is what terrifies me. I don’t even know what it is, I just know that it feels as if I’m going to die. Every damn time.”
Clarke squeezes her eyes shut as his words stab at her chest. Because she doesn’t know how to respond, the default ‘You’re okay’ line seeming inadequate right now, she clutches at his sweater and hopes that the hug is enough to soothe him.
She has not the faintest idea of how long they stay like that, but eventually they seem to melt together. Somehow, he feels closer, warmer, as if his body is a blanket that’s been wrapped around hers, and she can’t help but sigh.
Before he pulls away, Bellamy presses a lingering kiss to the crown of her hair. “Can I help you cook?”
In truth, it’s a miracle that the tomato sauce hasn’t boiled over while they were wrapped in each other. Together, they spend the next hour preparing dinner. As he chops the mushrooms and zucchini for the sauce, she hops onto the counter and pours herself half a glass of cheap red wine to sip while she watches him work.
It feels like a rebooted memory; like someone saw what they went through, what almost happened and said: ‘Let’s recreate this part.’
Since Raven is spending tonight at Luna’s house, Bellamy and Clarke have the entire apartment to themselves and complete control of the remote, but they don’t make much of the rare occasion. Instead, they lounge around on the couch, stuffed full of delicious pasta and listen to infomercials: Right now, some polished lady in a red dress is trying to convince them to buy an at-home fitness kit that looks like someone tried to glue parts of existing workout machines together.
It’s ridiculous, but there’s a small smile on Bellamy’s lips. While the lady rambles on, he looks at Clarke.
“I kind of missed these, you know? Remember how we used to laugh at them?”
Before she can respond, her phone rings. When ‘Mom’ flashes across the screen, she apologizes to him and picks it up. Since she started working the clinical rotations, Clarke is lucky if she’s able to talk to her parents once a week. Most days it feels as if she’s drowning in heavy textbooks and antiseptic.
“Hey mom, how are things at home?” Clarke asks, smiling as she looks at Bellamy who scrambles to turn off the television.
While she catches up with her mom, chatting about everything from their busy schedules to her dad’s new art studio that they’ve built in the loft, Bellamy looks on, his eyes wide and tender.
He hasn’t heard Abby Griffin’s voice in close to six years. Her heart quivering for him, she puts her phone on speaker, which allows him to hear it better, then continues the conversation as if nothing changed. Of course, she’s secretly dying for him to join in, but judging by his parted lips he’s too awestruck to do so right now, and she doesn’t want to pressure him if he isn’t ready.
As it turns out, however, he is.
Just as she’s about to say goodbye, Bellamy mouths, ‘Can I?’ though he looks nervous, running a hand through his curly hair as he shifts in his seat.
Clarke smiles at him in reassurance, her heart fluttering. “Mom, there’s someone here who wants to say hi.” Unsurprisingly, it’s impossible to keep the excitement out of her voice, the words bending under the weight of it.
After giving Bellamy’s hand a gentle squeeze of encouragement, she feels tears spring forward in her eyes. He swallows, resembling a deer in headlights, then lets out a heavy breath and says, “Hey, Abby.”
The silence that ensues after he’s spoken descends on the room like a shadow, forcing the light out of it. In the matter of a moment, Clarke sees his whole body go stiff with panic, but then her mom lets out a low cry that breaks through the air, “Oh my—Jake! Come down here, Bellamy’s on the phone!” and the relief, the joy, in her voice is unmistakable.
Bellamy chokes on a sob, covers his mouth with his hand. To comfort him wordlessly, Clarke rubs at his knuckles with her thumb. At the next second, they hear the rumble of her her dad’s footsteps on the stairs and his gruff voice when he speaks to Abby, “Those bastards finally let him go? Is he with Clarke?”
Somehow, Bellamy digs up a little dry humour, his smile watery yet genuine. “You know, you can talk to me if you want.”
Jake Griffin laughs; the familiar, warm vibration that — judging by the lone tear that rips itself loose from his eye — is something Bellamy missed hearing. “Of course. How are you doing, Son?”
At these words, Bellamy’s lower lip trembles, most likely because he doesn’t understand how her dad can still find the affection that it takes to call him that: His son. Not by blood of course, but by something else.
Since he was a six-year-old freckled kid, Bellamy has had an inexplicable bond with Jake. Over the years, they’ve played soccer in the backyard, formed inside jokes and shared great recipes. Hell, her dad even taught him how to drive, let him take the wheel of his precious old Ford Mustang.
(“If you leave a dent in it, I will disinherit you.”
Bellamy chuckled, his whole face radiant despite the nerves. “Yes, Sir.”
When he looked at her through the window, Clarke gave him a supportive thumbs up and a bright smile.)
Bellamy traces circles on his knee with his fingertips. “Not well, if I’m being honest. But I’m—” He takes a heavy breath, giving himself a second to bite back fresh tears. “I’m coping.”
A beat of silence passes before her dad replies, his voice a little strained, “Are you living with my daughter?”
In spite of everything, he sounds accusatory, and Bellamy must think so too, because he winces as though someone just punched him in the gut. Still, her dad his spent the last six years vigorously defending him. When he was arrested, he insisted on paying for a good attorney so that he wouldn’t have to rely on a public defender, and since then he’s raised his voice every time the sentencing was discussed at the dinner table.
“Not officially...” is Bellamy’s answer, swallowing hard enough to make his Adam’s apple bob. Technically, it isn’t true, but Clarke lets it slide.
“If you ever need a place to stay, the entire second floor of our home is vacant.”
Oh.
Obviously taken aback by this offer, Bellamy ruffles his own hair and stammers, “I, uh. I don’t know what to say. I—thank you. For everything. I can’t… My mom told me about the job—”
“That wasn’t a favor,” Abby says quickly. “She was the best person for the position.”
After her son went to jail, Aurora Blake was left with a daughter — Octavia, who was fourteen at the time — and no job to provide for her, so Clarke’s parents stepped in right away, paying her bills while she applied to work at everywhere she could, but they always found some stupid reason not to hire her. Of course, it all boiled down to her son being a criminal.
When the chief of the cleaning staff at Ark Hospital decided to retire, Abby jumped at the chance to gush about Aurora’s work ethic to her boss, who agreed to offer her an interview. By some miracle, she was hired for the job and is now making more money than she did at the steel factory; enough to start paying off her mortgage debt.
Leaning in, Clarke brushes a tear off the corner of Bellamy’s eye.
“I thought you— I thought I’d disappointed you.” Suddenly, he sounds like a scared child, shrinking under the weight of his own shame.
“Oh no. We might resent you a bit for pushing us away, but that’s the height of it.”
He releases a breath of relief as his lips are tugged upwards to form a gentle smile, and warmth surges through Clarke’s ribcage at the sight. Still, he doesn’t seem to know how to respond, so it’s silent for a while. In the end, what he chooses to say is, “I hope you guys can forgive me. You’re my second family, and—”
“We love you, Bellamy,” her dad cuts in, resolute.
Unable to respond, he pushes the phone towards Clarke, buries his face in his hands. As she carries the rest of the conversation, it turns practical. More than anything, her parents want to know how he’s actually feeling, but she urges them to leave that talk for another day. This prompts her mom to invite them over for dinner later that week, but it’s always a battle to find a date.
“I’ll talk to you guys again tomorrow. We’ll figure it out then.”
Once the call ends, Bellamy’s cheeks are tear-stained and he’s sniffling. Carefully, Clarke inches closer to him, not wanting to cross an invisible line that she’s sure he’s drawn somewhere. However, she’s proven wrong when he reaches out, pulling her onto his lap. As soon as she’s there, she presses her lips to his ear, brushes her thumb across his temple.
“Bellamy—”
“I haven’t cried in three years, and now I can’t fucking stop,” he says, wiping his eyes. After a few seconds of hesitation, he continues, “I thought that me not crying anymore meant that I’d gotten used to it, the trauma. I thought it meant that I was getting better. Becoming stronger, but I’ve never felt so repressed in my life.”
Worrying her lower lip, Clarke rubs soothing circles on his shoulder. She doesn’t know what to say, but she’s not even sure that talking is the best thing to do right now, which is why she decides to just stay silent. For a while, the quiet that stretches between them is dense, thickened by his heavy breathing. That’s until he suddenly, to her utter surprise, opens up more, peeks out of his shell.
“My, uh, my cellmate was a year older. Dax. He was locked up for beating his girlfriend. It nearly killed her.”
Oh fuck.
Shaking her head in revulsion, Clarke looks at him, not quite sure which emotions might be showing in his eyes right now, though they make Bellamy scoff. “Yeah, I thought we were a strange match too. Like, I kill a rapist and they lock me up with someone who beats women? Makes total sense. It’s as if they were begging us to murder each other.”
“But you didn’t.”
Before he responds, Bellamy moves a strand of her hair behind her ear. It’s something he used to do all the time, even for no apparent reason. Her eyelids flutter as she struggles to remember the last time he did it.
After they had sex, probably, but she can’t recall the specific moment and it’s driving her crazy.
Unaware of what’s going on in her mind, he replies, “No, but we didn’t become BFF’s either... You know, he saw a picture of us once. It was your Ipod wallpaper…”
(Just two teenagers lying in the grass, heads pressed together and hands intertwined as the sun bathed their faces in golden light.
That, she remembers.)
“... And he asked me if you were my bitch. I swear to God, I never let him live that shit down.”
Clarke shrugs despite how fast her heart is beating for no obvious reason. “I kinda was your bitch though, in a non-derogatory sense.”
“Which sense is that?”
Smiling, she pokes her foot against his ankle. “I would’ve done anything for you.”
As he caresses her knee, Bellamy stares at her; she can sense it, even though she isn’t looking him in the eye. But her statement really shouldn’t surprise him considering how he’s been entrenched in every aspect of her life for as long as she can remember. In every memory, the good as well as the bad, she had him. Through everything, he’d always been there.
Then suddenly, he wasn’t anymore.
(“Don’t come visit me again.”)
(“I need you to go out there and fucking live your life, Clarke! Don’t wait for me.”)
Even then he was unforgettable: No matter how distant and foggy the happy memories of him became, she never fully lost them; it would’ve been much easier if she could’ve packed all of them in a suitcase and left them on the side of the road, but it doesn’t work like that — they stuck to her heart.
He did.
“You’re so important to me,” she tells him, trailing her fingertip along the rough seam of his jeans.
Instead of repeating the words back to her, Bellamy murmurs, “... There’s so much you don’t know about me.”
And she knows it’s true.
Chapter 4
Notes:
hi everyone :)
this chapter is incredibly personal to me, and it was so cathartic to write. but there's a depiction of a depressive episode in here, so if that's something that might trigger your own depression, you don't have to read this one.
Chapter Text
They move his things into the apartment on a Tuesday.
Leaning against the doorframe, Murphy smirks at them. He’s dangling an unlit cigarette between his fingers, his work tie slung across his shoulders and his shirt unbuttoned to reveal the tank top underneath it. “Guess it finally happened, huh?”
Clarke doesn’t know how to interpret that comment.
Everything Bellamy owns — including his clothes — fills two cardboard boxes. Aside from his toiletries, there are a few books, her old Ipod, a flashlight, a pencil case and an old cellphone. That’s all, which breaks her heart, because it tells her that he hasn’t been to his mom’s house to collect some of the things that she knows are still there.
Like the photographs and the comics they used to draw as kids; the memories.
Maybe he doesn’t want them anymore.
And yet, he hasn’t gotten rid of the copy of the Iliad that she bought for his eighteenth birthday; it’s the Penguin Clothbound Classics edition, which has a gorgeous burgundy cover adorned with bronze flames. It fits right on his nightstand at home, but he spends a good minute flipping through the pages slowly before deciding to put it there.
“I must’ve read it a hundred times,” he confesses, trailing his fingertip along the spine. Swallowing hard, he pushes his hand through his hair, and she sits down next to him on the bed. “It reminded me of who I used to be, you know?”
When they first met, he was lying on his back in the grass near the playground, reading Age of Bronze as the glorious sun of July beamed down at him. Even back then, he could tell her so much about heroes, titans and gods; it would captivate her for hours on end, listening to him speak. His imagination was vivid, much like hers, but the way he employed it was different.
She drew stories; he told them.
(The cover was cobalt blue, his favorite color, a stark contrast to the ruby red cape of their own superhero: a flying squirrel named Jazz.
“I think Trevor’s spikes should be green,” Bellamy said, touching a finger to his chin in thought.
Trevor, a porcupine, was Jazz’ right-hand man — like Robin was to Batman.
Clarke giggled. “Why green?”
“Because it’s cool! And when they light up, you can tell that he’s about to use his super speed!”)
As the nostalgia swirls in her chest, Clarke leans her head on his broad shoulder. Though she’s been trying not to focus on it, she’s noticed that his personality isn’t the only thing that’s changed: His body feels like a mountain now; strong, steady and made of jagged edges. Every time she hugs him, the strength with which he holds onto her is astounding. He could lock her there forever, no doubt about it, but he always releases her a bit too soon.
“Clarke?”
At the sound of her name, her heart perks up, fluttering. “Yeah?”
When she looks at him, she sees that he’s worrying his lower lip. “Uh, would you mind going with me to the store? I need to grab a few things, and I feel safer if—”
“Sure,” she says, offering him a gentle smile as her hand slips into his.
Luckily, the nearest grocery store is only a short walk from their apartment, and while this one doesn’t have everything from A to Z it certainly has the few things he needs: Shaving cream, a pair of fuzzy socks — since the floor in their apartment is quite cold during wintertime — and a new deodorant. After about five minutes, they’ve checked the essentials off his list but end up wandering around the store, looking at the less useful items on sale.
“Woah, you can still get these?” Bellamy says, holding up a set of soda-flavored Lip Smackers.
“Oh yeah, and they’re as artificial as ever.”
When she pulls a face, he grins at her and opens his mouth to say something, yet it closes again as his gaze fixates on the floor. His brow furrows for a second before he bends down, picking up a stuffed tiger. “Huh.”
“It probably fell out of the basket. Just—”
But Bellamy shakes his head. “No, there’s an ‘C’ written on its paw. Someone dropped this,” while he speaks, his eyes dart, searching until they settle on a woman at the end of the aisle, pushing a shopping cart with a young girl strapped in the child seat. “Maybe it’s hers. I’ll— go ask.”
Clutching the stuffed animal, Bellamy takes a deep breath, which prompts Clarke to follow him. They manage to catch up with the mother and daughter just before they reach the register. Still, Bellamy hesitates for a second, his shoulders tense, then approaches them.
“Um, excuse me. Sorry. I found this, and I thought maybe…”
Noticing the stuffed tiger in his hands, the woman lets out a deep sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you so much! She won’t sleep without it. You just saved my evening—look, Ciara!” Now holding the tiger, the woman wiggles it a little, causing her daughter to smile and reach for it. “Oh, no no. Mommy’s gonna keep it until we get to the car so you don’t drop it again. Can you say thank you?”
Ciara looks shyly at Bellamy for a moment, folds her small hands in front of her chin. “Thankyou.”
At that, he lights up, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “You’re welcome.”
For some reason, Clarke’s heart can’t seem to handle this scene; him smiling so genuinely paired with the little girl’s happiness and the mother’s relief sends it into a wide range of different swells until her whole chest feels softer.
After that nice exchange, paying for his things seems relatively easy for Bellamy. Handing the cashier a five dollar bill, he even manages a civil smile, but he still fumbles a bit for words when the young man tries to make smalltalk with him. Well, one step at a time.
Once they walk out into the starry night, Bellamy halts to admit, “God, my heart is pounding.” He bites down hard on his bottom lip, lets his fingers graze hers. “Can we stay here for a second?”
Clarke nods, pulling him back towards the brick wall, so that they can lean against it. In some way, this reminds her of the time they spent together outside the CVS, except he doesn’t need a cigarette right now; their hands are interlaced, and he’s gazing at her, his dark eyes unwavering.
“I can’t believe that this feels like an accomplishment,” he says, a smile twinkling in his irises even though it doesn’t quite reach his lips. “Thanks for being here. For still being here.”
The sheer emotion behind those words wash over her like a tidal wave, but she manages to reply, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And she means it.
As soon as she enters the apartment, a terrible sense of dread creeps into her bones. Something is wrong. The silence is too loud, the hallway echoing with nothingness, and her heart is already clenching, though it has no more than her gut feeling to follow.
Clarke lets her purse drop to the floor, then walks past Raven’s door. Her roommate is working at the mechanic shop downtown and spending the night with her girlfriend, but Bellamy has had this Saturday off. Usually, he watches whichever documentary that he can find on TV in the evenings — sometimes he listens to music on the radio.
But tonight there’s no murmuring voices, no mellow tones.
The door to their shared room is ajar, a tiny bit of light pouring through the crack. “Bell?” she whispers, her heart hammering in her ribcage, but there’s no answer.
Willing herself to strangle the fear that clutches at her chest, Clarke pushes the door open and walks in. Immediately, she sees him lying in the bed, fully clothed by the look of it, though the dim light provided by the lamp on the nightstand is hardly enough to make her see anything clearly. “Bellamy?”
Still no answer. He’s probably sleeping.
Somehow calmer now, Clarke walks to the bedside, intending to wake him up, but before she presses her hand to his shoulder her gaze travels to his face and find it soaked, stained from tears; his dark brown eyes are open and shadowed, avoiding hers.
Her heart drops to the bottom of her stomach, ice cuts into her veins.
As she stands there, sensing word after word die in her throat, new tears stream down Bellamy’s cheeks, and he winces, his face contorted in pain.
Without her even registering it, a few words make it past her lips, though they are a half whisper half plea, “... Can I hold you?”
When he nods, still refusing to meet her eyes, Clarke doesn’t stall; she makes it to her side of the bed, then crawls beneath the comforter to wrap her arms around his waist. She presses her chin to his shoulder, listens to his breath hitch under the weight of cruel sobs. To let him know that she’s really there, she nuzzles the bare skin of his neck.
“I don’t want you to waste your time on me,” he murmurs suddenly, every word doused in torment.
She holds him tighter, keeps her voice even as she replies, “I’m not wasting my time.”
“You are,” is his immediate retort. “I’m not going to get better.” The part of her heart that survived the fast drop to the bottom of her ribcage shatters when she hears him say this, and his continuation doesn’t do anything to repair the damage, “I don’t deserve to either. All I do is hurt people—” The false statement is broken off by a terrible sob, one that carves a deep wound in her chest. “I ruin people’s lives, everyone I care about suffers and it’s my fault . ”
Fighting against the tears that threaten to show in her voice, Clarke presses a lingering kiss to the shell of his ear, brushes her fingertips through his obsidian hair. Instead of simply refuting his self-loathing claim, she whispers, “You remember that little girl at the grocery store? You made sure she got her tiger back. You made her smile, Bell, ‘cause that’s what you do. You’re a good person who does good things. All the time.”
He doesn’t say anything, but she senses the shivers that course through his body.
Oh. Maybe...
“Hey, please look at me.”
Although it takes him a few long seconds, he chooses to listen. As soon as he faces her, she’s struck by an intense desire to wipe the ruthless tears off his cheeks and kiss them dry, but she pushes it down. Lifting his chin with her fingers, Clarke locks their gazes, causing him to swallow. Then she asks, keeping her voice as clinical as possible, “Did you remember to take your medicine today?”
The way his eyes immediately flicker downward to escape hers tells her everything she needs to know. Instead of freaking out, or starting a lecture, she asks, “When did you stop taking it?”
Another heavy moment passes. “Three days ago,” is his response, and she can tell that he’s being sincere when he continues, his voice thick with self-accusation, “It was stupid. I’m so fucking stupid—”
She cradles his face. “Bellamy. What made you stop taking it?”
Some people who suddenly stop taking their prescribed medication do so because they fear the side effects, or worse: because they don’t think that they need them, but at least his reason is completely different. “Those pills cost five hundred dollars a month, Clarke. I can’t afford the next prescription, so I thought that I maybe I could—skip it on the days that I felt okay.”
“That’s not how it works,” she says, offering him a tiny, sympathetic smile. “You can’t ration your medicine. And you shouldn’t have to. I promise you, we’ll figure out some way to pay for it.”
Of course, he immediately protests, “No way. You’re not spending any more money on—”
Clarke shakes her head. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about my Nana.”
This is the best plan that she’s come up with in forever, and on a complete whim, too. She can’t help but feel a flicker of pride when she quickly works it out in her head: Kathleen Adams, her mom’s mother, was born into incredible wealth seventy-eight years ago, and later established a successful fruit orchard in California after her husband, James, passed away. Now, she’s a millionaire.
A millionaire who happens to have a very soft spot for Bellamy.
(“If I were you, Sweetheart, I’d take that boy off the market as quickly as possible,” her grandmother whispered, watching him do Octavia’s fishtail braid.
“He’s my best friend, Nana,” was her best argument, blood rushing to her cheeks.
“Exactly, and you’ll be all the happier with him because of it.”)
“I’m not taking money from your grandmother.”
Smiling, Clarke shrugs. “Well, you can ask her for a loan, but I doubt she’ll let you pay her back.”
For a minute, he stays completely silent, unsure of how to respond, but she doesn’t stop rubbing his shoulder with her thumb. This is a difficult dilemma for him, having to depend on other people to get the medicine that he clearly needs. In the end, he sighs, “And what if I have to be on these pills for the rest of my goddamn life? What the hell do I do if…?”
Leaning her forehead against his in comfort, Clarke murmurs, “Then we’ll take it from there, okay? Now, let me get the pill for you. Just stay here.”
“No, I don’t want you to leave.”
Her heart quivers, rattles painfully against her ribs as she leans in to press a soothing kiss to his temple. “Hey, I’m not going anywhere, remember? I’ll be right back. I promise.”
She’s pretty sure she’s never moved faster in her life, pouring him a glass of water and retrieving a dose of Prozac from the plastic pill case above the bathroom sink. Since he’s been off it for a couple days, it’ll probably be a while until it starts working fully again. To her relief, he doesn’t protest or complain while he takes it; in fact, there’s a determined look in his eyes.
“Hey,” she murmurs, cuddling up next to him. “Please don’t ever tell yourself that you deserve to feel this way. You don’t. No one does.” When he doesn’t respond to this, she changes the subject, asking him if he wants something to eat, but as soon as the question has left her lips his face writhes and tears fill his eyes.
He buries his face in her shoulder, and she moves her hand through the dark curls of his hair in effort to alleviate his hurt. “Sorry, hey. I’m right here.”
I’m not going anywhere.
At some point, they both fall into slumber, but she’s woken many hours later — at 4:20 AM — by the calming sound of chewing. A small smile graces her lips as soon as she sees him sitting next to her, eating dry breakfast cereal out of a bowl, and her hand finds his on the mattress, gives it a gentle squeeze.
Like she expected it would, depression keeps its heavy chains around Bellamy for the next week, even though he keeps taking his medicine as prescribed. Once Monday comes around, he makes it out of bed and goes to work, but Luna sends her a text during her lunch break, stating that she’s worried about how quiet he is. Clarke doesn’t respond, because she doesn’t know how to, but another message chimes in about thirty minutes later.
I’m so sorry, Clarke. I didn’t know.
He just told me.
At first all she can think about is why Luna would find it necessary to be sympathetic towards her; she isn’t the one who barely eats anything, who falls asleep at random times during the day, who bursts into tears for no apparent reason.
That Friday, Raven convinces her to go to Second Dawn with her, leave Bellamy at home alone to sleep. Murphy is already there, chatting to Miller behind the counter and drawing rings of water on the surface of the bar with his fingertip, but he looks up when they slide into the stools on either side of him.
His brow furrows once his eyes land on Clarke, which momentarily confuses her. Then he says, blunt as ever, “You look like shit, Griffin.” Even though there’s no malice behind his words, the concern seeping through every syllable, Raven punches his shoulder.
“Gee, thanks,” she mutters, shifting in her seat to avoid further scrutiny.
Instantly, Murphy’s stormy blue eyes widen. “Holy—Miller! Can I get five cranberry shots over here? Now!”
Miller, who’d been busy serving another customer at the other end of the bar, snorts loudly, “When the fuck did you start drinking cranberry—” the rest of the statement dies on his tongue when his brown eyes settle on Clarke. “Coming right up.”
Before they left the apartment, she thought she looked decent, though maybe a little tired, but she’d consider that normal for her now, as a med-student. Apparently it’s not — or perhaps she looks worse than she thinks she does. Once Miller has lined the shots up, Murphy stares at her until she’s downed the first one.
Then he blurts out, “It’s Bellamy, right?” causing Clarke to choke on the last traces of alcohol that are burning her throat. “You’re too busy worrying about him to take care of yourself.”
Honestly, what the hell?
Frowning, she starts, “I don’t know what you—” but he doesn’t let her finish, cutting her off with a groan.
“Don’t pull that shit. Seeing him suffer is tearing you apart.”
Those words are a pang to her chest, knocking the air from her lungs and causing her lips to part. Before she’s recovered from the blow, Miller has moved closer to them, though he’s defending his presence by wiping down the counter.
Sensing annoyance creep into her veins, Clarke arches her eyebrow at him. “What? Spit it out.”
Cautious, Miller meets her eyes, then glances at Raven. “... Murphy’s right. Maybe you should talk to Diyoza again.”
Her body goes rigid.
No, NO.
To hide her sudden desperation, she forces the most genuine smile she can pull off. “Guys, I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all there is to it.” As soon as those words have left her lips, a tiny voice at the back of her mind starts to taunt her.
How fucking stupid do you think they are, huh? They all saw you the first time. They know what you look like when you lie.
Miller reaches out, placing his hand on top of hers, and Raven takes her other one, interlacing their fingers. “Loving someone who’s in pain is hard, Clarke. That doesn’t mean you’re going back there, but you need to think of yourself, too. Call Diyoza, set up an appointment, vent to her. You’ll feel better.”
“But I don’t love him,” she winces as she knocks back another cranberry shot, swallowing it a bit too hard. “Not like I used to.”
Raven hugs her despite the awkward angle, and Murphy scoffs, “Yeah, I call bullshit on that one.”
Not sure how to successfully prove him wrong, Clarke simply downs the last three shots and leans in to whisper in her roommate’s ear, “Let’s dance. Come on.”
“Now, that’s more like it! See ya later, dudes.”
For the rest of the night, they don’t touch the subject of Bellamy again, but as they leave the booming nightclub Clarke pulls her phone out of her pocket and searches her contacts for a certain Charmaine Diyoza, sends her the first text message in more than three years; it causes a brutal memory to dislodge itself from the realm of oblivion in her mind.
(“You want me to give this poor girl a diagnosis?”
The woman was as tall as her dad, and she was looking at him, undeterred, with her piercing green eyes. “How do you not see it? Your kid is grieving.”
Clarke’s hands started to tremble, so she tucked at the sleeves of the flannel; the one that hung off her shoulders, way too big for her.
Then she squeaked, “But he isn’t dead—he isn’t—”)
Fucking hell.
Raven’s right. This doesn’t mean that she’s going back there.
When they finally return to the apartment, Clarke finds Bellamy in the living room. He’s lying on the couch under a duvet, watching Mad Max: Fury Road, the next movie on Raven’s list. Smiling, she leans against the doorframe, but his eyes soon land on her, and he lets out a sigh of relief before hitting pause.
“Don’t like it?”
He offers her a crooked smile, then moves his hand through the back of his hair, which causes her her to swell with warmth. “Not really, but I’m trying to power through it.”
Walking to the couch, Clarke asks, “Want company?”
Bellamy grabs her hand immediately, pulling her down towards him. Within the next couple seconds, she’s nestled beneath the duvet with him, cuddled against him. She can feel his heart as it pounds against her spine, and she instantly deduces why he doesn’t like the movie, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
Instead, he presses his full lips against her temple and whispers, “Tell me about your day.”
Chapter 5
Notes:
as you probably noticed, the rating has been changed now. the sexual content isn't *too* explicit yet, but we'll get there ;) this story is very slowly being revealed, but i kinda like the slow pace. i think this fic might turn out to be longer than fifteen chapters. i'm kinda going with the flow at the moment.
Chapter Text
Her childhood home is stuffed to the brim with their memories; the ones that still roar and the ones that are fading. This is where their story was written — most of it, at least. Coming back here with him for the first time in six years feels odd, sort of like they’ve stepped back in time, but the ghosts from the present have followed them here.
Bellamy freezes at the start of the driveway, looks at the house as though it’s some faraway land, a place he’d left to his imagination. Then Clarke sees him clench his jaw, so she takes his hand to ground him, interlaces their fingers. In the biting cold, the warmth from his skin oozes into hers.
Her mom is working a late shift at the hospital, which might be better for his anxiety since he doesn’t have to face both of her parents at once. Hopefully, it’s less overwhelming for him like this.
“Are you ready to go in? Or do you need a minute?”
When she looks at him, she finds a spark of determination in his dark eyes. “Let’s go.”
He gives her hand a gentle squeeze as he takes the first step down the pebbled driveway, which is lit up by the cozy strings of fairy lights along the rose bushes. She wonders if this, to him, feels like coming home in the same way that it does to her. Most likely, it doesn’t, and the mere possibility of that makes her heart quiver.
Only a couple seconds after they’ve knocked, the front door is flung open, revealing her dad standing behind it. His bright blue eyes skip over Clarke to settle on Bellamy, and she sees them soften immediately.
To her surprise, her dad isn’t the one who speaks up first.
“Jake,” Bellamy says, the edges of the name a little frayed, as he reaches his hand out. But the other man doesn’t take it.
“Oh don’t be stupid, Bellamy,” he responds before pulling him into a long-awaited embrace. Clarke hears Bellamy’s choke on a broken sob, and her dad must too, but he isn’t thrown off by it; in fact, he strokes his hand through the dark curls of his hair until he can’t hold himself back from saying, “Let me look at you.”
When Bellamy draws back, tears are clouding his eyes and his freckled cheeks are flushed light pink, but her dad doesn’t comment on that. “Woah, guess my time of winning arm-wrestling matches is over, huh? Damn, Son.”
Oh yeah. The arm wrestling. It was their way of settling a disagreement. To be fair to Bellamy, though, her dad didn’t always win them, but they were entertaining to watch.
Bellamy manages a crooked smile, blinks away his tears. “Had some time to work out.”
Seeing the pride flicker in her dad’s eyes has Clarke’s chest flooding with warmth. Over the last six years, she’s witnessed her dad’s pain whenever his name was mentioned, the shadows that cut into his features, and it’s nice to know that’s reversed now.
“Yeah, that’s obvious. Look, I know you’ve basically lived half of your life here, but it’s been a while. Clarke and I can take you on a tour, if you’d like.”
Though not much has changed in their home since he was arrested, Bellamy still notices everything that has, like the new leather couch and the midnight blue rug underneath the dining table. But the only thing that makes him stop in his tracks is a framed photo on the mantle.
(On this sunlit day, it seemed as though the universe had opened up to them.
In their royal purple graduation gowns, they’d taken the first big step towards the future.
“Hop on, Princess,” he said, bending his knees to make it easy for her jump onto his back.
She squealed happily when he pulled her up higher, grasped at his broad shoulders,
“Just take the picture, Mom. Take it now!”)
Bellamy swallows hard as he picks it up.
This moment was captured just three weeks before he was ripped from the real world.
When she sees his hands start to tremble, her heart pushes her feet into motion, but before she can get to him he’s set the photo down again and is breathing shakily. Despite this, she places her hand on his arm in silent comfort.
Suddenly her dad speaks up behind them, “Honey, I have to finish dinner. You can show him everything else, just not my studio, okay?”
Her room has barely changed since the last time that he was here, which must be what renders him speechless. For a couple of minutes, his eyes travel from the crystal chandelier to her window seat where they used to study together, but as she looks at him she discovers that his gaze always darts back to the same spot.
The bed.
Heat creeps up the back of her neck, yet she manages to say, “Lots of memories, huh?” though she doesn’t mean for the words to emerge as a whisper. Nevertheless, it breaks the silence.
“Oh yeah. Too many.”
Arching an eyebrow at him, Clarke decides to be blunt to contradict his vagueness. “You have a favorite?” At first he looks confused, his brow furrowing, but then she steps towards the bed, sits down at the end of it. “‘Cause I know I do.”
Bellamy chokes on nothing before replying, “I can’t pick.”
“Really?”
If the light pink flush behind his freckles is anything to go by, he knows he’s been found out. Even though he seems hesitant to admit it, in the end he runs his hand through his curly hair and breathes, “Okay, I might have one, too.”
To her surprise, he sits down next to her, avoiding her gaze while his fingers trace her Starry Night bedspread.
Clarke watches as the tiniest smile conquers his lips. Then he finally looks at her, his eyes tender. “Hey, listen—”
(“Hey, listen—we gotta fucking stop.”)
But the sound of the front door being shut makes them both jolt. Bellamy shoots to his feet, and Clarke pushes the disappointment far down her gut as she trails after him out of the room, down the stairs to where Abby Griffin is standing. As soon as she notices him, she crosses the hallway to wrap him in a hug, just like her husband did. Though Bellamy’s eyes flutter shut, no tears leak out of them this time.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here when you arrived.”
“That’s okay,” Bellamy assures her, drawing back to offer her a weak yet genuine smile. Before any deeper conversation can take place, her dad calls them to dinner. Tonight, her dad has cooked something special: Creamy lasagna made from scratch, a recipe that’s been passed down in his family for three generations. This dish has always been reserved for celebrations, such as birthdays and Super Bowl evenings, but it was Bellamy’s favorite.
When it’s placed on the dinner table, Clarke watches his jaw slack. “Jake, you didn’t have to—”
“Nonsense. Eat,” her dad says, scooping a huge piece onto his plate. “You deserve it.”
It’s clear that hearing those words makes Bellamy emotional, as he shifts in his seat and clenches his jaw. Finally, after a long moment, he eats the first bite. Even though her heart is fluttering in anticipation, Clarke tries not to stare at him, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, but she still looks at him closely enough to notice the tremble of his lower lip.
In silent comfort, she gently squeezes his knee underneath the table.
And suddenly he’s talking, his eyes resting on her parents, “Thank you so much for the letters—on my birthdays, for Christmas.”
What? A shiver runs down her spine. They wrote to him?
Once the surprise has dwindled away, the feeling that creeps into her chest is guilt; guilt over the fact that she didn’t. Sure, she thought of him every year on 5 February, on 25 December as she opened her presents, and on a number of random days, but she should’ve written, damn it, even if she was convinced that he’d never read her words.
She should’ve fucking tried, at least. Hoped that he would see them.
“You’re welcome, Son, but we wanted you to call.”
Bellamy swallows his next bite of lasagna very fast, then looks away for a second, twirling his fork between his fingers. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. Believe me, I wanted to talk to you, I just—I didn’t know what to say… and I was afraid I’d—” he gulps, glancing at them. “That I’d bawl my eyes out.”
Abby, who’s sitting across from him, reaches out to touch the top of his hand. “As if that would’ve mattered to us.”
“Maybe not to you. But to me,” he replies, and the emotion has left his voice to be replaced by sudden seriousness, “You know, most of the guys in prison are non-violent drug offenders who shouldn’t even be there, but some… Some of them are truly vile, and they prey on anyone who shows weakness. I would know.”
That last part claws at her stomach, causes nausea to rise in her throat. Without excusing herself, she pushes her chair out from the table and all but flees to the bathroom. As soon as she has locked the door, she sinks to the marble floor.
Her mind is racing, spurred on by the never-ending nightmares that she had at eighteen. She used to wrap herself in his clothes, breathe in his scent to try and calm down while — in her mind — a vicious, shadowy figure was shoving him, kicking him into the muddy ground, breaking all of his bones, making him bleed.
(“He’ll come back, Honey.”
“You don’t know that!” Her whole body was shaking with fear and sobs. “He’s brown and queer and poor! No one in there loves him. All it takes is for one person to decide that they hate him.”)
When she looks at her hands, she sees that they are trembling.
“Clarke? Please open up.” The sound of Bellamy’s gentle voice makes her lift her head off her knees. Suddenly she feels silly for leaving the dinner table like a five year old, but he continues, “I didn’t think—Just please let me in,” and that’s all it takes: she scrambles to stand, unlock the door for him.
To her surprise, he doesn’t try to pull her out of the bathroom. Instead, he steps over the threshold to wrap his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
A few tears leak from her eyes, so she buries her face in the crook of his neck. “I was— I was terrified that someone would kill you,” she gasps, causing him to kiss a soft spot right above her brow, close to her temple.
“I’m still here.”
Choking on an unexpected sob, Clarke clutches at the back of his sweater. Bellamy holds her as long as it takes for her to calm down, and then finally pulls her out of the bathroom so that they can both finish eating dinner. Though her parents exchange worried looks when they sit down again, they don’t say anything, and she’s thankful for that.
Bellamy is holding her hand underneath the table.
She doesn’t even mind that her lasagna has gone cold.
For dessert, her dad has baked a blackberry cobbler that he serves with fresh whipped cream. Watching his sheer joy unfold as Bellamy goes back for a second portion, the way the light shines through his blue eyes, makes Clarke’s heart swell.
“You know, this makes me think of Kathleen,” he says suddenly, an easy smile playing on his lips. “Her peach cobbler is amazing. ”
“She always cut you the biggest piece. Suddenly I wasn’t her favorite anymore,” her dad teases, grinning brightly.
“Oh boo hoo,” is Abby’s dry comment.
Bellamy chuckles; a warm sound that makes a tiny flame spark in her chest.
After they’ve finished the cobbler, Jake pulls Bellamy upstairs to see his studio, and Clarke follows, only for her dad to shoo her away. “Let me talk to him alone, Sweetheart. It won’t be long.”
Despite knowing that it won’t work, she tries pouting. When it has no effect, she chooses to change the bed sheets in the guest room. Before he was arrested, this is where he’d sleep every time he stayed over, which was often, but sometimes — as a kid, and later at eighteen — he would sneak out and come into her bedroom at night.
Once she’s made the bed again, she figures it’s best to go to her room and wait for him, but as she’s crossing the hall she catches some of their conversation through the door to her dad’s new art studio.
“—I know you would’ve made her happy. Maybe you still could.”
Her heart skips a beat.
Then Bellamy replies, his voice strained, “I’m sick, Jake. So fucking sick. I can’t make anyone happy,” and Clarke’s breath hitches in her throat, but after a long moment of silence he adds, “But I’ll be there for her. I promise you that.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she convinces herself that it’s best to step away, into her bedroom. She releases a sigh into the quiet space, then drops onto her Queen. It’s been so long since she last slept in here, but tonight she will, thanks to the blizzard that’s been forecasted on the news. Maybe Bellamy will sneak in here later.
In the end, she drifts off to sleep alone, and the movie that plays itself behind her eyelids isn’t exactly a dream — it’s a memory evoked, torn from deepest part of her mind.
How they got to this point didn’t matter. It didn’t make much sense either, but Clarke had long forgotten about the calc exam that they were supposed to be studying for. The rays of the mellow sun were reaching through her window, dripping onto the white bed sheets, and he… he was on top of her, settled in between her legs.
Her mouth was already bruised from the kissing. Because of this, he was being gentler, soothing her bottom lip by sucking at it. Still, it would take more than a weak sting for her stop; to prove as much, she kissed him more passionately, licking into his mouth.
Bellamy groaned despite his bright grin. “Hey, listen—we gotta fucking stop.”
Smiling, she pecked the corner of his mouth. “Why?”
Of course, she knew why: Because his cock was straining against his pants, brushing against her core, and while there was a part of her knew that this should throw her off, it just made her feel warm — excited, even, as her skin sizzled under his weight, his touch. The longer he stayed there, the needier she became, though she was trying her hardest to play it cool; she couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like if he slipped inside her. Did he fit there as well as she thought would?
To make matters worse, Bellamy shifted slightly, causing the rough seam of his jeans to rub against her slit. Before she could prevent it, a broken gasp tumbled from her lips. Heat shot to her cheeks, and his brow furrowed.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she rushed, nearly stumbling over the word.
He mouthed at her jawline, his light chuckles vibrating on her skin. “Nothing, huh?”
Then he rolled his hips against hers, deliberately this time. When her lips parted, he pressed his lips against hers, swallowing her moan. Raking her fingers through his chaotic hair, Clarke gazed at him as her heart fluttered wildly against her ribs. “Bell, please don’t stop.”
She let him remove her shorts.
They’d never undressed each other before, but he pulled at the fabric so gently, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he did so, and her chest flooded with affection. Although she had no idea what he planned to do, she trusted him.
“Tell me if you don’t like it, okay?” he reminded her before placing a soft kiss to the heel of her palm.
Feeling herself blush, Clarke nodded, worrying her bottom lip. Bellamy searched for eyes for a long moment, then rolled his hips again. It took him a couple tries, but soon he found an angle that made her thighs tremble. The crease between his eyebrows told her that even though he had no idea what he was doing right, he was going to keep at it because it made her breath hitch.
Every time he grinded against her now, his hard cock rubbed against her clit, causing a wave of pleasure to sweep through her body and wetness to gather between her legs.
“Oh,” she moaned when he moved again, harder.
“Hey, Beautiful,” he murmured, caressing her cheekbone. “You still good?”
Too riled up to form any words, she just nodded a little frantically, then dug her nails into his shoulder. To her relief, he seemed to understand; his next push was as determined as the last one, and stars glimmered behind her eyelids. When he kissed her throat hotly, still rubbing himself against her, she felt something tighten in her lower abdomen.
“Come on, Clarke,” Bellamy panted into her ear, making her whine. “Come on.”
His following thrust was the final one. As his hips pushed against hers, she tumbled over the edge unexpectedly with a low cry muffled against the crook of his neck. Her body shook with the intensity of the pleasure, but it didn’t last long.
Suddenly aware that she was blushing hard, that her panties were soaked, Clarke played with the soft curls at the back of his hair, too embarrassed to even look at him. Why the fuck was she embarrassed? It’s not like he didn’t intend to make her come. But even though she knew it wasn’t logical, the panic had already seized her, gripped her whole chest.
So when he asked, “Are you okay?” all she could manage was a quick nod.
And then, after a few awfully long seconds, she said, “We have lemonade in the fridge,” as if refreshments was anything close to what they wanted in that moment.
“Oh, you, um, want me to go get it?”
Trying not to sound pathetic or desperate, she replied, “... I need to change.”
Bellamy blinked, his jaw slackening. “Right. I’ll just—”
—A soft knock on her bedroom door causes her to jolt awake. Scrambling in the darkness, Clarke flicks on her bedside table lamp The alarm clock tells her that it’s 2:38 AM. Before her mind has fully processed anything, let alone the dream that she just had, her door is cracked open and Bellamy pokes his head in, looking at her.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
Despite her heart beating rapidly in her ribcage, Clarke shakes head. “No, come in.” Then she scoots over to lie on the right side of the bed, making enough room for him. He crawls beneath the comforter, smiling tenderly at her. With a sigh, he inches closer until his foot is pressed against hers, and only now does she register the heat lingering between her legs.
Fuck.
It definitely shouldn’t surprise her, but it does. Since she started sleeping with other people in college, she stopped having sex dreams about Bellamy, stopped remembering all the things they did together that crossed the boundaries of a traditional platonic relationship.
Now it seems that the tables have turned on her again, for no apparent reason.
Although she knows that she shouldn’t given the circumstances, the warmth radiating off his body is enticing, drawing her much closer to him. She hums when her nose brushes against the crook of his neck, relishing in the comfort, but then their legs entangle, and she hears his breath stutter.
Fighting off the initial panic, she swallows hard. “I know you can feel it. You don’t have to pretend you can’t.”
“Clarke...” Bellamy nuzzles her cheek, not unlike the way he did it six years ago, and the familiarity of it makes her choke up. “I can leave if you want to be alone.”
“Please don’t.” For the sake of emphasis, she presses her forehead against his shoulder. Suddenly, the truth pours out of her, even though she’s pretty sure that it won’t make any sense to him, “It’s strange, remembering all of that, thinking about it, when I don’t know if you—” she wets her lips, lowers her gaze for a moment. “—what you sound like, what you feel—” When she chuckles, she’s a little surprised by the tears that cling to it. “You don’t smell the same, that’s for sure.”
A few seconds of heavy silence passes, which is long enough to send panic shooting through her veins. What the hell did she just do? Oh God no—
But then she senses Bellamy’s fingertips rub gently at her scalp. “I don’t?” The words are calm, murmured against her temple, which comforts her.
Shaking her head, she presses her nose to his clothed chest, inhales his scent: Pine and musk — no spice, no lemongrass. “You’re using a different soap.”
He drops a chaste kiss to the crown of her hair, causing her to cuddle closer to him. “Well, I can change it back if you don’t like it.”
“No, I like it,” Clarke assures him, tracing her fingertip along his jawline. “I just have to get used to it.”
Chapter 6
Notes:
this chapter is a little longer than the others :) hope you guys like it!
Chapter Text
In the morning, Clarke wakes up to the sight of weak sunlight filtering through the thin blanket of snow stuck to her window. Next to her, the sheets are ruffled and empty, though they still emanate the scent of pine and musk. Frowning, she rolls onto her back, listens to the silence in her bedroom until she recognizes the distant sound of water running.
Oh, he’s in the shower.
At that realization, warmth swirls in her lower abdomen.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she struggles not to think about how he could be jerking off in there, but her mind seems hyperaware of the possibility. He’s been living with her for almost a month, taking a shower each morning, yet this has never been a problem before. She never really gave it a second thought, which makes it all the more strange that she suddenly can’t shake the vivid image of him standing beneath the rough spray of water, his hand wrapped around his cock.
Did his hands get bigger? She hasn’t noticed.
God. Her eyelids fly open. Did his...?
Before her mind can take a sharp turn down that dangerous path, Clarke scrambles to get out of bed, tells herself that it’s all because of that memory she recalled last night, that it won’t last. Desperate for something else to think about, she hurries down the stairs and into the kitchen, but she is struck by the sight of Bellamy standing by the island wearing his square-rimmed reading glasses, a burgundy sweater and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms.
“Oh, hey. Good morning,” he says once his eyes find her in the doorway. “We’re making pancakes.”
Only then does she notice her dad, who’s pouring batter onto a pan.
Trying to snap herself out of whatever haze that she’s in, she replies, “That’s great. I, uh, thought you were in the shower.”
Bellamy’s smile turns crooked as he runs his hand through his tousled hair. “I woke up early, so…”
“You call that early, Son, I call it the crack of dawn.” After saying this, Jake glances at Clarke. “I found him in here digging for recipes. It’s too bad you’re awake already, it kinda ruins the surprise he had going.”
“You’re officially the worst secret keeper ever,” Bellamy mumbles, and Clarke notices that the tips of his ears are turning crimson. Her heart swells, then softens completely. Before she has figured out what to say, he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I was going to surprise you. It’s the least you deserve after cooking all those meals for me, and your dad confirmed that this is still your favorite breakfast—”
“Bell, I love it,” she assures him, taking a few steps until she’s close enough to wrap her arms around his waist and press her chin to his back. “Thank you so much.”
Her eyelids flutter as the warmth from his skin seeps into hers.
“Blueberry and vanilla, right?” There’s a unique kind of gentleness behind the words, one which intrigues her. Curious, she slides away to stand next to him, and that’s when she sees the adorable smile gracing his lips.
Suddenly, her dad speaks up, “What kind of breakfast did they serve you in there?”
Shit.
In the time that Bellamy has lived with her, she’s held off on asking him any questions about prison, worried that it might trigger his anxiety. If he wants to tell her about it, he can, but she wants him to do so on his own.
But to her awe, he doesn’t hesitate to respond, “Lumpy oatmeal, soggy cereal. If you were really lucky you’d get a Danish that didn’t look as if someone stomped on it.”
He grimaces, and she doesn’t blame him one bit.
At least the pancakes are amazing: fluffy on the inside with perfect, crispy edges; the sweetness of the vanilla and the tartness of the blueberries blend on her tongue, creating a small explosion of flavor. She looks to Bellamy, searching his expression for any sign that he might be loving it as much as she is; she finds it in his twinkling irises.
She pokes her foot against his underneath the table and whispers, “You having a good morning?”
Bellamy smiles around the rim of his coffee mug. “Yeah, it’s great. Hey, do you want to go for a walk with me later?”
Hell yes. The foot of snow outside be damned.
Much to their luck, the mark of last night’s blizzard has been swept from the sidewalk. For a while, they simply walk in comfortable silence, their hands swinging by one another with each step. When he comes to a halt, she does, too, looking at him as he turns his gaze skyward. “Is it weird that I missed feeling the coldness like this? The way that the frosty wind nips at your cheeks and… is it?”
“Yes,” she replies, grinning in teasing.
Chuckling, he bumps his shoulder lightly against hers. Just watching the corners of his eyes crinkle as he radiates makes her lose her breath. It’s the first time she’s seen this in six years; his brilliance that could make the sun envious, especially on a cloudy day like this one.
But it doesn’t last long, his light fading away before she can get lost in it.
Bellamy glances at his feet, then says, “The woman who runs my support group told us to compile a list of things that we missed. Things, not people. To help us remember the real world, I guess.” Sighing, he sits down on a bench, dusts the snowflakes off the armrest. Clarke doesn’t hesitate to take the empty spot next to him.
“What did you write down?” she asks carefully, trailing her fingertip along his knuckles.
Because she’d just expected him to start listing things from memory, it takes her by surprise when he pulls a folded piece of paper out of his inner pocket. “Much of this is probably stupid, so don’t judge, but number one is watching the sunset. Then there’s bubble baths and back scratches—” Clarke can’t help but giggle, yet she immediately feels bad about it, so she starts scratching his back, right below his shoulder blade.
At first he freezes, though it only lasts a couple seconds before he melts into it, closing his eyes. Still, she wonders how well he can feel it through his thick winter coat.
“What else?”
“Uh, going to the library. Picking blackberries straight off the bushes and eating them, remember how we used to do that? And the last thing is the night sky. Just in general. I didn’t see enough of it.”
Instead of fishing for the right words, Clarke lays her head on his shoulder. Once a few seconds have passed, his strong arm wraps around her waist, keeps her anchored there. The scent of his skin, the pine and the musk, overwhelms her senses, but it’s far from off-putting when they’re locked together like this, in the biting cold.
She can get used to it.
Eventually, she opens her eyes again, and her gaze settles on the brick wall at the other side of the road. Though the graffiti that covers it is a little washed out from the weather, she’s sure that this is it , because she sees the swing set a few feet away, unmoved through the years, rusty as ever.
“Hey, Bell,” she whispers to catch his attention, but when she looks up she notices that he’s already staring at the wall.
“Yeah, I remember.”
(On the first day of their senior year, the rain was pouring from angry clouds,
and yet they were all smiles, trying to zigzag between the drops.
Bellamy grabbed her hand, but instead of tugging her along like she expected he would,
he turned around to face her. his dark eyes softening as she continued to laugh.
He moved a strand of her soaked hair out of her face, which wasn’t unusual;
then he brushed his thumb across her upper lip, which was.
Just like that, her breath caught.
“Bell—”
Before she could think of something to say, he was backing her against the nearest wall.
Kissing her.
And it felt as though the sun came out.)
Suddenly she remembers it as if it happened yesterday; the way his body pressed against hers, their lips melting together. It was the first time he’d kissed her since the night on the rooftop; it’d been almost three years.
“I don’t know what came over me,” Bellamy murmurs, though his eyes are still fixated at the same spot. “But it changed everything... Like my arrest.”
Clarke gapes at him, startled by what she’s hearing. “Are you seriously comparing our kiss to that ?”
Finally, Bellamy looks at her, his lips parting once he sees her expression. Then he rushes a response, the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Sorry, I—that was a clumsy way of putting it. I just meant that, after it happened I realized that I was in love with you.”
Out of all the things he could’ve possibly said, this surprises her the most — not because she didn’t know he was in love with her, but because she would’ve never expected him to mention it so bluntly. Still, there’s something that confuses her more. “And how does that relate to your arrest?”
At that question, he bites the inside of his cheek. Instead of responding, he drags his hand through his curly hair, which has been sprinkled with white snowflakes, and breathes, “Can we go back?”
Clarke decides to cut him a break despite the myriad of questions bubbling in her mind.
She remembers the jade green door, the neatly-trimmed front yard and the squeaky steps that lead onto the porch. Except when she steps on them she discovers that they’ve been fixed. Finally.
Wrapping her coat tighter around her, Clarke takes a couple seconds to breathe in hopes that it’ll prevent her heart from breaking her ribs. Then she lifts her hand, knocks on the door with much less strength than she would like. A moment of silence passes, during which she tries to compose herself, holding her chin high, but the loud bark of a dog shakes her out of it.
Picasso.
The door is opened, but Clarke hardly registers it, as the Golden Retriever comes bursting forward to greet her, tail wagging and brown eyes alight.
“Hey, girl. Long time, no see, huh?” she says, scratching the dog’s ear.
“Yeah, tell me about it, Kid.”
At the sound of this familiar voice, she looks up to find Charmaine Diyoza standing in the doorway, wearing her signature, crooked smile and a maroon suit blazer. She clearly hasn’t aged a day in the last three years, which isn’t surprising.
Once Clarke has plucked up the courage to follow her over the threshold, they don’t hug, because that’s never been a normal part of their relationship. Instead, Diyoza makes a double-shot of espresso for both of them on her fancy coffee maker. Meanwhile, Clarke plops onto the mustard yellow armchair. It’s been three years since she last sat in it, and yet she still remembers the very first time she did.
(“Wanna tell me about this boyfriend of yours?”
Clarke tucked her legs under her chin, focused on the red plaid sleeve of her flannel.
His flannel. The scent of him had already seeped out of it, and she didn’t know what to do.
Maybe she could buy his deodorant, spray some on it.
Or start using his soap in the shower instead of her own.
Suddenly, she remembered Diyoza’s question. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
That’s just what her dad had told her over the phone, probably.
“What is he then? Your fuck buddy?”
Clarke gaped, thrown off by the woman’s language, yet the crude words were spoken calmly.
“No, he’s my best friend.”
“And you’re in love with him?”
“...Yes.”)
Picasso nudges her hand, effectively pulling her back to reality. Six years ago, when Clarke started going to therapy, Diyoza had just adopted the puppy from the local shelter, hoping that the presence of a cute animal would help soothe her clients.
Because Clarke was the first client to see the dog, she was allowed to name her, after a male painter, but Diyoza liked it.
“What brings you back here?” the woman asks, sitting down on the armchair across from Clarke’s. “I hope you’re still doing okay, as you put it.”
“Bellamy’s been released,” Clarke breathes, squeezing her eyes shut in preparation for a reaction that she has no idea what will be.
Still, Diyoza doesn’t immediately respond; she leans back in her chair, takes a long sip of her coffee while peering at her. If she’d had been any other therapist, the default reply would probably be something along the lines of ‘How do you feel about that ?’, but Diyoza is one-of-a-kind.
“And now he’s living with you.”
She’s a fucking mind reader. Though Clarke knows this, it never ceases to baffle her. “How did you…?”
Diyoza arches an eyebrow at her, the shadow of a small smile on her lips. “Come on, you’re pretty predictable. At least in your love for him. You need him to be okay, you need to know that he’s safe and it would kill you to think about him sleeping on a cold bench somewhere.”
“Actually, it was a piece-of-shit couch in our friend’s apartment.” After saying this, Clarke goes on to explain how Bellamy ended up living with her and Raven, that despite him not calling to let her know he’d been released, they somehow came to be at the same CVS at the same time.
Judging by the bright sparks in her eyes, Diyoza is intrigued. When Clarke has finished talking, the first thing she says is, “Well, that sounds like a damn fairytale, doesn’t it?”
One of her ex-therapist’s many talents is to veil her sarcasm so expertly that no one knows whether she’s using it or not.
“If he wasn’t struggling so much, then maybe,” Clarke sighs.
To drown the sadness that is swirling in her cut, she takes a big gulp of her coffee, then continues, “I’m just so worried about him. All the time. That’s why my friends told me to contact you.” To distract herself for a moment, she caresses the top of Picasso’s golden head. “I know that there’s so much he isn’t telling me about the way his illness affects him, and I want to create a space where he feels safe enough to talk about it with me.”
“Well, have you told him about your struggles?”
Clarke blinks, her heart clenching in her chest. “Our experiences with mental illness are nothing alike.”
“Sure, but they’re connected. In a broad sense, the cause for them has been the same. Maybe if you tell him, he’ll feel more at ease, knowing that he’s not the only one who’s been affected by what happened,” Diyoza says, crossing her legs.
(“You don’t wanna let go, I know,” Diyoza said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she handed her a tissue for her swollen, tear-filled eyes. “Here’s my advice to you. Write him letters. You can pour your fucking heart out in them ‘cause you don’t have to send them. Or, even better. Call his cell phone. Leave him voicemails, all right?”
Sniffling, Clarke choked out a question, “Is this the same thing you tell people whose loved ones have died?”
The answer was ‘yes.’)
Worrying her lower lip, Clarke replies, “But he’ll blame himself. I know he will.”
At the end of the day, she’s aware that this isn’t a good reason to keep the truth from him, but the strong possibility of making him sad when he’s just started feeling better has a bitter taste rising in her mouth. Something tells her that Bellamy is completely under the illusion that she was always okay, that she walked out of that county jail and continued to live her life like he told her to, as though nothing had changed.
But, just like Bellamy said this morning, everything changed. For her, too.
“If you can’t prevent his self-blame — let’s face it, you probably can’t — then let him feel that way. Talk to him about the emotions that he’s having. There isn’t much else you can do. Depression is one nasty bitch, you know that. We all have to learn how to deal with it in our own way. That includes Bellamy.”
When she returns to the apartment later, the sky has already darkened. She finds Bellamy on the living room couch, flipping through… Netter’s Atlas of Human Anatomy. That’s one of her text books for school. At first it puzzles her, because why on Earth would he want to read that when there’s a whole bookcase full of wonderful literature just a few feet away?
But then he notices her and immediately snaps the book closed, his freckled cheeks flushing. “I, uh. It was opened on your desk, and I saw that you put little notes in it, and—your handwriting, the doodles—Sorry, I’ll shut up.”
Her heart flutters as she sits down next to him. Now that she’s closer, she sees the tears clinging to his eyes but doesn’t comment on them. Instead, she wraps around him and places a sweet kiss behind his ear.
“I know I shouldn’t have pried,” he mumbles, trailing his fingertip across a lime green Post-It, on which she’s drawn the human heart in detail. Pure affection floods her chest, makes her tear up, though she manages to smile through it.
“You can look at my notes if you want to, Bell, but most of them are just boring medical terms.”
A tiny yet bright grin spreads on his lips. “Yeah, I figured. What’s a metacarpal?”
Clarke grins, too. “They’re some of the bones in your hand. Look—” To show him, she touches the back of his hand “They start around here...” she tells him, brushing her fingertip along the faint line below the heel of his hand. “....And end at your knuckles. The bones in your fingers are called phalanges.”
“Like Regina Phalange?”
Chuckling, she caresses his thumb. “Yeah, that’s how I memorized it. I wish Phoebe had made up names relating to every bone in the human body. It would’ve everything a lot easier.”
Despite the humor of it all, she can’t help but dwell on the fact that this is the first time that Bellamy has shown a deeper interest in her education and wonder what caused him to.
As if he can read her mind — much like Diyoza — he gazes at her and says, “I wanna connect with you so badly, but I feel like I’m failing at it. That’s my own fault, though. I’ve been too caught up in my own head to focus on getting to know you. I’ve been taking our friendship for granted.”
“No, you haven’t.”
He sighs, his dark eyes growing gentler as they roam hers. “Yes, I have. I—I don’t wanna lose you, Clarke. Not again, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen if I don’t understand how you’ve changed.”
Blinking, Clarke stares at him until the pieces suddenly fall into place.
Raven. He must’ve talked to her.
At the realization, panic flares in her veins, sends her heart into a frenzy. “What did Rae tell you?”
His brow furrows. “Nothing. But your dad—well, while we making pancakes this morning he told me about your Etsy shop and that you want to work at Ark Hospital during your residency, and I realized that I didn’t know any of that, so…”
Her heart leaping in her chest from sudden relief, Clarke throws her arms around his neck. His body jolts in surprise, but he quickly pushes the book off his lap to return the hug. For a long time, they stay like that, her eyes fluttering shut as she relishes in the nice warmth that flows through her.
What breaks them apart is her stomach growling rudely.
Bellamy chuckles, then draws back to lean his forehead against hers. “I guess we should cook dinner.”
They listen to music on the radio while the rice is boiling, their bodies swaying along to the beat, and Bellamy seems to be enjoying himself, if the easy smile on his face is anything to go by. Grinning at him, Clarke bumps her shoulder lightly against his, but when she lifts the lid off the simmering broccoli the words that are ringing through the kitchen wash over her like a wave of freezing water:
You’re gone
And I gotta stay high
All the time
To keep you off my mind.
The need to switch to another radio station is immediate.
She shivers, sensing the weight of his gaze on her though she’s unable to meet it.
“You okay?” His fingers splay across her lower back, moving in soothing circles, but the touch does nothing to help her.
(The stranger was rubbing circles on her spine, holding back her hair while she retched her heart out.
What a lovely way to meet someone.
“I’ve been watching out for you all night, you better tell me what the fuck is wrong,” the girl said, her voice carrying a sharp edge. “That shit isn’t normal. You need help.”
“You do—don’t understand,” Clarke slurred, sinking to the ground. She rubbed her palms against the cold, rough asphalt as sobs tightened her throat. “My boyfriend’s—in jail, and he doesn’t want me to see him.”)
Somehow, she manages to shake herself out of it and brushes off his concerns.
Afterwards, they eat the cajun chicken and rice while watching the first four episodes of Friends, because Bellamy hasn’t watched this timeless show in six years; he deserves the laughter, but even the most hilarious jokes don’t work their magic on him.
Maybe she’d be able to laugh if the feeling of his eyes on her didn’t make her so tense.
They decide to go to bed eventually, but unspoken words thicken the air between them and make it hard to breathe. Already dressed in her sleepwear, Clarke watches him hesitate at the end of the bed, worrying his lower lip. Her heart lurches in her chest.
What does he want to say?
She knows what she should say.
Then he pulls off his sweater, and her jaw drops of its own accord. Though she’s unable to tear her eyes off his chest, she manages to snap her mouth shut. The darkness in her bedroom makes it hard to see much, but it’s impossible not to notice the defined muscles lining his abdomen and arms. Her mouth goes dry.
“Last night you said something about me being different. And you’re right. I can’t tell you everything now, it’d—it’d be too hard. I can’t expose myself in that way. Not yet. But this, this is a start, right?”
Fighting off her own astonishment, Clarke nods.
Bellamy pulls aside the comforter to lie down next to her. For some reason, he seems closer like this, even though there isn’t less physical space between them than usual. Carefully, she links her arm under his, so that her hand meets his bare shoulder. He takes a ragged breath at the touch but doesn’t pull his soft eyes from hers.
They’re so close that the tips of their noses are grazing. “It’s true. You are different, but that’s not a bad thing,” she whispers, letting her hand travel along his spine to map the muscles that surround it. Afterwards, she swallows the bitter lump of guilt in her throat, which was created by the part of her mind that’s screaming ‘Tell him! He deserves to know!’.
Bellamy melts into her gentle touch, even though his breath is still quivering. Once she’s roamed his entire back, her mind dazed from the discoveries, she moves on to his chest, her fingers travelling from his collarbone down the valley of his sternum. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing yet doesn’t say a word.
That’s until her index finger comes across an anomaly. Above his third rib on the left side of his chest, his skin seems rougher than the rest. When she stops to feel it, she hears his breath stutter.
“Clarke—”
Alarmed, she stares at him, watching his jaw twitch. Then she reaches across him to flick on the bedside table lamp, and the warm light that pours from it spills onto him, revealing that the rough part of his skin is actually a scar.
It’s pale, slightly jagged around the edges, and in a terrible place.
Horror seeps into her bones, numbing her for a few long seconds. Her body goes rigid with fear, though there is no immediate threat; it’s just a nightmare that has come to life. When she tries to speak, she realizes that her throat is closing up, contracting with tears already.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Bellamy says, trying to keep his voice gentle despite the tremor in it.
Letting her thumb graze the scar, Clarke shakes her head frantically. “Someone tried to kill you.”
In truth, she doesn’t know that for sure, and as a med student she should refrain from jumping to conclusions, but there isn’t exactly a multitude of ways to get a scar like that when you’re locked up in prison.
Bellamy doesn’t say anything at first, which tells her that she isn’t wrong.
God, she wishes she was.
“A long time ago. I’m okay.”
At his reassurance, the first broken sob rips itself loose from her throat. His hand moves into her hair to cradle the back of her head while she cries, her tears soaking his warm skin. Forcing herself to do something else, she presses her trembling lips to the scar, kissing it softly.
“Listen to me, Princess...”
Princess. He hasn’t called her that in six years .
Awestruck by hearing the nickname fall off his tongue, Clarke lifts her tear-filled eyes to meet his. Suddenly she registers his heart thumping in his chest, against her palm, and she releases the breath she’d been holding.
His dark gaze still unwavering, Bellamy worries his bottom lip. “I’m really fucking scared right now, so I’m gonna tell you this story quickly, okay?”
“No, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” he cuts her off. “But you’re not gonna like it.”
While she listens to him tell her about it, the story unfolds itself like a horror film, playing rapidly in her mind.
I didn’t know the man, but he was much stronger than me at the time. He used a shiv, made partly out of paper. He missed my heart by two inches. Later, I was told that he attacked me because he was a serial rapist, and he found out that I killed one.
I only survived because another inmate pulled him off me before he could stab again. I lost half a litre of blood, spent two weeks in the prison hospital. When I woke up, the nurses told me I was lucky to be alive, but I was in too much pain to feel that way.
By the time he stops talking, his entire body is shaking and small beads of sweat have gathered on his temple. Clarke just holds him closer, brushes her fingers through his hair. Though she tries her hardest to keep her tears at bay, they keep spilling over her eyes. At least there are no more sobs left to accompany them.
This is about him. Not her.
“The man who saved my life,” he says, his voice calm now. “His name is Lincoln. He’s still in prison.”
When she closes her eyes that night, about to give herself up to sleep, she sends a prayer towards the Danville prison in Illinois.
Lincoln, I hope you’re alive right now.
You have no idea how much I owe you.
Chapter 7
Notes:
Knowing that this fic means a lot to so many of you is incredibly important to me. I can't express it enough <3
This chapter is definitely more relationship-focused, so I hope you like that.
Chapter Text
The night sky; it’s something Bellamy missed while in prison, but it’s still there for him.
It didn’t die or drift away just because he couldn’t see it, and Clarke is determined to show him that. So determined that — despite the heavy exhaustion residing in her bones — she carries out a plan after returning from the ER one evening: a plan that involves creamy hot chocolate, a cozy nest of blankets on the fire escape and some lit candles to make it seem less cold.
The second part of the plan is kicked off when Bellamy returns from his support group meeting. Clarke nearly stumbles on her way to greet him, to make sure that he doesn’t take off his coat. Then she tells him to put on his fuzzy socks, flashes the pink pair with pugs that she’s wearing herself. He follows her recommendation without question, though his eyebrows knit together.
In the meantime, she grabs the thermos of hot chocolate off the counter. She grabs his hand when he joins her in the kitchen, tells him to close his eyes. To her relief, he trusts her enough to do so, but he does ask, “What’s going on?”
There’s no need to answer — not when he’s going to find out in less than a minute.
As soon as they step onto the fire escape, the cold air surrounds them, makes his lips part. “Clarke...”
“Open your eyes,” she tells him, struggling to control the bright smile that wants to conquer her entire face. She gives his hands a gentle, reassuring squeeze just before he meets her gaze. An easy, contagious smile curls on his lips right away, but it fades when his eyes start to move around.
At first, it makes worry twitch in her lower stomach. Then he whispers, “You did this for me?” his every word gentle, and calmness washes over her.
“Yeah…”
While they sit down and wrap themselves in soft blankets, Bellamy doesn’t take his eyes off her; they’re warmer and deeper than she remembers seeing them in a long time, which takes her breath away. In the end, the intensity of it is too much and she has to turn away, distract herself by pouring the hot chocolate into two mugs.
But he’s still staring, to which she can only say, “You’re supposed to be looking at the sky. Not me.”
“Duly noted,” he breathes. For some reason, it sends shivers down her spine.
The hot chocolate is rich and velvety, the sky is starlit and frosty. As the cold wind bites at her cheeks, she recalls what he said last week about missing the cold weather. Since then, the comment has puzzled her a bit, so she plucks up the courage to ask, “Didn’t they let you outside during winter?”
“They did, but I didn’t have a jacket and I didn’t wanna risk getting sick.” After answering, he takes a long sip of his hot chocolate, hums at the taste. It makes her smile.
“Where did you get these mugs? They’re really cool,” he says suddenly, looking at his own.
The one she chose for him has all the planets on it; they’re orbiting the cup, painted in great detail. Her own is more provocative, so to speak, with the outline of a naked, chubby woman at the front; it’s a part of her body positivity collection. When he looks at it with interest glimmering in his dark eyes, she senses blood rise to her cheeks.
“I actually made them myself. I sell them on Etsy for thirteen bucks, personalize them to each customer.”
Bellamy grins. “That’s awesome. Do you sell anything else on there?”
His genuine curiosity makes her heart flip in her ribcage. As it does, she tells him about the key chains, iPhone cases, hairpins and decorative boxes until she has to stop herself. But he places a hand on her shoulder, assuring her, “You don’t have to curb your enthusiasm. I wanna know more.”
Still feeling a bit sheepish, Clarke pours some more hot chocolate into his mug. “Well, my shop has become quite popular. It’s a solid way of earning money from creativity. I never wanted med school to interfere with my love for art, but I was still too busy during the first year to work on anything else. That changed when I moved in with Raven and she encouraged me to pick it back up.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m really glad you had her.”
Wiping some chocolate off his upper life, he turns his eyes to the sky and takes a deep, ragged breath. Somehow, he looks both spellbound and devastated at the same time. Clarke moves to put her hand on top of his but realizes that the glove she’s wearing will be a barrier, so she takes it off before touching him.
“Talk to me,” she whispers, trying not to sound pleading. “What are you thinking about?”
Now that their fingers are laced together, he caresses her thumb with his own. When he finally speaks, his voice is fragile, pressured by invisible tears, “Sometimes… It feels as though I’m not really here. I want to be, but I’m—” he takes a sharp gulp of air, obviously trying to restrain the sob that emerges with it, despite his efforts. Her heart quivers, and she lifts their interwoven hands to kiss the heel of his palm. “—I’m fucking stuck. I can’t live the life I want. I can’t be who I want to be.”
“Give yourself time, Bellamy.”
Even though she half expects him to grow more distant at her words, he just huddles closer to her, and she brings blanket tighter around them, eager to provide him with the comfort of warmth. “In prison, you are taught to punish yourself more than society ever could. Every second, you are reminded of how guilty you are, that it’s your own fault your life is ruined. You start to treat yourself the way the correctional officers treat you, with coldness and disdain. There wasn’t—there wasn’t a single day in there that I didn’t hate myself.”
Bellamy started shaking halfway through talking and his eyes have turned glassy. To ground him, Clarke kisses his cheek, lets her lips linger on his skin. “Guess it’s a hard habit to break, huh?”
“I’m trying,” he says, tears spilling over his eyes.
“Hey, I know you are. I know, Bell.”
Cradling his face, she lowers her head to find his gaze, which is clouded. Still, she doesn’t give up, looks at him as he is slowly soothed, perhaps by her touch, perhaps by himself. It hurts to think about how many times he must've had to comfort himself because no one else was there to do it. There’s no doubt in her mind that that has become a habit, too.
Bellamy always sleeps with his shirt off now.
She has traced the edge of his scar so many times that she could follow it with her eyes shut, that her lips know the exact point of it where it thickens just a little because that’s the part she kisses.
As she brushes her fingers through his smooth hair, his eyes are closed and his lips parted. Here, in the dim-lit bedroom, she is a witness to his rare serenity. Her heart is so soft right now that it feels useless, and still, no part of her cares. Since he told her about what happened to him in prison, it’s been harder for her to fall asleep; she imagines the pain that he must’ve been in so vividly that it becomes her pain, searing in her bones.
And then she thinks about what would’ve happened had Lincoln not been as quick and brave as he was.
Her best friend would have returned to her in a casket.
It’s too much to bear; tears sting in her eyes, though he is right next to her, his chest rising and falling with his every breath. Longing for him, she buries her nose in the crook of his neck.
He is here. He is here. He is here.
For the last six years, she’s grown used to living without him. Hell, she could even imagine having a future where their lives weren’t at all intertwined if that was what he wanted, but every time the possibility of him dying entered her mind she just about shut down. Maybe she could live her life without him, but if he was ever lost to the world then she’d be lost, too.
To ground herself, she nuzzles his freckled cheek and is surprised when she senses his strong arms tighten around her.
“Go to sleep, Princess,” he murmurs, the faintest of smiles gracing his lips as he nuzzles her temple.
In teasing, she pokes her cold foot against his underneath the covers.
Something is different about this Saturday morning.
Desperate to sleep for just a couple more minutes, Clarke shifts on the mattress, flipping onto her other side, but as she moves her knee encounters an unfamiliar barrier, like a wall, except it feels soft. It could be the duvet, and yet… it’s not, because when she forces her tired eyes to flutter open she finds the fabric of his flannel pajama pants brushing against her skin.
Only then does it dawn on her: Bellamy hasn’t left the bed.
For the first time in a month, she isn’t waking up alone. She’s grown so used to the cold, empty sheets in the morning that them being anything leaves her awestruck. Needing to enjoy it as long as it lasts, she huddles closer to him, entangling her legs with his beneath the comforter.
Oh. God...
His cock is hard and warm, pressed against her sensitive inner thigh now. It’s been so long since she last felt it that, for a brief moment, the sensation overwhelms her, making her want to pull back. But then the heat of him seeps into her skin; seconds later, she feels it swirling in her core. As her eyelids flutter, she has to fight the sudden, intense desire to grasp his broad shoulders and rub herself against him.
Off-limits, she tells herself firmly. And he’s asleep.
As it turns out, he isn’t.
When she finally lifts her gaze to his face, she finds his earthy eyes wide and his jaw slack. His curly hair is ruffled from sleep, haloed by the golden rays of the morning sun. Her heart swells so much she thinks it might burst at the sight.
With every passing second, the silence between them grows heavier, though it’s not quite uncomfortable, just loaded, and they both know why. Her throat is dry as a desert, and a deep blush is painting the skin behind his freckles.
What breaks the spell is the words that slip out of her mouth, “You aren’t in the shower.”
“No shit, huh?” Bellamy breathes, clearly trying to laugh, but it just comes out sounding strained. Aware of that, he drags a hand through his hair and adds, “Uh, I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t mention—I’m sorry, I know I should do something about it, but it just doesn’t feel good.”
Her stomach drops. What?
Maybe she should’ve realized this after he talked about masturbation as if it were a nuisance, the unavoidable cure to a problem. She wants him to know how much she hates that he feels that way, but it most likely won’t help him. Something else would, though…
Except, the last time she suggested it he all but ran away from her.
Instead of offering him what she really wants to give him, she starts scratching his naked back, right in between his shoulder blades, and he groans at it, the rough sound sending a rush of wetness to her core.
Clarke squirms a little, hoping he doesn’t notice. Trying to distract herself from the need to rub her thighs together, she asks, “Why doesn’t it feel good?” and hopes that she’s not overstepping.
For a minute, he hesitates, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Then he says, “I’m just… so fucking tired of my own hands.”
Refusing herself time to think it through, Clarke takes a risk. “...What about mine?”
If the way his eyes widen is any indication, Bellamy can’t believe the words that just came out of her mouth — and in some way, she can’t either, but there’s no taking them back now. In truth, she doesn’t even want to take them back.
“Yours?” he breathes, his lips parted. “Do you want to—?”
“Yes,” she replies, unwavering, because she doesn’t want to leave any doubt in his mind.
Maybe this is too much for him. In case it is, he can turn her down, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. His dark eyes dart, searching hers for answers, his Adam’s apple bobs, and then his entire expression softens. “I… I want you to. Does that make me a terrible person?”
To reassure him, she presses her fingertips to his freckled cheek. “No, it doesn’t.”
After saying this, Clarke makes their foreheads meet, peers at him through her eyelashes until she sees a small smile on his lips. For the sake of easing him into it, she nuzzles his sharp jawline, sucks a little at his pulse point; this has him shuddering, and she grins against his skin, relishing in the effect that she’s having on him.
“What are you doing?” Bellamy asks when she lets her teeth graze the top of his ear. Her heart flutters at the sound of amusement in his voice.
“Just getting you warmed up,” is her teasing reply.
“I think I’m warm enough.”
Oh fuck. It’s that voice; the one that she didn’t think existed anymore, that could get her so hot for him embarrassingly fast, gruff and dark. It’d be a lie to say that she doesn’t almost lose all reason upon hearing it again, but she has an important thing to do. For him.
Because she wants him to be as comfortable as possible, she pulls his pajama pants down, and he helps her do the same with his boxers. When his cock springs free of its confines, it’s as if all of the air is sucked out of the bedroom. Clarke’s breath stutters, her heart pounding as she stares at him: his lips are quivering, his eyes softening, but he’s at a loss for words.
And she can’t blame him.
Instead, she gathers herself just enough to say, “I’m just gonna touch you first, okay?” because it seems that they both need to take it slow right now.
Bellamy nods frantically, biting his lower lip.
Their foreheads are still resting against one another, which is soothing as she brushes her fingers along the underside of his shaft, and the heat that seeps into her skin at the contact is stunning. Still, she’s more focused on the ragged breath that he takes and his fluttering eyelids. Smiling, she waits until he’s looking back at her, his tender gaze full of awe, before wrapping her hand around his cock.
Bellamy’s jaw drops, but he doesn’t say anything.
While she moves her hand along his length, she realizes how heavy and thick it is, how soft the skin that encases it is. For a minute, she tries to remember how it felt, holding him like this six years ago, but the memory is far too foggy, and maybe it doesn’t really matter. Because this is about him, at this moment.
Desperate to cover every last inch of him, Clarke cups his balls, satisfied when it pulls a strangled noise from his throat. From there, she goes back down to circle the sensitive tip with her thumb, and he whimpers, his cock stirring in her hand.
When he winces, worry pinches at her heart. “Bell, are you doing okay?”
He must recognize the apprehension in her voice because he lifts his gaze to hers. What strikes her is how young he looks, as if the years of pain and hardship have fallen away, but she knows better than to think that they have.
“Please, Clarke. Don’t stop.”
At these words, she gives him the first, real stroke, keeping it slow. His breath hitches around a loud moan.
Leaning in, she whispers in his ear, “You always had to hurry, but not anymore. Not with me.”
It sounds like a promise because that’s exactly what it is.
Taking her sweet time, she keeps her jerks slow, twists her wrist at the base of him. There are no words in his throat, just a myriad of breathy sounds, all waiting to emerge; hot air ghosts over her lips with each one. With each passing second, she grows more tempted to take him into her mouth, just to see what it would do to him, but it would probably be too much.
Clarke twists the chaotic curls of his hair around her fingers, wondering how he’s lasting this long. It sounds as if he’s been dangling over the edge for minutes. Her next stroke is harder as she presses a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay, Bell. You don’t have to hold yourself back for me.”
Wetting her lips, she flicks her thumb across the head of his cock, then — without allowing him to catch his breath — speeds up, working him fast until he chokes on a moan and tumbles off the edge. As he spills into her palm, his head falls heavily onto her shoulder.
“Fuck,” he breathes hotly against her throat, and Clarke senses even more wetness surging between her legs. In truth, her arousal is borderline embarrassing at this point; her panties are completely soaked, and he has no idea.
Maybe it’s best to keep it that way. This is about him.
Only him.
While he calms his breath, she wipes her palm off with a tissue; the bit of his come that she misses is clinging to her thumb, so she sucks it off without a second thought, but when she looks up she finds him staring at her, his dark eyes aflame.
Clarke presses her thumb to his full bottom lip; it seems to release something that’s been chained up inside him for way too long. Groaning, he draws her thumb between his teeth, causing her heart to skip. Then he slips his hand into her panties, holding her firmly against him as she jolts in surprise.
“God, yes,” she nearly sobs when his calloused, warm fingers trace her slit. In a second, every selfless thought of hers is smothered by the pure, intense need shooting through her veins.
Though he must feel how wet she is, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he sinks two long fingers into her heat, but he doesn’t fuck her with them — at least not yet. Within a couple seconds, he finds her throbbing clit, rubs rough circles onto it until she whines from pleasure and has to dig her fingernails into his shoulder.
“Oh—” She’s fucking shaking already, could fall apart on his command, but he doesn’t take the easy way out: As opposed to making her come from this alone, Bellamy takes his fingers off her clit in favor of thrusting them deeper into her.
Somehow, he makes finding her G-spot seem like the easiest thing in the universe. When he hits it the first time, her lips quiver as a moan gets stuck in her throat and blinding heat shoots up her spine.
This can’t be real… Can it?
Before he goes for it again, he massages her inner walls gently, giving her just enough time to regain her breath. She whimpers, and that’s when he decides to thrust again. Her mind goes numb from the pleasure until the only things she can focus on are the ones that truly matter:
He smells like soap and sweat. Goosebumps are covering the back of his neck. His nose is brushing hers. She’s coming apart on his fingers, wishing it would never end.
But of course, it does.
So fast that it nearly gives her whiplash.
“This—this can’t happen again,” he stammers before she’s even fully wound down.
His eyes are shadowed. Like nothing else, the shame that has cut into his expression stabs at her heart and makes her blood boil at the same time.
Deep down, she knows that she shouldn’t be angry at him, that she should’ve expected this reaction from him, but at this moment all she can think to say is, “Why? ” Though she intends for it to sound forceful, the word is choked when it emerges.
His answer is unexpected. It’s not 'we’re moving too fast’ or ‘this makes me anxious’. Suddenly, he looks exasperated rather than shell-shocked, and the emotion is no longer directed at himself. “Why? I could ask you the same thing, Clarke. Why do you want me? I have nothing to offer you anymore. I—” he shakes his head, wincing as if in pain. “—There’s a reason why I told you not to wait for me. I’m not the same person anymore. You need to realize that.”
“You think I waited for you all those years?” she says, failing to hide the tears straining her vocal cords. “Well, I didn’t. I fell in love again. So no, I didn’t wait. And I’m not waiting now.”
It feels like another person is speaking for her. She doesn’t register her own lips moving, only their slight tremble once the room falls silent. Bellamy is looking at her as though she just slapped him, shrinking next to her.
Seeing him like this has sour guilt rising through her throat, making her feel dizzy, but there’s nothing she can do about it now.
He’s already turned his back to her.
And there are miles between them, once again.
Chapter 8
Notes:
Thank you so much for the wonderful feedback on the last chapter! 🥰 This chapter definitely feels like a turning point in terms of relationship development, but the amount of dialogue made it difficult for me to write. I hope you like it, though.
Also, I know this is a bit late because World Mental Health Day was yesterday, but I just wanted to say that, if you're struggling, your feelings are valid and you are not pathetic for having them. You are worthy of affection and happiness. Please be kind to yourself.
Much love //
Jo
Chapter Text
He might not come back.
That’s the awful thought that pushes itself into her brain after the door slams shut. As her heart hammers in her chest, nearly breaking against her ribs, Clarke considers doing the most cliché thing imaginable and chase after him down the street. But what good will it do? If he wants to go back to living with Murphy, there’s nothing she can do about it. The last thing she wants to do is make him feel as if he’s confined here; imprisoned by her.
So instead of begging him to stay, she takes a hot shower to wash him off her body, but the water can’t drown out the echo of his breathy moans ringing in her ears.
Afterward, she tears the sheets off her bed, washes them, too.
She sobs into the sink while trying to do the dishes.
No matter how hard she tries to, she can’t shake the reality of hurting him, of everything going wrong terribly fast. They didn’t think, they just needed each other. At one moment, everything was like a dream, and at the next, she wished that it had been because then he’d still be here.
Fuck.
Of course, she could just call to tell him that she’s sorry for everything, but she hasn’t called him in five years — and the times she did, she reached his voicemail, which made it easier: In case she screwed up and said the wrong thing, it wouldn’t matter because he wouldn’t actually ever hear it.
(“My parents freaked out. I bet you’d freak out, too. If you knew.
Maybe I should’ve told you earlier. Maybe I should tell you for real.
Write you a letter or something, which you’ll never read.
You want me to be happy.
Well, I’m not fucking happy!”
A whimper escaped her lips before the sobs overpowered her,
and her tears stained the pillowcase.)
Clarke drowns the rest of her sorrows in strong coffee and tries to power through studying for her upcoming exams. Still, her brain is scattered, unable to make sense of the words on the page. Several times, she thinks she hears the lock on the front door click open, but Bellamy never shows.
He’s convinced that she only misses the memory of him, and yet all she wants to do right is wrap her arms around everything that he is, tell him that he’s enough. What he’s been through and the struggles that have been born from it don’t make him any less worthy. She wants to kiss his cheek and assure him that they’ll be okay.
But will they be?
As tears blur her vision, her mind taunts her:
How to lose him forever:
Get lost in the passion for a moment.
Lash out when he rejects you.
Break his battered heart.
Shaking herself out of the despair, Clarke picks her phone off the dinner table, clutches it in her trembling hand. The clock on her lock screen tells her that it’s been two hours since he left.
Do it. Do it before it’s too late.
Finally, she dials his number, listens to every haunting, hollow beep. When she reaches his voicemail, panic flares in her veins, and yet she forces herself to start talking. At first, the only words that will fall off her lips are, “Bell... I, um—”
Blinking the tears away furiously, she draws frivolous circles on the surface of the table with her fingertip. Her voice is fragile as she continues, “I just wanna say that you—if you don’t wanna come home… you don’t have to. I understand if you don’t, I—”
“Clarke?”
She drops her phone at the sound of his voice.
Before her eyes have cleared enough from tears to find him, Bellamy’s lifting her out of the chair. Her body wraps around his, her legs encompassing his waist and her hands clinging to his back. As she buries her nose in his neck, the scent of pine and musk surrounds her, has relief surging through her chest.
At that moment, Clarke wants nothing more than melt into him.
“I’ll always come home,” he whispers, the promise smooth as honey despite the tears in his voice. Then his lips press against her temple, and his thumb catches the lone tear that escapes her eye. “We should talk, huh?”
Still, once he's carried her to the couch, that’s not the first thing they do...
They cry; brush the tears from each other’s eyes, and she feels her lips tremble under the weight of an apology that won’t emerge. They touch, and she begs her hands to speak for her. Maybe if her palm on his cheek could say—
“Clarke, why don’t you hate me?”
(“Bellamy, I love you. I love you so much.")
The pain in his voice is so sharp that it pierces her chest.
When a tear escapes his eye, she wipes it away with her thumb. “I don’t wanna hate you, Bellamy. I could if I wanted to, but that would mean losing you, and I can’t go through that pain again.”
As his lips part, Clarke realizes that she’s said too much. There’s no taking it back now, though, not when his earthy eyes have already softened and his lips have parted, but a part of her can’t help wondering why he’s so stunned by hearing her say this. If anything, he should’ve known that what happened would cause her pain.
When she recognizes a flicker of panic cross his gaze, it dawns on her: Denial. He’s in denial.
Of course he is.
The last thing Bellamy wants to face is that she didn’t escape the brutal heartache that he wanted to protect her from. The truth could crush him, and yet deep down she knows that if they can’t be open with each other, their relationship might suffer even more.
And she’s had enough.
“You think I walked out of that county jail with my chin held high?” she starts, ignoring her pounding heart. “I didn’t. Bell, I wasn’t ready to let go of you.”
Though her throat is drying out as his eyes widen, she forces herself to continue, because there’s no stopping the truth now. “It didn’t matter that I was terrified of living my life without you, that I didn’t want to leave you behind all alone, because you wanted what was best for me and there was nothing I could do. You told me I wasn’t allowed to love you anymore. So, what? You think I just stopped? You think it was that easy?”
“No, I—”
“I’m not done,” Clarke interjects, curling her shaking hands into fists. “This morning, you told me I needed to realize that you aren’t the same person anymore, and I said that I'm not waiting. I meant that I’m not waiting for the boy I loved to come back.”
Putting such a sharp distinction between his past and present self feels wrong, but it’s what he does himself, so maybe he’ll understand it better if she describes it like this. At least that’s what she hopes for, as she takes a breath and adds, “I know he won’t return, but I’m always gonna remember him. He’s important to me, but I care more about the man that you’ve become. All I’m trying to do is figure out who you are.”
Somehow, Clarke has been so caught up in trying to explain that she’s missed the tears that are staining his freckled cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I—I projected my self-hatred onto you.”
Carefully, she reaches out to wipe a tear off the corner of his mouth, and Bellamy pulls her into a warm embrace. It hasn’t been long since they last hugged, but she is still struck by an overwhelming need to hold onto him for as long as possible, preferably forever.
She’s spent too many nights alone, buried in his clothes as she sobbed and longed for him. Now that he’s really here, she has to do what it takes to keep him — even if that entails exposing parts of herself that she was afraid of sharing.
“I’m just happy you came back,” is what she murmurs against his neck, nuzzling it to revel in its warmth.
When Bellamy draws back, his full lips are slightly parted and his eyes are still clouded with tears. “I wasn’t sure that you were gonna let me back in, not after I reacted the way I did. You fell in love again. How could you not? I—”
“It took me three years,” Clarke confesses. “I didn’t tell you that.”
Because admitting it would reveal that she was incapable of living the life that he so clearly wanted her to have. For more than three years, she was a mess, and he doesn’t even know half of it yet. Eventually, she’ll have to tell him everything, but right now doesn’t seem like a good time.
If Raven could see this, she’d be calling her a coward, no doubt. After all, she was the one friend who stayed in the dorm room with her every weekend to make sure that she didn’t go to some sleazy fraternity party just to drink all of the free alcohol.
“Three years?” Bellamy echoes, worrying his lip.
Suddenly, she feels the need to tell him more about Lexa. Their story is neither long nor particularly complicated, but he deserves to know about it.
So she talks about how they met during her last year of college, had well-matched academic drives and future plans, though Lexa was far more interested in the world of politics. Just before graduation, they decided to move in together, somewhere in New York close to Lexa’s parents. Nevertheless, Clarke had applied to several medical schools, including one close to Ark, and when she was accepted to it, she realized that… her heart was screaming for her to go home.
And she did.
Lexa didn’t follow her.
The soft look in Bellamy’s eyes radiates ‘I’d follow you anywhere’ , but he doesn't say it. Instead, he asks, “Didn’t that hurt?” while caressing her knuckles.
After they stopped hugging, she ended up sitting across his lap, and it doesn’t feel as awkward as it probably should given what happened between them this morning.
Shaking her head, Clarke replies, “Not much. I saw it coming.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, she plucks up the courage to ask where he went. She doesn’t know which response she expected, but the library definitely wasn’t it. The small, genuine smile that grows on his lips makes her heart swell fondly. As a teenager, he would borrow a big stack of books every week and devour each one.
“I got myself a new card,” he says, grinning proudly. Then he shows her the books that he chose: The Song of Achilles and Circe by Madeline Miller, which sound perfect for his mythology-loving heart; Reasons to Stay Alive by Matt Haig, which she has already read, but she doesn’t tell him that. The last one is the most surprising, a collection of love poems by Pablo Neruda. Clarke takes it from him, her curiosity piqued, lets her eyes wander across the pretty cover.
She glances at Bellamy again, sees that his smile has turned sheepish. “Yeah, I thought—I needed the beauty, I guess.”
Nodding in understanding, Clarke opens the book on a random page and begins to read:
My love,
we have found each other
thirsty and we have
drunk up all the water and the blood,
we found each other
hungry
and we bit each other
as fire bites,
leaving wounds in us.
— absence.
Feeling heat rush to her cheeks for no apparent reason, she closes the book with a sudden snap.
Bellamy looks at her, one of his eyebrows raised in question. It’s obvious that he wants her to share what she just read. Even though she doesn’t, his smile brightens before he tells her, “I also called your grandmother. I wanted to come home much sooner, but she demanded to know as much as I would tell her. We talked for a while.”
Relief surges in Clarke’s chest. Finally. He’s been putting the call off for so long that she’d started worrying about him running out of medicine. “She offered to pay for my prescription, but she gave me an ultimatum. I have to quit smoking.”
“Well, my grandfather died of lung cancer, so that sounds like something she would want. You can do it, though, I’m sure of that,” she says, giving him a sideways hug in support.
Ever since she saw him lit his first cigarette it was clear to her that Bellamy isn’t smoking because he finds it enjoyable, and what he says now only confirms her belief, “I thought it would help combat the tremors. It does work, but the effects are only short-term, and it’s not worth spending money on. Kathleen also made sure to tell me that.” He smiles affectionately. “At least I won’t have to worry about the prescription anymore. She said she’d deposit the money for ten months of pills into my account tomorrow.”
“Ten months? Why ten months?” Before he can answer, Clarke realizes, “...You’re hoping to be off them by that time.”
Sighing, he shifts a little, then admits, “I know it’s not realistic, but it’s nice to have goals, right?”
“Bell, this is your mental health. It's not a New Year’s resolution.”
Although she knows that it sounds a bit harsh, it’s the truth, but she has no idea of how Bellamy will react to it until he snaps at her, “What do you know about mental health? You read about it in a textbook.”
It feels as if someone just poured a bucket of freezing water over her; the ice seeps into her bones, which makes her chest contract until her breath hitches in her throat. Despite the sudden coldness, she feels his eyes burn into her, his stare heavy. Then his lips part around her name, a fragile whisper, “Clarke…”
Because he must sense it. He must know.
God… He knows.
Immediately, her flight response kicks in, but his hand clasps around her wrist, preventing her from leaving the couch. “Clarke, I’m—” his lower lip wobbles, his jaw twitching as he shakes his head. Though his eyes are pleading with her, she can’t tell him what he needs to hear, because she’s so sick of lying, sick of hiding. “You... I had no idea.“
“Of course you didn’t. You weren’t here,” she says, wanting to sound gentle, yet the bitterness in her veins has seeped into her voice. When she tries to smile, her heart clenches painfully. “And that was the problem. You’d always been here, and suddenly you weren’t, I—I couldn’t cope with it.”
Bellamy reaches for her hand, still not looking at her, and she lets him take it. She knows that he won’t like the truth, but she can’t keep it from him anymore; it flows from her lips in waves, “I stopped eating, I couldn’t sleep unless I was wearing your clothes that I’d stolen from your mom’s house—” Finally, he gazes at her, his eyes wide and tender, full of glistening tears. “I was terrified all the time. I thought you were gonna die and that I wouldn’t even—get a phone call about it because you’d taken my name off the visitors' list.”
Her heart shatters under the force of a sudden sob; it carries enough violence to make her hunch over, but Bellamy reacts quickly, gathering her in his arms. Then he lies down, bringing her with him. Despite the sobs, she continues, “I kept thinking ‘he’s gonna die today. He’s not coming back, he’ll never—’”
“Hey...” he murmurs softly as she trembles, but his attempt at comforting her doesn’t work; she sobs like she only remembers sobbing once before in her life.
(“Everyone thinks I’m losing my mind,” she told Raven, the girl who’d held her hair back last night.
Apparently, she’d slept on the floor of her dorm room, too.
“But it hurts so much," she choked out, pressing his t-shirt to her nostrils. "I—love him and he’s never coming back to me.”)
Everything had already gone wrong, and Clarke no longer thought that the world would be kind enough to let him live. It had taken so much from her; the hugs, the kisses, the words — the future that she wanted. It was brutal, ruthless, and she had no hope that she would ever recover from it.
When the sobs have finally quieted, her throat is raw and Bellamy’s placing soft kisses on her sensitive, tear-stained cheeks. “So, what happened?” he murmurs, clearly trying not to cry himself. “Did you get help?”
“Yeah, but only because my parents forced me to see a therapist,” she sniffles, snuggling closer to him.
At that, Bellamy brow furrows. “Why’d they force you?” Of course, he’s confused. Her parents have always had clear hopes for her future, but they never wanted her to do anything that she didn’t want to — not unless it was crucial, and it was.
“Because I scared them. And no, it wasn’t the fact that I barely ate anything or spent all of my time in my room. They weren’t even freaked out when I talked about not taking the NYU scholarship that I’d been granted. I guess they expected all of that, but they didn’t…” she trails off, swallowing hard. Her heart is yearning to tell him about this — she needs to — but it won’t be easy.
“What?” Bellamy’s eyes are wider than she’s ever seen them, his jaw slack.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, Clarke works to calm herself down even more. Then she gazes at him. “You have to promise me you won’t say anything until I’m done, alright?”
He hesitates for a moment, biting his lower lip, but he nods nonetheless.
Because she’s never told anyone the full story of this before, she has no idea how to start. In the end, she decides to do it in the most direct way possible, “The month following your arrest, I missed my period.”
In an instant, his dark brown eyes are filled to the brim with terror, and she notices his lips quivering, but he manages to hold back the words somehow, letting her continue, “Most other girls in a situation like that would’ve been scared shitless. It’s only logical, but I wasn’t scared. I was numb. I was numb when I realized, I was numb when I bought the tests and when I took them—” Clarke can feel Bellamy shaking even through the thick fabric of his hoodie.
He gulps, his jaw clenched tight.
Worrying her lower lip, she wills herself to carry on. “It only hit me while I was waiting for the result, and I thought ‘holy shit, what if I am? How do I tell him? Should I even tell him at all?’ I knew we’d had way too much faith in my birth control and didn’t use a condom, but when... when the results came in, I was so disappointed because I wasn’t pregnant, after all.”
Man, it's bizarre to say that now. Regardless, that’s how she felt at the time.
Bellamy releases a breath of relief that sounds as if he’s been holding it for far too long. Then, the full meaning of her words seem to dawn on him. “Wait, you were disappointed?”
“Very,” she admits. “I didn’t even try to hide the tests from my parents. I didn't care. When they questioned me, they didn’t understand why I wasn’t embarrassed or nervous to talk about it — and finally, my dad sat next to me, asked me what on Earth was going on, and I just told him, straight to his face… ‘I wish I was pregnant’. You can only imagine their horror.”
Judging by his facial expression, Bellamy’s pretty horrified, too. She can’t blame him. Funnily enough, the only person who didn’t think that she’d completely lost her mind was her therapist.
(“Clarke, you’re not a fool,” Diyoza said. “Stop being so hard on yourself for having a comprehensible reaction to loss.”
“How is it comprehensible?” Clarke exclaimed. “I’m eighteen! I shouldn’t want this.”
“We’ve already talked about your fear of letting go. If you had his baby, you’d still have a part of him to hold onto, right? So, at least to me, you’re not stupid for wanting this...
You’re human.”)
Of course, Diyoza didn’t think it was good that Clarke wanted to be pregnant, but she didn’t treat her like an idiot for it, and — most importantly — she didn’t allow her to be mad at herself for feeling the way that she did. Instead, they just talked about everything: all her frustrations, her tears, her fears, and that made her feel better.
But the recovery didn’t happen overnight.
“I was diagnosed with Adjustment Disorder,” Clarke tells him, rubbing his clothed shoulder with her thumb. “People typically develop it after… losing a loved one, as they struggle to cope with the traumatic change that has happened in their life.”
Leaning his forehead against hers, Bellamy nuzzles her. His sweetness slowly mends her heart. “How long did you go to therapy for?”
“A little over three years. When I decided to stop, Diyoza urged me to adopt a pet, hoping that it would be comforting for me to have something to take care of, so I got Athena, and she’s been with me ever since.”
He manages a genuine smile, now caressing her cheekbone. “That’s so sweet. It’s no wonder why she bonded with me so fast. She’s a therapy cat.”
“Exactly.”
For a while, they lie there in complete silence, soaking up every emotion that still permeates the living room. The sun is setting already, its soft orange glow spilling through the windows, and the light reaches her heart. When he drapes a blanket over them, her chest swells. It hits her that she hasn’t felt so close to him since before he was ripped from her life.
Still, he could be hiding how much the truth hurts him, so eventually she has to say, “Bell, I hope you don’t think this is your fault.”
Tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear, he murmurs, “This is not about me. It has a lot to do with me, and yeah, that sucks, it hurts, of course it does, but I want to be here for you. I want to listen and I want to understand. I can’t do that if I make this about myself.”
Awestruck by his words, Clarke kisses the corner of his mouth.
This is the first time she truly believes that they can get through this.
Chapter 9
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading, guys! 💕 This chapter has more communication and some... steamy stuff. You'll see.
Content warning: Discussion of sexual objectification.
Chapter Text
Clarke doesn’t realize how much she’s missed seeing Bellamy read until the first time he sits down on the couch with a book.
The raindrops create a soothing melody as they hit the windows and the clouds are a silvery shade of gray. To her, it’s the perfect kind of weather. Maybe it would even be the perfect afternoon if she weren’t tied to the dinner table with exam deadlines hanging over her head. From her place here, she has a stellar view of him as he licks his thumb and flips onto the first page of Reasons to Stay Alive.
She has to force herself to dive back into her own reading material. Knowing that she needs to concentrate if she wants to have any chance of passing this semester, Clarke stuffs her headphones in her ears. Music makes it easier for time to melt away and for her to get lost in the wonderfully complex world of microbiology.
A while later, she is pulled from her studies by a hand gently squeezing her shoulder. Clarke knows it’s him; the comforting warmth of the touch gives him away. Smiling, she removes one of the earbuds.
“Hey, I made you some tea, but I don’t know if you still take sugar.”
“I do. My sweet tooth hasn’t become any less demanding,” she replies, putting her hand on top of his in silent thanks.
Soon, they’re sitting next to each other, sipping their steaming peppermint tea carefully. He glances at her laptop screen, at the Word document that’s packed with notes, but then his eyes settle on her — more specifically, on her chest, and her breath catches.
“I really like your sweater. The color brings out your eyes. Cornflower blue, right?”
Oh. Even though her cheeks are heating up, Clarke doesn’t hide her face. In fact, she feels herself beaming, for some reason, as she looks at him. “Yeah. My grandmother knitted it for me last year.”
Bellamy grins. “I love that being a millionaire hasn’t stopped her from doing typical grandma stuff. When I was on the phone with her, she told me how much she’s missed playing cards with me. Kicking my ass at every game, more likely.”
While that might seem like an exaggeration on his part, it’s not: Kathleen Adams has always aced everyone at cards, no matter which kind of game they were playing and as a result most people grew tired of playing with her after a while, but Bellamy never did, and she really loved him for that.
(While chopping the carrots for the stew, her grandmother leaned over.
“That is a guy who’ll never stop trying to win your heart,” she whispered, glancing at Bellamy.
“Nana!”
“Just stating the facts, Honey.”)
“We should go visit her sometime. I really miss the sun and—” Clarke starts, only to be interrupted when Athena suddenly leaps into Bellamy’s lap and buds her head against his hand with a needy meow.
“Oh, am I taking too long?” As he rubs Athena’s ear, he explains, “She was sleeping against my leg until I got up to make tea. I guess I insulted the little lady.”
“Don’t worry. She’s very forgiving, especially considering that she was put in a cardboard box and abandoned in a parking lot.” When Bellamy frowns, his eyes growing sad, Clarke realizes that she’s never told him this story before.
So she starts from the beginning: After deciding to adopt a cat, she visited the local high kill shelter three days in a row and played with multiple kittens at the same time to make damn sure she picked right because she could only choose one. It felt like an impossible decision until this tiny black kitten, who’d been hiding in the shadows for the past two days, suddenly crawled into her lap and settled there, falling sound asleep on her favorite jeans.
One of the volunteers told her that this kitten had been stuffed in a box and left out in the rain to fend for herself, but cats who have been fed and cared for by humans can’t survive in the wild on their own for very long. When she arrived at the shelter, she was covered in fleas, trembling and malnourished.
“I decided to rename her because I wanted to give her a second chance, and Athena just suited her as the goddess of—”
“Courage and strength,” Bellamy fills in, now smiling again. “It suits you, too.”
Once again, it feels as though her cheeks have been set aflame. For some reason, he hasn’t complimented her much since he moved in; if she were to take a guess, it’s probably because he didn’t want to impose his affection on her, but something about that has clearly shifted since she opened up to him a couple days ago.
In the end, Charmaine Diyoza was right as always: He is trying harder than ever to be vulnerable with her, and he’s showing that vulnerability in a different way.
Bellamy’s eyes smile at her, and as they revel in the comfortable silence he turns his mug in his hands. Of course, it’s not actually his, since still borrows Raven’s every time she’s not here. It doesn’t feel right, so she speaks up, “Bell, if I were to make a mug for you—” He gazes at her again, his earthy eyes touched by tenderness; the sight takes her breath away briefly. “—What would you want me to paint on it?”
“Um...” Running his hand through his hair, he glances at Reasons to Stay Alive, which he’s put on the table next to her laptop. “That book, it has a good quote in it. I wasn’t able to read past it—”
When he shows her the page, she remembers reading that particular section herself and staring at it for half an hour as her heart clenched in her chest.
Depression is also…
Smaller than you.
Always, it is smaller than you, even when it feels vast.
It operates within you, you do not operate within it. It
may be a dark cloud passing across the sky, but — if that
is the metaphor — you are the sky.
You were there before it. And the cloud cannot exist
without the sky, but the sky can exist without the cloud.
Clarke swallows a tight lump of tears, places her hand on Bellamy’s shoulder when she sees his bottom lip wobble. “If you—if you could somehow…”
“I’ll do my very best, I promise,” she assures him, leaning a little closer to press her nose against his freckled cheek. “Do you wanna help me study?”
Although the amount of assistance that he’s able to provide is limited, he seems more than happy to be a part of what she’s doing. He quizzes on the characteristics of different diseases by reading the facts from her textbook, writes some difficult medical terms that she needs to practice down on colorful flashcards. Lastly, he discusses the topic of triage with her until she feels confident that she’ll be able to give the best answers if the residents decide to question her on it one day. They like to do that, and while it’s a great form of learning it’s uncomfortable if you’re unprepared.
Studying is so much more fun with him — as it’s always been.
Thinking about how much he must’ve missed school while he was in prison makes her heart hurt. Bellamy loved learning, and he loved teaching others; somehow, he knew how to do it without making them feel dumb or inadequate. Even though he had a 4.0 GPA when they graduated high school, he was seriously considering becoming a teacher. Many people thought it was ridiculous, but Clarke could imagine him thriving in that position.
Maybe he would’ve written books in his spare time and gotten a history degree from NYU. Those were the dreams that he had told her about, but they were taken from him because of a single, terrible mistake.
By the time they choose to put her books away, the clock on her phone reads 7:28 pm, which explains why her stomach has been growling for a while.
“Hey, my brain is too melted to cook dinner right now. Do you mind eating take-out? You can choose which kind we get.”
“But there are so many choices,” Bellamy says quietly. “How do I… Wait, Panda Express.” While he’s saying it, he seems so sure, as though he’s never craved anything more in his life, and yet it only takes a moment for his smile to turn sheepish. “It’s just— the last time we had it, we...”
“I know. I think we should order it anyway.”
Orange Chicken is heavenly, after all.
As teenagers, she and Bellamy were great at defying the boundaries of friendship without discussing why they were doing it; they started making out because they wanted to, and when it slowly progressed into sex, they still didn’t question anything. It seemed as though they had always been working towards that point, even unknowingly. There was no reason for them to avoid or delay the inevitable.
Now, while they’re sitting next to each other on the couch in silence and eating juicy pieces of chicken with their fried rice, words are buzzing on the tip of Clarke’s tongue.
Tapping the side of the take-out box with her chopsticks, she looks up to say, “Don’t you think it’s ridiculous? We keep talking about how different we’ve both become, and yet we’re falling into the same exact patterns as back then.”
Bellamy’s brow furrows. “How, exactly?”
“Well, for instance, we technically had sex a couple days ago. We haven’t talked about it. We haven’t even acknowledged it.”
Without looking at her, he stirs his fried rice. “I see what you mean. We sucked at talking about sex.” When he says the last part, the corners of his mouth curve upwards in a soft smile. “We just had it.”
Finally, he meets her eyes, and she folds her legs underneath her to get more comfortable. “And there was nothing wrong with that at the time, but you saw what happened a few days ago—I just don’t think we can do it like that anymore.”
Bellamy sighs, “Clearly not.”
A few seconds of awkward silence pass by, causing her to think ‘Woah, we really do suck at this. Maybe we never learn.'
Except, he suddenly speaks, “I don’t think I ever told you... I didn’t really fit the stereotypical perception of what it’s like for a boy to go through puberty because there was only ever one woman that I wanted to be with. You.”
And as if she weren’t already awestruck enough by this one, he isn’t done revealing his secrets.
“I remember the exact moment I stopped thinking of sex as something gross. I think I had just turned fourteen, I was babysitting O one night, and I was in the living room, watching this adult, romantic movie that I probably shouldn’t have been watching.” He scratches the back of his neck but doesn’t quite take his eyes off her. “And there was this love scene between the two leads that just, um, blew my mind.”
Clarke chuckles at the expression, which doesn’t silence him for long. “No, really because the man eventually crawled down the woman’s body and, I mean, you couldn’t see his head between her legs, but I got the point. She started making all of these sounds that just—and she looked so dazed with pleasure, I remember it so vividly. I remember thinking ‘I’d give anything to make her look like that’.”
At his words, goosebumps form on her skin. “Her being me?”
Nodding, Bellamy takes his bottom lip between his teeth. “You were the one for me, Clarke.” Before the full impact of this has landed on her, he continues, “And because of you, I went to prison with a rosy idea of what sex is supposed to be. I couldn’t stand listening to the other inmates objectify women like it was another kind of small-talk. They all reminded me of Emerson.”
Fuck.
The rain is pounding against the windows now, filling the silence. In wordless comfort, Clarke places her hand on his shoulder, but he still won’t meet her eyes as he continues, “But here’s the thing: After a while, the frustration becomes too much and you’re so disconnected from the world outside that this way of thinking becomes acceptable. Objectification became a way for me to satisfy myself without feeling utterly devastated. I—I thought about you in ways that I shouldn’t have. In my imagination, desperation made me brutal.”
Although she is desperate to say something, to assure him that it’s okay, no sound will leave her lips and her heart is beating too fast for her mind to form any coherent thought. The only thing that she can think to say is, “Bellamy…” and it emerges as a whisper.
After wiping a tear off his cheek with the heel of his palm, he says, his voice trembling under the weight of shame, “I felt terrible because I loved you so much and what we had was so pure, I never wanted to taint it. And I guess that’s why I freaked out that morning. I don’t deserve to have sex with you anymore, not after—”
“Hey,” Suddenly, her voice returns with all its force. “I am the one who gets to decide if you deserve me or not.”
His lips part, but he doesn’t try to argue.
For a couple minutes, he pokes at the rest of his food with the chopsticks, and she notices how — little by little — the sadness seems to drain out of his features. A blush creeps up his neck, which brings her to wonder if he’s reminiscing. Lately, they’ve both been trying not to, which is odd because it’s not inherently a bad thing.
“Uh, I guess I should’ve expected it. If any kind of food was to start a conversation about sex, it’d be this, since—”
“We went down on each other after eating it the last time.”
There’s no use in dancing around the subject. When she’s finished the sentence for him, a smirk grows on his lips; it’s tiny, but she’ll take what she can get, stares at it until it begins to falter. “I wish I could still be that gentle,” he sighs, and Clarke has to bite her tongue to prevent herself from expressing exactly how ridiculous that statement is.
Sure, his fingers were rougher than she remembered them as they thrust inside her on that morning, but it was far from terrible. It’s certainly not something that should make him drown in guilt and regret.
She figures that it might be time for a reality check. “Okay, I’m gonna force you to remember this correctly. When you ate me out six years ago, how long did it take you to make me come?” His brow furrows, but she doesn’t give him much time to think about the answer because she already has it. “About half an hour, right?”
Scratching the back of his neck, Bellamy says, “Well, yeah. My jaw was twitching by the end of it. I didn’t mind it, though.”
“No,” Clarke can’t suppress the grin that wants to conquer her face. “But even though you weren’t gentle a couple days ago, I came after a few minutes. I don’t know about you, but I’d call that an improvement. And that was with your fingers, I can’t even begin to think what you could do if your head was between my legs.”
Fuck. The fact that those words just flew out of her mouth doesn’t dawn on her until his eyes darken. Then his teeth dig into his bottom lip as if he’s trying to resist the hunger that’s etched onto his face, and her stomach flips at the sight.
“You can’t even imagine half of the things that I want to do to you,” he rumbles, sounding like a stranger. Even though her heart jolts at it, wetness pools between her thighs, making her squirm in her seat. “Tasting you again is just one of them.”
For a split second, it looks as if he’s going to lunge forward and rip her clothes off.
Her breath hitches just before the familiar shadow of guilt crosses his gaze. Recognizing it, she tenderly reaches out to brush a dark brown curl off his forehead.
“I want you to,” is what she whispers, folding her hand into his. “And I don’t care how. Please—”
Bellamy leans his forehead against hers, causing the rest of the words to die on her tongue. As she’s trying to find something else to say, she feels his warm fingers graze the skin below the hem of her sweater. At the next moment, he pops the button on her jeans open and drags the zipper down. She damn near gasps, relief surging in her chest.
There’s a part of her that knows they shouldn’t do this, considering what happened after the last time they had sex, but this kind of burning is way too sweet; she can’t convince herself that she doesn’t want to feel it.
In spite of the pure hunger that conquered him a few minutes ago, Clarke can tell that he’s determined to tame it. The way that he kisses her neck as she lies back against the armrest and slowly pulls her jeans down her legs makes her heart flutter. Still, once her blush panties are exposed to him, she sees his Adam’s apple bob. “Are you sure about this?”
“I am.”
Bellamy takes a deep, steadying breath before tugging her panties off.
And then it hits her: This is the first time he’s seen her in six years. Suddenly, the intimacy of this moment seems heavy enough to swallow them whole. When he kisses the inside of her knee, she feels the tears that are clinging to his eyelashes as they flutter on her skin.
What he told her earlier echoes through her mind ‘You were the one for me, Clarke. ’
No amount of talking, no amount of spilled truth, will ever make her fully understand how much it must’ve crushed him to lose her. If he breaks down right this second, she’ll know why; if he changes his mind and tells her that he can’t do this, that it hurts too much to be reminded of what he missed, then she’ll hold him and they’ll pretend that this never happened.
In the end, their relationship is about so much more than sex.
It always has been.
But not a single tear comes running down his cheek and, after a second of hesitation, she feels his soft tongue tracing her slit. It pulls a needy whimper from her parted lips, and her eyelids flutter shut. Bellamy’s loud moan reaches her ear; the brokenness that she sensed moments ago seems to have lost its significance...
… So has the gentleness that he wanted to show.
He licks her raw, gathering every bit of arousal at her folds until her head is spinning. But he doesn’t rob her of pleasure: Every few seconds, he switches to sucking at her clit until she squirms beneath him.
Whimpering, Clarke runs her fingertips through her hair, aware of how tightly her thighs are wrapped his head. Desperate to ground herself as heat shoots up her spine, making her want to arch off the couch, she buries her hand in his curls. “Oh, oh God—”
She doesn’t realize that she’s on the edge, but she falls off it nonetheless, gasping his name. Warmth floods her entire body, and she feels light as a feather, boneless. But Bellamy doesn’t stop; he devours every last drop of the wetness that comes with her orgasm, taking her breath away again. Then he kisses her softly where she feels the most swollen, rubs her trembling thighs, and it’s all too much.
It’s too much.
As hot tears soak her cheeks, she has to pull him off her. “I’m sorry, it—”
Bellamy quickly wipes his chin with the sleeve of his sweater. “No, I’m sorry. We can't keep doing this. I let it happen again.”
Fuck. Not this. Taking his hand, Clarke lets him into the space that she’s created for him by scooting over on the couch. “Hey, we both did. And maybe we shouldn’t apologize for it.”
Before he can open his mouth to argue, she presses a finger to his lips. “Listen, I know that in the perfect world we wouldn’t have sex until we were both emotionally stable and whatnot, but we’re bound to mess up because this—this isn’t easy. We’re trying to figure out how to be in each other’s lives again. It’s confusing, it’s frustrating, and we’re not always gonna cope with it in a way that’s considered healthy. But screw that. We’re allowed a few missteps.”
Perfection isn’t a thing, after all.
Chapter 10
Notes:
Happy Friday, everyone! 💕
I want to thank you for reading once again and let you know that this chapter contains a depiction of a panic attack , just as a fair warning for anyone who might need it.
Chapter Text
The bouquet on the dinner table is so beautiful that it makes her forget about everything else for a minute: Those ten hours of lab work she had to force herself to complete start to feel like seconds, and even though the email that she received while buying groceries has the subject line ‘Your Exam Has Been Graded’, her mind is able to push the frantic stream of thoughts back.
A small white card is tied to the strings that bind the bouquet together; on it, he’s written — his calligraphy is neater than she’s ever seen it — For Clarke . At the sight, her heart flutters and swells at the same time, causing her to fear that it might burst. What is so striking about this bouquet is that it’s not a traditional arrangement of flowers. Instead, he’s chosen some extremely pretty succulents, which are lilac and light-blueish in tone, but there are a few cyclamens stuck in between them.
They’re not only stunning; they’re also perfect for her, as she’s someone who often forgets to water plants and hates to see them die. He put so much thought into this. Hopefully, the succulents won’t depend on her too much.
Bellamy is at group therapy right now. When he returns, she’ll shower him in appreciation before they open the fateful email. This morning, she promised him that she wouldn’t look at the results until he was there to support her. To pass the time, Clarke takes a nice, long shower and puts on a face mask despite knowing that it won’t ensure long-term calmness. As soon as it’s time to see the results, she’ll be freaking out again — much like she has been all day.
While she’s rinsing the clay off her face, she hears the sound of the front door being shut, and her heart makes a tiny leap. Faster than lightning, she runs out of the bathroom, throws her arms around his neck and murmurs, “You didn’t have to buy me flowers.”
He buries his nose in her shoulder for a second. “Just thought they might bring you some good luck.”
Drawing back, Clarke offers him a bright smile. “Well, let’s see if they did.” Before she can pull him into the living room, however, he reminds her that Raven would probably kick her ass if she was excluded from this, and he’s right. Together, they finish watching a couple of episodes of Friends while waiting for the third roommate to return from the mechanic shop.
While she rests her feet in Bellamy’s lap, her gaze is drawn to the radiant sparks in his eyes, and time melts away. It feels as though no more than five minutes have gone by before Raven appears in the living room, holding her motorcycle helmet under her arm. “So, do we have an excuse to celebrate?”
“One sec.”
Doing her best to avoid the nervousness that seeps into her veins, Clarke whips her phone out of her pocket and clicks on the email notification to open it.
To view your grade, click the following link.
For some reason, this process is always made so much more nerve-wracking than it has to be. It takes Clarke ten solid minutes to find her exam results, but when she finally does a wave of relief surges through her body.
“What? What does it say?” Bellamy peers over her shoulder, and she feels his growing smile as it’s pressed against her neck. “Ninety-eight percent?! Are you even human?” he exclaims then, causing Raven to throw her fist in the air out of triumph.
“I’d like to know that, too, Babe,” she says.
At their reactions, Clarke can’t help but roll her eyes affectionately. “Rae, you literally have an IQ that matches Albert Einstein’s. Bell, you had a 4.0 GPA — and you guys call me inhuman?”
“Jesus, just take the compliment,” is Raven’s only comment. Then she changes the subject slightly by asking, “Hey, do you wanna go out for dinner to celebrate? There’s this diner just down the street that we’ve never been to despite living here for almost two years.”
That’s true. Clarke’s walked by it at least a dozen times and drooled at the picture of the hot fudge Sundae on the sign outside. Despite this, she’s never actually eaten there. Now, she finally has an excuse to do it. Smiling, she says, “Sure. You can invite Luna. I’ve seen that they have at least a couple of vegan options.”
Half an hour later, all four of them are walking down the snowy pavement towards the diner. Bellamy’s shoulders seem a little tense, and Clarke realizes that this must be the first time that he’s been at any sort of restaurant since his release from prison.
“Hey, are you okay?”
His lips twitch, struggling to form a weak smile. “I’m a bit anxious, but it’s fine.”
At that response, Luna turns her attention to him. “Are you sure? We can just go to my apartment if—”
What cuts her off is Bellamy shaking his head. Beneath the tightness of his jaw, there is an obvious determination; the same kind that she recognized while they were standing in front of her parents’ house. This is a challenge for him, but he’s prepared to power through it because he wants to. Once they’re seated in a booth inside, surrounded by the sugary scent of pancakes and cookies, the tension appears to seep out of him slowly. He smiles while browsing the menu and takes much longer than Clarke, Raven and Luna to decide what he wants to order.
But when the waiter, a young man with sandy hair, finally comes over to their table, his eyes are flickering, and then — instead of asking for their order — he says, “I’m—gonna have to tell you to leave.”
Raven reacts sharply, “Why? We just got here.”
When the waiter digs his teeth into his lower lip nervously, Clarke feels her heart clench in sympathy for him, but it doesn’t last. The man glances at Bellamy before he says, “We don’t serve criminals here.”
Immediately, it’s as if the air is sucked out of the room; the fragile smile is ripped off Bellamy’s lips, which part under the weight of a brutal tremble. More concerned about him than the unfairness of the situation, Clarke reaches under the table to touch him. She can only reach his knee but hopes it’s enough to comfort him for now.
“But you don’t even know him. This is—” Luna tries to argue, only to be cut off by the waiter.
“My boss knows him. She told me to do this.” After saying this, he tilts his head to the right, and Clarke’s eyes follow the direction of the gesture towards…
Fuck.
Next to the entrance, there’s a red door that wasn’t open when they came in, but now Nia Emerson is staring at them from the doorway. Even from a considerable distance, the woman looks vicious, like a creature just waiting to pounce.
“We’re out of here, come on—” Clarke rushes, nearly stumbling over the words as she leaps up and tugs Bellamy with her, towards the fire escape route. His bewilderment at this action tells her that he hasn’t seen Nia, and if they can make it the last few steps then maybe—
“Wait, Clarke. Luna and Raven…”
Before she can prevent it, he’s throwing a glance over his shoulder to find them. Unfortunately, that’s all it takes: He goes rigid, stopping dead in his tracks. Instead of trying to drag him out of the diner, she steps in front of him and cradles his face.
“Hey, look at me. At me,” she whispers, caressing his cheekbone. When he complies, she recognizes sheer terror beneath the remaining tears in his eyes. Slowly, she removes her left hand from his cheek to interlace their fingers. “It’s okay. I’m here. Let’s go outside, huh?”
Clarke’s grateful that she’s able to stay calm even though her heart is pounding. Holding his gaze, she backs the last couple of steps towards the exit and pushes the door open. As soon as the cold wind touches her skin, she envelops him in a hug. But the panic has already seized him, and he doesn’t respond; he sinks to the ground, causing her to release him.
Quickly, she texts Raven to make sure that they don’t come outside right now. Having one person here with him is enough. Bellamy’s breath emerges in labored puffs, and every couple seconds he heaves for air, then nearly chokes on it. Beads of cold sweat form on his temple; as she wipes them off his skin, a loud, strangled sob tumbles out of his mouth.
Oh no. Enduring a panic attack is hard enough on its own, but sobbing while it’s happening will make it even harder for him to catch his breath. Gently, she reaches out to brush her fingers through his hair. “You’re gonna be alright. Just breathe.”
With her free hand, she caresses his knee and tries to ignore the tears that have started burning in her eyes. It’s gut-wrenching to watch him suffer like this, knowing that she can’t do anything to stop the attack. As she listens to his troubled breathing, guilt prickles beneath her skin like needles: She should’ve checked to see who owned the diner before bringing him here, but she didn’t think of it and, as a result, Bellamy was forced to relive one of the worst experiences of his life.
The trial.
Clarke wasn’t present in the courtroom to witness what happened, but she made the mistake of reading about it in the local newspaper. There were two pictures in the article: one of Bellamy, handcuffed, being pushed into a cop car, and one of Nia Emerson standing in front of her late husband’s black Mercedes.
(Mrs. Emerson had this to say about the outcome of the trial,
“I was hoping for a first-degree murder charge. That didn’t happen, but at least
he’s being locked away.”
When questioned about the comments that her late husband allegedly made before he was murdered,
neither Mrs. Emerson nor her attorney, Harvey Lovejoy, offered any statement.)
She has no idea how much time goes by before Bellamy’s breathing finally evens out. As soon as it does, though, she leans in to press a lingering kiss to his nose. Inching closer, she rubs his back to warm him up a little, but he doesn’t react to the touch. For a few, agonizing seconds he just stares blankly ahead, causing her to fear that the panic is still clawing at him.
Then he says, his voice hoarse, “She’s a widow because of me.”
Jesus. Although she feels a strong need to ease his guilt, she realizes that now isn’t a good time to argue with him. Instead, she lifts his hand to kiss his knuckles and only stops because her phone buzzes.
Rae: Luna is making dinner at her apartment. Please join us. We’re worried sick.
Thankfully, they don’t have to walk very far to get to Luna’s home. Clarke can feel Bellamy shaking, so she holds onto his hand, gives it a soft, comforting squeeze every once in a while. Fresh tears run down his cheeks, and seeing them makes her heart clench painfully, but she doesn’t say anything.
Once they step into Luna's hallway, they’re greeted by open arms, a soothing wave of warmth and the scent of food being cooked. Luna embraces Bellamy first, and Clarke is wrapped up in Raven’s arms. Struck by an immediate sense of relief, she sighs into her friend’s neck.
“We left a rant review on Yelp,” Raven whispers, causing her to smile a little in spite of everything. “The good news is that my lovely girlfriend is an amazing cook.”
Before Clarke can ask what’s on the menu — because it smells delicious — she’s distracted by Luna’s calming voice, “You’re a good person. Such a good person. Remember that, okay?” Turning her head, she sees Luna cradling Bellamy’s face, looking at him in earnest; her voice is a bit teary, but there’s a kind smile on her face.
Clarke’s heart swells. In case she needed further proof of Luna caring about Bellamy, this is more than enough. When they sit down to eat, she drapes a blanket around his shoulders and then presents the meal: Lentil pasta with spinach and baked teriyaki tofu. It’s delicious, even though Clarke’s gut is too affected by worry to let her fully enjoy it.
For Bellamy, it seems to be way worse. Taking a bite seems like a struggle, but he still pushes himself to finish half of his portion. Swallowing hard, he looks at Luna, “I’m so sorry. It’s good, I just—I don’t feel well.” He’s clearly on the brink of tears.
Reaching across the table, Luna touches the top of his hand in friendly reassurance. “It’s alright. I’m gonna put the leftovers in the fridge in case you get hungry later.”
Then she invites them to sleep on the pull-out couch in her office so that they don’t have to walk home in the biting cold.
“Thank you.”
After doing the dishes, they’re all too exhausted to burn the midnight oil and choose to go to bed. Clarke finishes getting read first, so she stares at the ceiling while waiting for him, and she truly realizes how overwhelmed she is: her heart feels bruised as it thumps against her ribcage, the worry is still biting at her veins, but she’s too tired to calm herself. All she wants to do right is curl up next to Bellamy.
“Clarke…”
Looking up, she finds him standing in the doorway, illuminated by the warm light that hasn’t been turned off in the living room. She smiles a little, relief washing over her. Scooting over to make room for him, she taps the mattress with her fingertip, waiting for him to come. They both need comfort, and yet it takes him a minute to give in.
When he’s finally lying on his side next to her, she has to pull him close. She sighs, nuzzling the crook of his neck and reveling in the heat of his skin. At least he’s warmed up now. A moment later, she feels his eyelashes flutter against her cheek as his fingers bury themselves in her hair.
“I’m so sorry,” he croaks, causing her to pull back and meet his tender gaze. “This—tonight was supposed to be about you, and I ruined it.”
As her heart quivers at his words, she brushes her lips against his forehead. “You didn’t ruin anything. We can celebrate tomorrow if you’re feeling better.” She dries a single tear off the corner of his eye, offers him a smile. “All that really matters to me is that you’re okay.”
Bellamy worries his lower lip, but the hesitation lasts no more than a second. “At therapy today, we um, talked about the importance of telling the people we trust about how we’re feeling and what we’re going through. And I—I guess I realized that I haven’t been completely honest with you. Because it’s hard, to be honest, especially when I think I’m overreacting most of the time.”
Oh, Clarke remembers that feeling so well. While she was struggling, she was so terribly hard on herself, wondering why she couldn’t just pull herself together and stop whining.
(“But there are millions of people in this world that have it way worse than I do!
I have no excuse to be this sad,” Clarke told her therapist one afternoon.
“You don’t need an excuse,” Diyoza said firmly. “Your feelings are valid, no ifs or buts about it.”)
Slowly, she wraps the dark curls of his hair around her fingers, and his eyes flutter closed for a moment. Though it’s short-lived, she loves every bit of serenity that she can give him.
When he continues, his voice sounds less strained, “Everyone talks about how being in prison is traumatic, and it is, but once you’ve been in there for a while you kinda get used to it. There’s a clear routine for you to follow. I knew when I was supposed to wake up; when I would be eating and working and showering and sleeping. Someone was always telling me what to do. There’s a strange sort of comfort in that.”
Clarke rubs soothing circles on his spine, presses her thumb to the small dimple in his chin as he pauses.
His next words emerge with a ragged breath, “But no one prepares you for the trauma of being released. For six years, I lived in an institution where everything was taken care of, everything was provided for me, and suddenly I was told to ‘go out there and live my life’. But I didn’t know how to do that anymore, and no one cared.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “It feels as though I don't belong in the real world anymore. I didn’t remember how to wash my own clothes or make coffee, I still can’t go to the grocery store without almost having a panic attack—it’s just—it’s so fucking hard… to live like this. I think about giving up all the time—”
Her heart jolts.
Tears well up in her eyes as fear claws at her chest. No, no, no, no.
“I love you,” she blurts, her mind racing. Right now, nothing else is lucid, nothing else matters.
Bellamy doesn’t say it back, but that’s not important; not when all his features soften and his lips part. Even though Clarke’s already looking at him, he places his fingers under her chin, his eyes dancing to search every inch of her expression. They finally settle on her mouth, which makes her breath hitch.
His brow furrows. “Are you wearing lipstick?”
Oh, she must’ve forgotten to remove it. Still, she’s surprised that he noticed, especially in this dim light. To her awe, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and he brushes his thumb along the curve of her bottom lip. “I keep missing things. But I want you to know that… I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you, too,” she says without hesitation. “I know it must be hard, and yet somehow you still find the energy to be kind. Bell, you bought me flowers. No one ever does that for me.”
At that reminder, he smiles just a little.
Clarke holds him until he drifts off to sleep, exhausted from battling anxiety for hours. When the calm has conquered his body, she presses a sweet kiss to his forehead and carefully untangles her limbs from his because a vibrant idea is keeping her awake, flourishing in her mind.
In her bag, she finds the small sketchbook and the set of crayons that she always carries around if inspiration should strike unexpected as it often does. Luckily, Bellamy is a heavy sleeper, so he doesn’t wake when she sits down on Luna’s desk chair and turns on the lamp.
The blank piece of paper is always a bit daunting at first, but she’s more determined than ever. It’s been a couple of days since she told him that she’d paint a mug for him inspired by Reasons to Stay Alive quote, but until now she hasn’t had any good ideas.
Using mostly her own memory, Clarke outlines from the waist and up, in profile. Because she can’t decide if she should add any detailed facial features, she works on his hands instead: She draws them cupped and adds a small gray cloud floating above them.
It may be a dark cloud passing across the sky...
She decides that no facial features are necessary. Instead, she fills in the outline of him with the prettiest colors she owns: lilac, tangerine, vermillion, buttercup, blush pink. Where his lips, curls, eyes and chest should be, she draws soft, sunset clouds as they would look on a baby blue sky.
But — if that is the metaphor — you are the sky.
In the sketch, he holds his illness in his hands. It’s real, valid, and yet it’s much smaller than him. Every time he looks at his coffee mug, she wants the drawing to remind him that he’s in control, even when it feels all-consuming.
Next to her, Bellamy grunts softly in his sleep, causing a smile to grow on her lips.
You are the sky, Clarke thinks. And, more than ever before, she feels so lucky because she can look at him, she can touch him.
For the first time in years, he is tangible.
Chapter 11
Notes:
A/N: Hey, everyone! I forgot to tell you this when I updated, but I'm going to be doing fieldwork for the next three weeks, and I don't know how much time I'll have to write. So, in case I go off schedule — which I most likely will — you know that it's not because I've given up or anything.
// Jo
Chapter Text
Bellamy looks at her as though she’s lost her mind when she swiftly takes the planetary coffee mug out of his hand. “The last time I checked, you had your own cup, Princess.”
Grinning at him, Clarke replies, “So do you. Just look closely.”
At first, his brow furrows, but his expression is softened a moment later; sparks light up his eyes like tiny stars, and a genuine smile blooms on his lips. He reaches into the cupboard again, his hands turning each cup until he finds it, huddled between a couple of hers. As though he’s afraid of breaking it, he slowly pulls it off the shelf.
His lips begin to part while his thumb trails across every inch of the hand-painted mug. Clarke watches his expression, her heart fluttering in her chest. Hopefully, he doesn’t mind having a cup with an outline of himself on it. In the last couple of days, she’s spent her breaks at the ER painting it to make sure that every splash of color was nothing less than perfect.
If he doesn’t like it, she won’t know what to do.
“Clarke...” he starts, swallowing hard as he places the mug on the counter. The strain in his voice worries her, but then he pulls her into a tight hug, and her heart melts. “Thank you. I love it.”
Wrapping his fingers in the waves of her hair, Bellamy holds her close enough to make her wonder if she can seep into him. She loses track of how long they stand there, holding each other, but it must be several minutes before he pulls back, his smile a little wobbly.
Since the horrific night last week, they haven’t entertained the idea of eating out. Instead, they make every single meal together and pack identical sandwiches for lunch, even. It reminds her of when they were six years old, trading their PB&J’s despite the contents being the exact same.
Today, they make French Toast for breakfast, which they eat in front of the television. Athena joins them, too, curling up next to Bellamy’s leg.
When Clarke glances at him, she catches him smiling around the edge of his new coffee mug, and her heart swells at the sight. She remembers what he told her at Luna’s apartment about being afraid to live outside of the prison, without the comfort of a strict order. He deserves a million peaceful mornings like this one; they make the world seem less scary.
Suddenly, his outdated Nokia rings, which startles the cat and brings Clarke back to the present moment. Before he picks it up, Bellamy shoots her an apologetic look.
“Hey, Murphy… Yeah, I know, uh—sorry.”
Even though she can’t hear what Murphy says afterward, it’s clearly something that Bellamy didn’t expect, as his eyebrows shoot up. Worrying his bottom lip, he eyes her for a second, then says, “I’ll be there, but you know I can’t drink. I don’t wanna be a buzzkill—yes, I know virgin cocktails exist, jackass.”
Clarke has to bite the inside of her cheek to hold back laughter. It’s no less than delightful to know that the banter between these two guys hasn’t changed; it’s been this way since high school.
“Yeah, see you later.” Bellamy smiles, and excitement bubbles in her chest.
A guy’s night at Second Dawn might be exactly what he needs right now…
Despite this, saying goodbye to him hours later isn’t easy. There are so many things in a nightclub that could potentially trigger his anxiety; the cacophony of loud music, people chatting and glasses clinking, strangers who don’t know what happened to him. At least he won’t be alone — Miller and Murphy won’t leave his side — but even though she knows this, her heart is still weighed down by worry.
She has to turn off her phone and put it in the nightstand drawer to resist checking in on him every hour.
It’s bizarre how quickly she falls into old habits as soon as he isn’t there. Instead of watching a movie on Netflix like she'd planned to do, she flips to the History channel. Tonight, they’re playing a BBC documentary about the Roman empire. She DVRs it for him.
She drizzles melted milk chocolate over her popcorn for the first time since college, and when her eyelids start drooping from exhaustion a little past midnight, she contemplates pulling one of his old flannels out from the back of her closet.
Because he hasn’t come home yet, and the thought of sleeping without him is too much to bear.
He’ll come back, she tells herself firmly, no need to worry. He’s just having fun.
When Clarke is pulled from her dreamless sleep by the feeling of the mattress dipping, she has no idea how many hours have passed. But the first thing she sees isn’t the alarm clock glowing in the dark; it’s Bellamy, slipping beneath the comforter. A deep sense of calm washes over her, and she moves a little closer, seeking his warmth. He’s home.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bellamy murmurs, wrapping his arm around her waist.
Feeling a smile bloom on her lips, Clarke just buries her nose in his shoulder, but she’s caught off guard by the fact that he doesn’t smell like pine and musk; rather, the scent clinging to his skin is sugary, maybe a little floral. It’s not at all familiar, and yet the pieces immediately fall into place in Clarke’s mind.
Perfume. It’s perfume... and not the one she wears.
Her heart lurches as she finally looks at the clock. 2:46 am.
Maybe she’s being paranoid. If he hadn’t come home smelling of another woman’s perfume, then there’d be nothing suspicious about this time. He hasn’t hung out with Murphy and Miller since he started living with her, so it’s possible that the hours just flew by; in fact, it’s very possible, but no matter how hard she tries to rationalize it, the perfume won’t fit the rest of the picture. Once that is indisputable, her mind runs wild, painting a vivid scenario of Bellamy seeing a cute girl at Second Dawn, flirting with her, kissing her, fucking her.
Usually, she finds the scent of roses soothing.
Now, it makes her physically ill.
“Did you meet someone?” Clarke asks, trying to keep her voice natural though everything within her is shaking. Still, her composure doesn’t last long, and she answers the question for him. “Of course you did. You smell like her.”
Bellamy’s lips part, his eyes softening. “Clarke, it’s not—”
“Oh, it’s not what I think?” she finishes for him, her words piercing the tense atmosphere.
Although it’s probably unfair to be short with him, this situation is so cliché that it would be funny if her heart wasn’t on the line. ‘It’s not what you think’, Perfume? The only thing that’s missing is the lipstick stain on his t-shirt collar, and they would’ve spontaneously created their own melodrama.
“I didn’t fuck her,” Bellamy sounds deeply offended by her insinuation. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” His eyes seem darker than usual, more intense as he adds, “We talked, and she borrowed my jacket when she went outside to smoke. That’s all.”
Her stomach twists. Suddenly, she’s dying to know what they talked about despite it being none of her business. More than anything, she wants to know if she said something that made him smile, or laugh; if he let himself touch her.
I wouldn’t do that to you. So, what if he did really want her but held himself back? At the thought, the poison thickens in Clarke’s veins.
“You’re being weird,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing happened, I swear.”
Despite his willingness to explain, her patience has run out. Sarcasm heavy on her tongue, she says, “Forgive me for not wanting some other woman’s perfume all over our bedsheets.”
In truth, Clarke barely recognizes herself right now, and it must be even worse in Bellamy’s eyes: He probably expected to come home and be greeted by her warm, open arms. Instead, she’s guilting him for letting another woman borrow his jacket for five minutes. It’s shameful, she knows that, but her heart doesn’t care right now.
Somehow, Bellamy remains gentle, leaning his forehead against hers. “I’ll take a quick shower, okay? I didn’t know it was that bad.” It probably isn’t; what makes it bad for her is picturing someone else all over him. Still, the furrow in his brow tells her that he has no idea.
It isn’t until Clarke asks, “... Can I come with you?” that his expression softens from revelation.
His earthy eyes wide, he gulps and nods. “If that makes you feel any better.”
A few minutes later, they’re standing in the bathroom. Clarke pulls her sleep shirt over her head while he’s turning on the water, but he doesn’t immediately face her. For the first time since he came home, she can feel the guilt prickling under her skin because this used to be his space, the one place where he could go be on his own.
Maybe he needs the personal space more than she realizes and, as opposed to respecting it, now she’s evading it.
She’s pushing a ton of fragile boundaries, and for what? She’s stupidly insecure.
Damn it.
Before she can utter the apology that’s sticking to the tip of her tongue, Bellamy pulls his boxers down, draws back the shower curtain and steps beneath the spray. Baffled, Clarke stares at him. He meets her gaze, seemingly unrattled. “Are you coming in or what?”
She takes her panties off, then steps into the shower. Pressing a hand to his muscled back, she pulls a ragged breath from his throat; it’s the first sign of nervousness that he’s shown. “You’re okay with me being here?”
“Hey, rather you than a bunch of inmates,” is his response; his joking tone renders her speechless, and it doesn’t help that he faces her after saying it. His eyes darken, though they don’t drop lower than her mouth, causing her breath to hitch.
In an instant, the pure hunger that she saw in his gaze last week on the couch has returned, but he reacts to it in much the same way; he turns away fast, almost flinching, and grabs his bottle of shampoo off the built-in shelf. Clarke watches him rush to work the shampoo through the wet, dark curls of his hair and thinks about how there must’ve been a time limit for his showers in prison.
Her heart sinks a bit.
Instead of asking him about it, she takes the gel soap off the shelf before he can grab it. After pouring a bit into her palms, she spreads it across his back, massages it into his skin slowly, but she doesn’t stop there; her hands continue their trail down his body, to his ass and his thighs until she feels him shudder. Pausing, Clarke hears his breathing quicken and sees his forehead resting against the tile.
His palms are on the wall, his shoulders tense, head bent slightly.
Shit. This reminds him of being searched. Though he might not even realize it himself, his position speaks for itself. She could let the sudden rush of guilt deter her, but she doesn’t; she inches closer until her chest is fully pressed against his back.
Then she curls a hand around his hip, and the other one around his cock. “It’s just me...”
Bellamy’s following sigh reveals his relief. As the tension seeps from his body, he grows hard in her hand, and pride flickers, a small flame in her chest. Kissing the back of his broad shoulder, she jerks him slowly, just once, twisting her wrist at the base of him. He moans, his body shuddering again, this time from pleasure, and at that moment Clarke desperately wants to see his face.
In spite of everything, the loudest thought in her mind is: I bet she couldn’t make you feel like this — it’s so loud that it pushes past her lips without permission.
When he freezes, her heart lurches.
“Get out,” Bellamy rumbles, causing her to shrink a little. “Now.”
The words sting. Fuck. To suppress the tears that want to run down her cheeks, Clarke squeezes her eyes shut.
Although she’s desperate to fix this sudden mess, she has no idea how to do it, and her mind is too busy cursing at her to think of anything. Her lower lip trembles as she steps out of the shower, so she takes it between her teeth.
Then the water stops running, and the shower curtain is yanked back behind her, which has her whipping around.
He throws a white towel at her. “Dry off.”
The command is unexpected, but she follows it anyway, rushing to get as dry as possible while he does the same. His heated stare burns into her, making blood rise to her cheeks, but she ignores it, then throws the towel into the basket by the sink.
Catching her off guard, Bellamy grabs her thighs, lifting her. She yelps, scrambling to anchor herself against him; once she has, her face flushes with heat because they’re naked and pressed together for the first time in six years. Emotion swirls in her chest as she brushes her fingers through hair; it’s damp and hot, sort of like his breath against her throat.
He doesn’t stall any longer.
In less than a minute, they’ve returned to the bedroom, and Clarke realizes that the atmosphere hasn’t changed since they left: it’s still loaded with heavy emotions and unspoken words. She should’ve treated him better. Before she can dwell too much on her mistakes, Bellamy places her on the end of the bed, bringing her back to reality.
The comforter is soft against her spine, a stark contrast to the storm in his eyes.
He jerks himself once, still looking at her, and her legs part of their own accord. Stepping closer, he places his warm hands on her inner thighs to spread them further and bends down far enough for their noses to graze. His breath ghosts across her sensitive skin.
“Bell…” she whimpers, feeling his hard cock brush her center. “Please.”
To urge him on, she grabs his broad shoulders, but he won’t be rushed. As he rubs himself against her slit, his eyes stay trained on hers. “You still jealous?”
“I—”
Bellamy cuts her off by pushing into her; the sudden intrusion stings, and yet it sends a pleasant thrill up her spine. As soon as he’s buried inside her heat, it’s as if something wild that was trapped inside of him is unleashed; his hips snap as he thrusts hard, his skin slapping against hers with each movement. If his strong arms weren’t keeping her locked in place, he’d be driving her up the mattress.
“God, Bell—” she moans, raking her fingers through his hair. “Oh— ”
When he picks up the pace, fucking her faster, she has to bite his shoulder to keep from crying out. This feeling is inexplicable. At the back of her mind, she’s aware that she’s only had sex with him once before, and yet it seems as though they’ve done this a thousand times, regardless of the messiness.
Hot pleasure boils at her core every time she senses his cock move inside her. Her mind becomes clouded until everything else disappears; all there is left in the universe is the two of them together, and maybe the stars up high.
She can see them now.
Bellamy’s kissing her throat when he comes. As he spills inside her, Clarke feels her face flush again. Once the spell is broken, she immediately feels self-conscious and a bit sore, more vulnerable than she’d like. To her relief, he doesn’t abandon her after he pulls out, though she half-expects him to. Instead, he lifts her again, bringing her close before he sits down on the mattress.
Now that she’s sitting in his lap, her mind flashes back to a warm summer’s night. They were in this exact position, just on a different bed, when he slipped inside her for the first time.
“Clarke…”
She gathers the courage to look at him. The overwhelming softness in his dark eyes leaves her stunned, even though it shouldn’t. Sure, he just fucked the hell out of her, but he’s still Bellamy.
Gently, he moves the hair out of her eyes. “Are you—are you okay?”
Clarke doesn’t answer the question with words; she cradles his face and kisses him. It’s been six years since the last time she did it, and yet she doesn’t have to think about it. She sucks softly on his bottom lip until he responds, deepening the kiss. On his tongue, she tastes a bit of tonic, most likely the remains of a drink he had at the bar, and she smiles.
In the end, Bellamy breaks the kiss. At first, she’s puzzled, but then she notices the tears in his eyes. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs, lowering his gaze.
“I know, but I wanted to,” she replies before lifting his chin with her fingers. When their eyes connect again, she asks, “Can we cuddle now?”
On one hand, it feels wrong to move on so quickly from the first real kiss that they’ve shared in years, but Clarke reminds herself that she won’t have to wait that long ever again; she won’t be forced to miss the feeling of his mouth on hers. It’s like he said to her a while ago: He’ll always come home, and she’ll be waiting for him here. Every damn time.
While she’s lying in his arms, surrounded by the warmth of his skin, that the tears begin to flow from her eyes. Everything that just happened doesn’t feel real, even despite the dull ache between her thighs and the tingle on her lips.
Pressing a tender kiss to his shoulder, Clarke finally says, “I’m sorry for being so jealous. I don’t know what went into me. I just couldn’t—”
“It’s alright. I know what it’s like.” He kisses the crown of her hair but offers no explanation for his statement. Not at first.
As silence conquers the room again, she wonders if there has been any moment in the last couple of months where she could’ve unknowingly made him feel jealous, yet she can’t think of anything.
But then he tells her, “I need you to understand that I hated myself for it. I told you to move on, I let you go, and I guess I made it seem easy. In reality, I had to force myself to do it and, even then, thinking about you with someone else, it destroyed me. Once it’d been a year, I thought ‘there’s no way—”
His voice briefly cracks under the weight of emotion, and she snuggles closer to him. “—there’s no way she’s not seeing people, kissing, having sex...’ and I’d drive myself crazy picturing it. Whenever my mind made me think of you fucking someone else, I’d fantasize about taking their place—believe me, Clarke. You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”
She knows that she should say something, but it’s impossible when the words have jumbled together on her tongue. Now, they don’t make sense. To her surprise, though, Bellamy isn’t quite finished talking, “I guess that’s why I was so rough before. All those years, I couldn’t have you, but now—I’m so—”
“Horny?”
His jaw slackens, and she can’t help but grin as he ruffles his hair. “Um, yeah.”
Considering that he seems to be insecure about this, Clarke decides that brutal honesty might calm him a bit, so she tells him, “Well, you don’t have to worry about that. I love rough sex.”
When she notices the blush creeping into his freckled cheeks, she grins and kisses his temple. But as soon as the brief moment of fluster has passed, Bellamy turns to nuzzle her. “I need to see that before I believe it.”
Then he nudges her thighs apart with his knee, gazes hotly at her for a moment and slips inside her easily.
He moans, encircling her hips with his hands to keep her steady. Though his thrusts are less rushed this time around, they’re just as hard, almost desperate. Maybe he assumes that he won’t get to do this again because he seems determined to prove himself. Once a needy whimper tumbles from her lips, he rubs at her clit in fast circles. Her head spins as pleasure wipes her mind clean.
When the orgasm overpowers her, she feels his lips graze hers.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she pants before she’s fully wound down. “For wanting me. You already have me.” Though the intense pleasure has made her delirious and loosened her tongue, she means every word — and he deserves to know the truth.
“It’s gonna take me a while to understand that.” Kissing her forehead, Bellamy runs his palm down her sweaty back. “Are you sure you feel safe with me?”
“Bellamy, you’ve always been my safe place.”
Now she’s getting sappy.
Lying here next to him, naked and boneless has made the unconditional affection that she feels for him rise to her brain. She can’t downplay it any longer, and she won’t try. It’s useless to pretend that she doesn’t still adore him.
She has loved him her entire life.
Chapter 12
Notes:
Thank you so much for your patience, guys! I've had an intense couple weeks of fieldwork, but I'm happy with this update and I hope you like it, too 💕
Chapter Text
The sun has nothing on him. Every day, she has looked at it and wished that she was staring into his eyes; she has felt its warmth and been reminded of how he used to make her laugh so loudly that she no longer remembered a thing called ‘sadness’.
As her eyelids flutter open, Clarke does not see the sun — she sees him between her legs, his earthy gaze tender, awaiting the permission that she gives to him with a single nod.
His calloused hands grab her thighs. The touch makes her feel weightless, but it doesn’t compare to the passionate kisses that he presses to her folds. Heat flooding her cheeks, she buries her hand in the smooth curls of his hair and sighs. Desperately, she wants to bleed into this moment just to know that it’s real — that it’s not another dream conjured up by her broken heart.
For years, she longed to have him this close. Sometimes she felt bad for wanting the sex more than anything else, but it was pretty clear to her that her desire was heightened by the loss of intimacy. She missed hearing him laugh, and it vibrating against her neck; she missed his smell, the softness of his hands, and it just so happens that the last time she experienced all of those things at once was when she had sex with him. Then, the coinciding sensations were overwhelming but blissful. They are right now, too.
Bellamy moans before flattening his tongue against her. Pleasure shoots up her spine like fireworks, and she has to tighten her grip on his hair to stay grounded. Although he must be aware of this, he shows no mercy; he flicks the tip of his tongue against her throbbing clit while he massages her thighs gently. Clarke hears herself whine out loud as her veins catch fire; it’s a pleasant kind of heat, one that leaves her wanting more in spite of the burn — it’s invigorating, making her heart beat faster.
“Fuck, God—” she hears him curse. The fact that he’s still lapping hungrily at her turn the words twice as filthy, and her body shudders at the intensity. “You’re really mine, huh? Only mine.”
It’s possible that she’s in a state of delirium, on the brink of orgasm, that causes her mind to play tricks on her, but before she’s thought about it his growl pushes her over the edge, and everything else in the universe is driven away by the force of the pleasure that overtakes her.
All of the heavy things in her body — her bones, her heart — are lightened by the relief that swirls in her afterward. She is curled up, surrounded by the crisp sheets and the scent of pine and musk, with a smile on her face that doesn’t waver.
“You good?” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder.
Giggles rise through her throat as she runs her fingers through her hair. Though she isn’t looking at him right this second, Clarke can feel him next to her, his abs pressed against her back and his hard cock brushing her inner thigh. She waits for him to slip inside her, sort of like he did last night, but he doesn’t, so she moves her hand between her legs to soothe the tingle there herself.
But, just as she’s about to, he grips her wrist. “If you wanna come again, you gotta work for it, Princess. And not like that.”
This version of Bellamy — as different as he is from the sweet, nervous boy whose hands were shaking so much he could hardly unclasp her bra — is intriguing. Listening to his rough voice and feeling his hot breath fan against the back of her neck is enough to fuel the fire in her chest. She doesn’t care that he’s in charge, doesn’t mind relinquishing control because she trusts that he’ll make her feel great, maybe even powerful.
So when he guides her on top of him and helps her find the perfect angle to make sure that his cock rubs against her clit with every slow thrust, she throws her head back and moans his name. After he’s spilled inside her, she collapses against his chest. Bellamy wraps his arms around her, presses a sweet kiss to the crown of her hair.
In spite of everything, he proves which side of him will always triumph when he says, “What I said before, about you being... mine. I didn’t mean that.”
“You lied to me?”
Clarke wants him to stand by his words, even if he fears the risk that they carry. Whatever he might say in the heat of the moment, there’s real emotion behind it, and she doesn’t want him to be afraid of that.
For a moment, Bellamy looks stunned by her question. His full lips part and his eyes search hers. Finally, he replies, “No, I just—I shouldn’t have said it. You don’t belong to me.”
“And you know that.” To reassure him, Clarke meets his eyes, smiles, and then presses her lips to his exposed collarbone. “I take pride in being the only woman you’ve ever been with, although I shouldn’t. As your friend, I should’ve been happy if you’d chosen to fuck the girl you met last night, but I’m not just your friend. I’m the first person you ever wanted. The thought of you wanting anyone else...”
Bellamy eyes soften as he tucks her hair behind her ear. Then she sees his Adam’s apple bob and grazes it with her thumb. “You’re so special to me.”
Clarke kisses the corner of his mouth before rolling onto her side. Like this, it’s easier to wrap her arms around him, and she can hook her leg onto his hip. His breath hitches, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing himself further against her. Because she knows that this is the first time he’s been skin-to-skin with someone in six years, tears well up in her eyes without permission.
She can’t imagine how starved he must be for this kind of intimacy.
Burying his face in the crook of her neck, Bellamy inhales deeply, causing her tender heart to swell. “How good does this feel?” she asks, feeling his eyelids flutter against her skin. When he nuzzles closer to her, she takes his warm hand and lifts it to her breast.
He groans, cupping the globe. “Fuck, I didn’t touch you enough last night. I just took what I—”
“Then do it now.”
At first, Bellamy appears stunned, unsure of how to deal with such an open invitation. Dragging his lower lip between his teeth, he presses on her shoulder to make her lie on her back. He gazes at her, and she recognizes a shadow of fear in his eyes as if he expects her to run away from him. When she doesn’t, he lets his hands wander down her body; he reacquaints himself with the valley between her breasts, the ivory slope of her arms and curves of her thighs. He gulps before kissing the mole at her hipbone, and when he brushes his fingers through the curls between her legs, she sighs.
Once she looks at him again, he’s smiling at her. Then he lifts her leg and kisses her ankle. His stubble tickles her skin just a little, and the sensation makes her giggle.
“Oh, I love that sound,” he murmurs under his breath, probably not intending for her to hear it. But she does, and because of that she reaches out to pull towards her; as soon as he’s in within reach, she peppers sweet kisses along his jawline.
Although her lips are longing to be on his, she refrains from it, unsure of how he’ll react to another “real” kiss. There’s also a big part of her that wants him to make the first move this time, not as a sort of declaration; that’s not necessary. All she needs is to know that he’ll allow himself that kind of pleasure. Now is too soon, as it turns out. His lips graze her cheek, but before her heart has any time to sink he’s nestled between her legs, mouthing at her sensitive throat and grinding slowly against her center.
Her lips quiver around a needy mewl. When he remains hesitant, she decides to be blunt, “Fuck me, make me yours.”
“Clarke—”
“You think too much. Just take me. We can always talk later.” Having said that, she digs her heels into his lower back, causing him to growl low in his throat—the first thing that his hunger is sparking again, and hot anticipation flares through her veins as his dark eyes flash.
Despite this, the way he pushes into her is gentle and lacks the desperate rush that seemed to drive him last night; he goes slowly, pressing his calloused fingertips into her thighs. His eyes don’t leave hers as he stretches her out, and it’s almost too intimate because she can feel his desire to burn into her, to fuck her senseless but he’s keeping himself firmly chained.
She wants him to let himself free with her.
That’s what he deserves, but he doesn’t believe it.
His first few thrusts are slow, his jaw clenched tight as he moves. Still, when she digs her nails into his broad shoulder, his hips snap; it’s hard, fast and most likely involuntary on his part, but it feels amazing because it seems true to him. She doesn’t want him to pretend or try to be someone else — someone he can’t be anymore. Though she recognizes the apology in his eyes, Bellamy doesn’t say anything; instead, he finally relents, fucking into her, and she cries out from the added passion, nevermind the fact that her head almost hits the wooden headboard with each movement. Clarke braces herself against him, wrapping her body around his, and it dawns on her that nothing else in the universe could ever make her feel this way, which is strange because her emotions are such a whirlwind that she can’t even make sense of what she’s feeling.
The silence makes it even more intense since it’s filled by the sound of their skin slapping together, her moans and his heavy breaths.
At this moment, they couldn’t be more different from the two awkward eighteen-year-olds who snuck away from the festivities at the fruit orchard to have sex. Right now, they’re wild and unapologetic about it. Even though they could, they aren’t hiding or suppressing it anymore.
This is who they’re meant to be.
Nevertheless, Bellamy comes with a groan against her throat, which sounds broken. Through the thick haze of ecstasy in her mind, Clarke senses his defeat and locks her legs tighter around his waist to keep him close, but he’s too strong, wrestles himself loose and falls onto his back next to her. He breathes heavily towards the ceiling while she tries to swallow the tear-filled lump in her throat.
Just when she thought the battle was won.
“Why do you feel so guilty?” she asks, desperation clawing at her heart. “I want you. That should be enough.”
“It isn’t.”
As the brutal honesty of those two words seeps into her skin, Clarke remembers something he said.
You can’t even imagine half of the things that I want to do to you.
Everything falls into place. Struck by a sudden rush of courage, she turns around to face him, even though he doesn’t meet her eyes. “Tell me what you wanted to do to me. In prison.”
Bellamy looks at her, his eyes wide with pure panic. “Clarke, no, I—”
“I’m not giving you a choice.”
Maybe she’s being too harsh on him, focusing too much on how his ruthless guilt affects their relationship instead of how it must affect him. But the thing is that she doesn’t know what it does to him, not really, because they’ve never discussed it like this and he’s been trying to downplay it all along, yet she still feels it, senses its grip on him during every second she spends with him. If only he would talk about it, but it’s a risk to demand that he open up, one that she hasn’t dared to take before.
Staring at her as if he’s hoping she’ll be lenient, Bellamy gulps. Clarke, however, refuses to budge.
Once he turns his attention to the ceiling again, his jaw churning, she resists the urge to move closer and melt against him, tell him that it’s okay. At the end of the day, she hates the idea of forcing him to do anything, but she also realizes that they might never move forward if he doesn’t face this.
Suddenly, he begins to speak, “It started while I was in solitary.”
Her heart drops to the bottom of her ribcage, cracking wide open. Meanwhile, the blood in her veins, which had become hot from the intense pleasure of having him inside her, freezes. During her first year in med-school, she read various trauma case studies, but the one that has stuck with her was about the long-term psychological damage of solitary confinement.
Every single word on her tongue dies, so she can only listen as he explains, “It happened about a year after I was transferred from the county jail to Danville. Dax was attacked by two men in the cafeteria, and I should’ve stayed out of it—” He sounds furious with himself, speaking through gritted teeth. “—But I took a hard swing at one of them, I reacted. Next thing I knew, I was being thrown in the hole, as they called it. Eleven days. For assaulting another inmate. It didn’t matter to them that I was trying to defend someone. The law is black and white in there.”
For a minute, he’s painfully silent and unmoving. The only thing that she can do is watch the deep shadows carve their way into his expression, haunt it like ghosts. When she places her hand on top of his, wanting to remind him that she’s here, he jolts—not unlike the first time she touched him in six years.
“Bellamy…”
Squeezing his eyes shut, he says, “The first couple days are okay, just really boring. I actually appreciated the calmness of being isolated for a little while. I was on this constant sensory overload, anxious and paranoid. I thought that being by myself might be exactly what I needed to start feeling better … but as soon as the first days passed, it dawned on me. I was completely alone. ”
Clarke’s heart can’t really beat at this point; each time it tries, it just trembles, helpless in her chest. This happened to him, she understands that, and there’s nothing she can do to save him from it because it’s too damn late.
“I was alone with my feelings. With all of my rage, my terror, my depression. It tore me up, it hurt so much. I—I wasn’t in control anymore, but I had to deal with it somehow.” His lips are wobbling now, his gaze blurred by tears. “So I took it out on you because… you were the person who made me feel the most alive, the most vulnerable—I was so cruel to you, in my head, it didn’t matter how much I loved you.”
As opposed to becoming intimidated by what he tells her, Clarke asks, “Cruel how?”
But he doesn’t answer; he berates himself some more: “And you know what the worst part is? I fucking got off on it. I can’t... “
“I asked you a question.”
Although her instincts tell her that him describing himself as cruel is a result of his self-loathing and therefore not true, she could be wrong; she doesn’t want to believe it, but it is possible that the psychological torture of isolation drove him to fantasize about violence, and she wants him to tell her if that’s the case. Bellamy looks baffled by her wanting him to elaborate, by her need to judge for herself. He judges himself all the time, perhaps unfairly — she wants to see if there’s any good reason for it.
Because he doesn’t respond, her next question is more direct, “Did you think about hurting me?”
His jaw slackens, his eyes softening. “No.”
At that response, her heart jumps back to its rightful spot, and she has to hold back a sigh of relief by biting down hard on her bottom lip. “Then what was cruel about it to you? Why are you tearing yourself apart over it?”
“Because we’d never had sex like that!” he shouts, clearly rattled. “And I didn’t know if it was something you actually wanted to do—I projected all of these things onto you. It felt nonconsensual, even though it wasn’t real. I pictured you liking it, but I had no idea if you really would… and that felt wrong; it made me physically ill, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
Now that her worry has been lifted, all there’s left is intrigue. Still, Clarke tries not to show it too much, pushing back the urge to smirk at him. Despite her effort, though, her curiosity soon gets the better of her, and she asks, “What did you think about?”
His face flushes, causing the bronze skin of his cheeks to deepen in color. This tells her that he’s realized that she’s not repulsed by his admission, far from it—and yet, he remains stubborn, “There’s no way I’m telling you.”
“Oh really?”
“Clarke, I was in pain.”
Shit. Swallowing hard, she curses herself internally. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to forget how traumatized he must’ve been while he thought about all of this; that he was hurting and felt more broken than ever. His fantasies were a coping mechanism, and she shouldn’t belittle that just because she wants him.
After moving closer to him, Clarke moves the soft curl off his temple so that she can kiss him there. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to feel guilty.” She lifts his hand, presses her lips to his thumb.
“I’m trying not to,” he murmurs, finally meeting her eyes again. “I know it takes a toll on both of us, but…”
“You’ve been conditioned to feel that way,” she finishes for him, recalling that night on the balcony where he told her how much being in prison had made him punish and hate himself. It’s no mystery why: the prison system is built on dehumanization and offers no support for the ones who make it out. There’s no fitting compensation for a broken spirit. “I understand that, and I’m here for you, okay?” Worried that he’s going to turn away from her, she cups his freckled cheek. “I shouldn’t have given you a hard time.”
At those words, Bellamy’s lips curve into a sad smile. “My self-loathing is a barrier between us. It’s frustrating, I get it. You don’t have to apologize for your emotions either.” Then he pecks the corner of her mouth, making her heart flutter before asking, “What do you want for breakfast? Eggs? Waffles?”
Okay. They’re done talking about this now.
Chuckling, Clarke runs her fingers through his chaotic hair. “Waffles, please.”
Since they left their clothes in the bathroom last night, Bellamy can’t cover himself up before walking out of the room, to her sheer delight. Even though she also saw him naked last night, she didn’t let herself appreciate it, but now… her eyes are drawn to his muscled back and his perfect ass; he must sense her staring because he stalls in the doorway to throw a smug glance at her over his shoulder.
Just like that, lust pulses through her veins again.
It never took much with him. She distinctly remembers being eighteen and having to squeeze her thighs together whenever his hands flexed on the steering wheel.
For about ten minutes, Clarke resists temptation and stays on the bed, wrapping herself up in the crisp duvet, which smells of them: sweat, pine, and musk infused with lavender. Enveloped in it, the emotional impact of the situation finally lands on her: The man that she thought she was bound to lose forever was just inside her; she had him close enough to feel his heart beating along to the rhythm of her own.
She doesn’t want to be away from him.
Before making her way to the kitchen, Clarke pops into the bathroom just to pick his sweater off the tile floor and put it on; it feels a little bit like being hugged by him, surrounded by his scent and softness, but the sensation falls short of the real thing, obviously.
Then she finds him by the stove, wearing nothing except his dark blue boxer briefs and a relaxed smile. Judging by the look of it, he’s already made the waffle batter, but he’s distracted from pouring it into the iron when he notices her leaning against the doorframe.
“Funny. I remember you as the breakfast-in-bed type.”
Clarke steps towards him, excitement sparking beneath her skin, and she can feel the sly smile on her lips. As soon as she’s close enough, she lets her thumbs graze the waistband of his boxers. “Well, I changed.”
When she hears his breath catch, she presses her smirk against his bare shoulder.
“What do you want?” Bellamy says, clearly trying to sound exasperated, but he fails; he sounds a bit wrecked, and she wonders if he’s biting his lip. If she had figured out exactly what she wanted, she’d tell him, but there are so many things on her list that it’s impossible to just pick one.
Just for the sake of teasing, she presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along his spine. “Clarke —” he whines, gripping the counter as goosebumps form on his skin. At the sight, her heart leaps in her chest, and her brief indecisiveness has ended: she knows exactly what she wants.
“Can I suck you off?”
He turns his head a little, enough to reveal the flush in his cheeks. “What, here? Now?” Despite his obvious fluster, he faces her, and Clarke nods, smiling at the crease between his eyebrow.
“And you thought you were horny, huh?”
This makes Bellamy chuckle, and he brushes his fingers through his hair, glancing at the floor. Once he looks at her again, there are bright sparks in his dark eyes that go well with the light pink tint beneath his skin. “At least we’re on the same page. That’s nice to know.”
“Bell, you should’ve known for a while. I haven’t exactly been any good at hiding it.”
Grinning, he reaches out to toy with the hem of the sweater that she’s claimed. “You calling me a dumbass?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement, and she leans closer to him, wanting to revel in the warmth that radiates off him right now. Gazing at him, she dips her thumbs into his boxer briefs, letting them graze the sharp cut of his hipbones. “You want this?”
Maybe cornering him in the kitchen when he’s about to make breakfast wasn’t the best choice; he left the bed in favor of doing this for a reason. He could be tired, or uncomfortable, or feeling too vulnerable to be with her after his admission, and she has to respect that regardless of her own desires.
Still, Bellamy just breathes, “Are you kidding?” which pulls a short laugh from her throat. “I—it’s just, I didn’t expect it to go down like this.”
Oh. He’s thought about it. As if she wasn’t intrigued before, hearing him say this only fuels her growing excitement. Returning to the topic of his fantasies is a risk that she isn’t willing to take, so she chooses her words carefully, “How do you want it to happen?”
Bellamy hesitates for a second, then tells her, “I don’t care how it happens.”
At first, she’s skeptical, wondering if he really means that, but she decides to take his word for it. Dipping her hand into his boxers, she curls her hand around his cock and triumphs internally when it twitches at her touch. As she jerks him, her hand slow yet firm, his head falls onto her shoulder and his breathing quickens, roughens around the edges.
“Fuck, Princess,” he moans into the crook of her neck. Her heart perks up at the sound of the nickname. “You gotta stop... unless you want me to come from this.” Although he’s probably right, letting go of him isn’t easy: his cock is so long and thick; holding it makes her feel strangely proud. Nevertheless, she knows that having it in her mouth will be even better.
And it is.
When she takes him, she feels a bit self-conscious under his heavy gaze; it’s been a while since she sucked anyone off, let alone him, and that makes it daunting, but then she sees his eyelids flutter and his jaw slacken, which encourages her to take as much of him as she can handle. Then she licks at his shaft to taste him, and—
“Oh God,” he moans, unrestrained.
Clarke feels her face turn hot, but the sound — as well as the taste of him — is invigorating, so she keeps going, bobbing her head slowly. She maintains an easy pace, careful not to overwhelm him, and yet it still has him panting. When his hips buckle, she expects his hands to fall into her hair since she vaguely remembers them doing that the last time she did this to him, but they remain anchored to the edge of the counter.
To switch things up a little, Clarke cups his balls in one hand while the other is wrapped around his hip. He whimpers as she starts rubbing them gently, and she gives him another suck without tearing her eyes from his; he’s peering at her through his eyelashes, struggling to hold himself back.
“I—I can’t.”
To let him know that it’s okay, she squeezes his hip and, seconds later, he comes apart, spilling down her throat. Drawing back, Clarke swallows the rest of her load on her tongue before wiping her mouth with the sleeve of his sweater — hopefully, he doesn’t mind that.
“Are you okay?” she asks, rising to her feet despite how useless her legs feel right now.
“Yeah, I—” Raking his fingers through his hair, Bellamy stares at her lips long enough for her to notice.
Her breath hitches, but he doesn’t close the distance between them. As he turns towards the waffle iron, Clarke feels her heart slowly sinking.
It doesn’t matter, she tells herself firmly. He’ll kiss me when he’s ready.
But the thought that rings loud and clear at the back of her mind is: What if that day never comes?
Chapter 13
Notes:
As you can probably figure out, this fic won't just be 15 chapters. I'll update the count when I find out just how long it will be :)
Chapter Text
Bellamy’s reading the last page of ‘Reasons to Stay Alive’ with a soft smile on his face when Clarke decides that the time is right. Looking straight ahead, she ignores the tingle beneath her skin and says, “Hey, we have the lake house for the weekend, and Raven’s not here, so…”
When she senses his gaze lifting to settle on her, she turns her head to smile at him: His eyes are wide behind his square-rimmed glasses. “The lake house? You mean—?”
Regardless of what his question might suggest, there’s only the one lake house that her parents bought on their tenth wedding anniversary: it’s surrounded by pine trees, wildflowers and, of course, the lake itself is gorgeous; beneath its surface are a stream of her most wonderful memories. The best ones are from the summers where Bellamy stayed there with them, and they’d have races in the water, finish the days off by having grilled hamburgers as the sun slowly surrendered to the night.
Beaming at him, she says, “Yes. My parents are in California, but they dropped off the key in the mailbox. I didn’t ask them to, but I guess they thought that we might… want to go? We’d have to drive there, though, and—”
“Sure. Let’s do it.”
Clarke blinks, surprised that this was such an easy decision for him. Sure, he’s been working a lot lately, and he might need the break, but he’s been pretty straightforward about his anxiety around cars. With this in mind, she searches his expression, which is unreadable, then glances at the book in his hands. For the past week, he’s been adamant about finishing it, reading a bit every night before going to bed; she’s been watching him do it, trying to capture his expression with charcoal.
It’s been too long since she drew his face in detail.
“Are you sure you’re okay with it?” she asks, hesitant. Maybe it’s not the best thing to question him about it; after all, only he understands exactly how to tackle his anxiety.
Scratching the back of his head, Bellamy offers her a lopsided grin. “Yeah, it’s alright. You’ll be there.” At his words, her heart swells, and it flutters against her ribs. Nothing could make her happier than knowing how safe he feels around her; as long as that’s the case, she can wait an eternity for all the other things she wants.
After taking a sip of his orange juice, Bellamy asks, “When are we leaving?”
Clarke grins. “How much time do you need to pack?”
To their luck, they can borrow her dad’s car because Clarke doesn’t own one; her tight student budget doesn’t have room for it, and she’d rather spend her money on necessities, like good food and art supplies for her Etsy crafts.
In an hour, they pack all of the essentials for a trip to the lake house: clothes, toiletries, Scrabble and marshmallows. The last thing that they can’t forget is Athena; Raven won’t be home to take care of her, so they have to bring her and what she needs, too. Still, she has a weird sixth sense that always tells her when something’s out of the ordinary, and right now it has told her to crawl under the couch, into hiding.
“C’mon, girl, it’s okay—is she afraid of the carrier?” Bellamy asks, peering into the small space in search of the cat.
“No, she’s actually fine with it. She just doesn’t like the whole packing ordeal, I think it makes her feel unsafe.”
Once ten minutes have passed without any luck, they decide to move the couch away from the wall to force her out of there. It works, naturally, but it also spooks her, has her racing into the kitchen towards her second favorite hiding spot: the area next to the trash can. But Bellamy is quick on his feet, chasing after her; there’s a loud meow of protest, and moments later he returns, carrying the unamused feline.
“It’s okay, Darling. We’re gonna take you with us, don’t worry.”
“How come you never call me Darling?” Clarke teases as she closes the gate on the pet carrier.
Chuckling, Bellamy squeezes her shoulder. “You’ve never asked me to.”
Because his hands are trembling, Bellamy struggles a bit with fastening his seatbelt. She doesn’t want to make him more uncomfortable, which is why she pretends not to notice and focuses on connecting her phone to the Apple Carplay system.
To her surprise, though, he opens up without encouragement, “I think my anxiety around cars stems from solitary. I don’t like being locked in small spaces.” He releases a heavy breath, lets his fingertips graze the seam of her jeans. “At least I’m not alone.”
Clarke smiles. “That’s right. You’re not.” Then she turns the key in the ignition, glances at Bellamy and waits for the music to start playing before she pulls out of the driveway.
Don't tell me this is all for nothing
I can only tell you one thing
On the nights you feel outnumbered
Baby, I'll be out there somewhere.
Finally, she has an excellent opportunity to share some of her favorite artists with him. They have thirty miles of snowy road to burn; she introduces him to the newest hits of Dermot Kennedy, Hozier, even Ariana Grande — the chorus of ‘God is a woman’ brings a bright smile to his face. “Hmm, I think she might be onto something.”
Feeling her face flush with heat, Clarke throws her head back in laughter. “Well, someone had to say it, right?”
Snowflakes are falling slowly from light gray skies when they arrive at the lake house. It’s been years since she was here during winter and, for Bellamy, it’s the first time ever. A thin layer of pure snow is covering the roof like icing, the surface of the lake is frozen, sparkling in the weak sunlight. As her heart flutters, Clarke slips her hand into his, interlaces their fingers. “I hope this was worth the drive.”
She has no idea why she’s whispering.
“It’s strange… being back here.” He stares at the house, clearly struck by awe as though he didn’t expect it to still be here. If she remembers correctly, he had an identical look in his eye when they visited her childhood home, and it’s no wonder why: Returning to the places that were such an integral part of his life before prison must make it seem like the six years he spent locked up happened in a vacuum. Some things are untouched by his sudden disappearance from the world, by the event that changed his life forever. Clarke thinks it’s bizarre, too.
In the end, Bellamy takes the first step towards the wooden terrace. She hands him the key, just so that he can be the one to unlock the door. After what he's been through, he deserves that, at least.
When they step over the threshold, a soft ‘Oh’ escapes Bellamy’s lips. For a moment, he pauses to inhale the sweet scent of firewood and dried lavender. His eyes are closed, his expression gentle; at once, the last trace of tension from the drive appears to seep out of him. Slowly, he puts Athena’s carrier down on the floor and lets her out.
“Can I just… look around first?” he murmurs, looking blankly ahead.
Nodding, Clarke rubs his hand with her thumb. The house has barely changed in the last six years, but maybe that’s what he needs to confirm. He leads the way into the living room, his eyes gliding across the green couches, the light wooden walls, and the modern fireplace. Of course, there’s also her dad’s painting on a shelf above the television: it's of the lake during summer, surrounded by colorful butterflies and small daisies.
“Oh my God,” he says under his breath suddenly. Then he lets go of her hand and picks a framed photo up off the television stand. “I remember this day.”
The photo is of the two of them at seventeen, sitting cross-legged next to each other on the terrace with glasses of iced lemon tea in their hands and huge smiles on their faces.
She remembers that day, too, even though there’s nothing unique about it.
(“I can’t believe it’s still so fucking hot outside,” Clarke said, sitting down next to him. “My face looks like a tomato.”
Grinning, Bellamy put his arm around her. “No, it doesn’t. You’re beautiful.”
Suddenly, she was grateful that her cheeks were already a deep shade of pink.
Another thing to be grateful for was how, even though she was in her bikini, he was looking into her eyes.)
“I loved those summers,” is what he says next, sounding choked up. His hands shake a bit as he puts the frame back down. To comfort him, Clarke wraps an arm around his waist.
“Yeah, they were the best.”
Once they’ve put their bags in the master bedroom, the first thing they do is go for a walk amongst the trees that surround the lake house. They both need it after the drive, but it’s also nice to be close to nature again. What’s amazing is that they don’t have to talk at all. Instead, they hold hands and enjoy the quiet. Clarke remembers when they were kids, probably not older than seven, chasing each other through these pines; she’d laugh so hard that her lungs screamed in protest and her sides hurt.
These woods smell like nostalgia for her.
Without warning, her heart lurches in her chest, and she is struck by a sudden, desperate need. “Bell?”
He stops, then turns, offering her a small smile. “Yeah?”
Clarke just wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. As their bodies collide, a soft sound escapes his lips, his hand wraps itself in the golden waves of her hair, and he starts rocking her back and forth slowly, soothingly.
At that moment, she realizes that she’s never felt more at home.
They eat chicken noodle soup for dinner, then play an intense game of Scrabble, much to Athena’s annoyance; she’s curled up in the armchair next to the coffee table, and she lifts her head to glare at them every time they break into triumph. Unsurprisingly, Bellamy is the one who ends up winning, but he doesn’t gloat. A warm smile is curling his lips upward, though.
“At least I can still give you a run for your money,” he says, brushing his hand through his hair. “... I’m just gonna take a quick shower, then I’ll be back for a second round.”
Before he moves, Clarke grabs his hand. “Do I need to remind you that this house has a bathtub?”
Bellamy beams at her, and she knows why: Bubble baths were on his list of missed things. Finally, he’s going to have one. Just as she hopes for, he asks her to join him. Experiencing this with him will be precious.
Even though he thinks it is, missing bubble baths isn’t that strange. For years, all he could have was rushed, supervised showers side-by-side with other inmates. There was no pleasure in it, no opportunity to relax, but there will be now. She’ll make sure of it.
Once the water is the right temperature, she adds a bit of bath salt to it and, of course, the bubbles. There’s something so pleasing about watching the foam form on the surface, yet Bellamy’s bright grin is by far the best part of it; she can tell that he’s struggling to conceal his excitement, which makes her heart flip.
She lets him get in first. His eyelashes flutter as he settles against the back of the tub, and she has to bite her lip to control the strong smile that wants to conquer her face. “Is it nice?”
Bellamy smirks at her. “Just get in here, Princess.”
Grinning, she removes her bra and panties, but she doesn’t step into the tub immediately; she gives him a minute to look at her body. Though he’s seen her naked quite a few times by now, his cheeks still flush a bit. He tilts his head, his eyes twinkling, and then his legs part. “Come on, there’s room for you.”
He doesn’t have to say that twice.
Sitting in between his legs like this, undressed and half-submerged in warm water, is so intimate that goosebumps appear on her skin. Bellamy sucks on her jawline, toys with the braided bun that she’s tied her hair into and draws mindless circles on her bare thigh with his fingertips. Just like during their walk earlier, they don’t talk because there’s no need to make conversation — not when the small touches are as loud as they are.
For at least ten minutes, she’s been ignoring that he’s hard and pressing against the small of her back. But then he cups her breast, gives it a gentle squeeze that causes a shaky breath to escape her parted lips.
His teeth graze the back of her ear, and her last ounce of self-control is washed down the drain.
Heat pools in her lower belly as she lifts herself up just enough to turn around and sink onto his lap. His pupils are blown wide and his pulse is throbbing beneath her fingertips. Pressing her thumb to the dimple in his chin, Clarke rolls her hips slowly against his; it pulls a ragged moan from his throat.
“Please,” she whispers, burying her fingers in the damp curls of his hair. “Give it to me.”
Sure, she could easily just take his cock from this position, without asking for it, but that wouldn’t be as powerful as this: Bellamy wraps a hand around his shaft, rubs the head against her entrance until she’s whimpering. "You want it bad, huh?”
“Yes, Bellamy, I—” she gasps when he grabs her ass, pushing her onto him. Though her walls stretch to accommodate him, it doesn’t hurt. Her heart shoots to the top of her ribcage, fire burns along her spine, and she cries out at the intensity. When her body shudders, she feels his hands splay across her back.
“Good girl,” he murmurs into her ear; the low growl that follows the praise has her driving forward, snapping her hips against his. After fucking her into oblivion so many times, he deserves a taste of what that’s like.
Determined, Clarke places her hands on his chest and keeps up the fast pace until they're both panting and their skin is burning. The sounds that he makes are filthy and perfect, and every time she hears him moan she feels empowered. "Shit, Princess—you're gonna make me come."
"That's kinda the idea, isn't it?"
When he finally lets himself go, groaning against her neck as his cock pulses inside her, she smirks against his cheek. So much for getting clean.
Later, after playing another game of Scrabble, they have sex in the bed, too. It’s different in the best way.
Even though he’s claimed that he can’t be gentle with her, he proves himself wrong, as keeps his thrusts slow while controlling their force. Bellamy rocks into her, massaging her thighs, and she feels more dazed than ever. Gazing at him through her eyelashes, Clarke maps his toned back with her hands and listens to his breath as it emerges in hollow, warm puffs.
He spills inside her way too soon, so she has to bite back a whimper when he stills. But he presses a tender kiss to her temple, making her sigh. Afterward, his lips meet the tip of her nose, her collarbone, and her shoulder.
By the time he rolls off her body, her heart is melting in her chest.
“And you said you couldn’t make love anymore?” Turning around, she presses her fingertips to his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs, his gaze lowering a bit. Her heart sinks with it. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s this place, I—” he starts, his voice breaking under the weight of tears. Toying with a dark curl that falls on his temple, Clarke leans her forehead against his. In the end, he doesn’t need to explain; she understands...
(As it turns out though, she doesn’t.)
Her dream is of water splashing and blending with the glorious sound of his warm laughter; it lingers for a moment after she stirs awake. Darkness still looms in the bedroom, but the glowing alarm clock on the bedside table tells her that it’s 4:13 am. Next to her, the sheets are empty and… cold. Her heart quivers, willing her to put on her discarded sweater and move out of bed.
It doesn’t take long for her to find him.
When she glances into the living room, her eyes settle on him: He’s sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, with his back to her, staring out of the glass door that opens up onto the terrace; the silver moonlight illuminates his reflection.
Although she can’t see it well, it looks as though his hands are folded.
Don’t speak. You’ll just startle him. Go back to bed.
For once, Clarke chooses to listen to her mind. But sleep won’t come to her, so she just lies there, waiting for him to return until the glow of the morning sun breaks through the curtains; when it does, she’s still alone. Despite the loud protests of her exhausted body, Clarke drags herself out of bed once again.
Her heart aches when she sees him sitting on the couch, legs tucked under his chin as he stares blankly ahead.
“Bellamy...” she starts, her voice terribly weak. “Tell me why you’re so upset.”
It can’t just be the happy memories, right? There has to be something else to it, she realizes that now, as his expression twists in pain. Because he doesn’t respond, she takes the seat next to him and places her hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t react to the touch. “Please, you know you can tell me everything.”
At her words, he shakes his head violently. “Not this. You’ll—you’ll never look at me the same way again.”
His hands are trembling, and Clarke has to bite her bottom lip to stand her ground. She has to remind herself that she can’t stop trying, that she can’t give up on him whenever he feels like this, just like she had to tell herself when she was sick, over and over again, that she deserved to feel better.
After a minute of searching for the best thing to say, she replies, “Try me. We’ll always get through it.”
Bellamy stays silent for a long time, and he still won’t look at her, keeping his gazed fixed at the glass ahead. His jaw shifts, and when he finally speaks the words fraying around the edges, “You remember the motorcycle that I was working on with your dad in the spring?” He doesn’t turn his head to see her nod.
“He sold it, and he—he gave me the money, and I wanted to give it to my mom. She needed it, I didn’t, or—” Suddenly, tears are running down his freckled cheeks, though his voice seems to have grown a bit stronger. “I was waiting for the bus downtown one day, I turned around and I saw it in the window of a store. It was like a— a switch flicked, and I knew... so I bought it—”
By now, her confusion is all-consuming, making it impossible for her to keep quiet, “Bought what?”
Despite the tears that are staining his face, his expression turns hard, just for a second, then it completely crumbles as his lips quiver. “A ring.”
Wait... no. For some reason, that’s the only emergency response her mind has right now. No, there’s no—
Bellamy’s voice seems distant, but it rings as though they’re underwater. Somehow she can still hear it, and it tears her up. “The man told me that it was a promise ring—but I had bigger plans for it.”
No. He wanted to— No...
("Will you marry me, Princess?” he said, a playful grin dominating his freckled face.
“Shut the fuck up.” Laughing, she pushed at his shoulders—)
“... Clarke?”
Everything within her is falling apart; her heart is crumbling, withering like the muddy leaves on the ground outside, and somehow that’s not even the worst part; it’s her mind, spinning a thousand miles per second, trying to make sense of the life that she’s been living until this moment.
“When were you gonna do it?” she asks, forcing the words out of her strained throat because she has to know.
“I—” Wetting his lips, Bellamy clenches his fists harder until his knuckles turn white. “I didn’t have it planned.”
“Liar,” Clarke hisses; it sounds like someone else speaking, and Bellamy flinches. Still, when she continues, her voice is frantic, “You always plan everything, so tell me.” The shock is carved into his features, which has her gut tightening into a knot, but her mind is in shambles, useless.
His lower lip wobbles, tears are pouring from his eyes. Then he murmurs, “I was gonna do it here, in August when we all… at sunset. I thought it would be perfect, ‘cause that’s when we had our first kiss, but I never got to do it so it doesn’t matter.”
At those words, Clarke digs her fingernails into the couch cushions. Her chest burns as tears cloud her eyes. When she chokes on a cruel sob, he curses under his breath and says, “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean that.”
Instead of accepting his apology, she stares at him. “Where’s the ring now?”
His face falls, which causes what’s left of her heart to burst apart. She doesn’t need to hear this, she doesn’t want to hear it, but he tells her anyway, “I don’t have it. I held onto it for a year, but thinking about it tortured me, so I told my mom to sell it.”
“You didn’t—” she cries. Deep down, she’s angry at herself for being so childish, but she can’t control the emotions that are thundering inside her; they already have her shaking, her empty ribcage rattling.
“I’m sorry,” Bellamy chokes out. “I’m...”
Moments later, his strong arms wrap around her, and she clings to him. Squeezing her eyes shut, she waits for it to stop hurting so that she can melt into him, but the pain doesn’t fade. Though her heart has turned to dust, her mind is still racing, painting vivid pictures that leave her dizzy: She’ll never know which dress she would’ve picked, or how wide his grin would’ve been, or how many pictures her Nana would’ve taken.
She’ll never know the life they could’ve had.
“I can’t—I need to—,” Clarke gasps for air, wrestling herself free. Without looking back at him, she slides the glass door open and steps onto the terrace. The frosty wind bites at her cheeks, but it’s easier to breathe out here.
As she leans against the railing, the snow melts into her sweater; it’s a cold shock to her bones, and suddenly she’s digging her phone out of her jean pocket. Without considering the three-hour time difference, she calls her dad.
It’s 5 am in California, and he still picks up.
“Sweetheart? Is something wrong?” In the background, she makes out the sound of blankets being ripped aside. Of course, his first instinct is to be alarmed, and even though she would hate to worry him any more she chokes on another sob at the sound of his warm voice. “What happened? Is Bellamy okay?”
Clarke presses her fingertips into the cold snow until they grow numb. “Did you know that he—he wanted to marry me?” She’s not sure what she wants the answer to be, but she needs the truth more than anything.
Through the phone, she hears a door closing and figures that he must’ve left the bedroom to talk.
Finally, he replies, “I did.”
Squeezing her phone tightly, Clarke takes a shaky breath. “All these years, you never told me I could’ve been married to the love of my life.” The tears that flow from her eyes feel hot against her cheeks. “... He’s the love of my life, Dad.”
A moment passes, then her dad breathes, “I know, Honey.” Clarke had no idea that those three words could carry so much pain. Despite this, he continues more forcefully, “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t wanna break your heart. I’ve always wanted you to be happy, and I told him that when I gave him my blessing. After he was arrested, I visited him in jail and I—well, I guess I broke the laws of traditional fatherhood: I said that if he still wanted to marry you, he could because I was afraid that no one would ever put stars in my baby’s eyes again...”
Now, she can’t hold back the sob anymore. “Dad— ”
“But he’d made up his mind. He couldn’t marry you.”
Clarke dries her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “Did he tell you why?”
“Of course he did, but he’s the one you should be talking to. I think you’ll understand his reason. I sure did.”
When the call ends, she hears the glass door behind her slide open. Maybe she should move, try to avoid him, but she feels too frail to do so, as though she could crumble at any moment, be swept away by the wind.
A blanket is draped over her shoulders and wrapped tightly around her.
“I’ll tell you everything, I promise,” Bellamy says, brushing his warm thumb against the back of her neck. “Just please come inside.”
Chapter 14
Notes:
As you can see, I've updated the chapter count :) The fic will officially be 19 chapters (including an epilogue). I hope that makes you excited 💕
Happy reading,
// Jo
Chapter Text
Somehow, he is warmer than the fire.
Though Clarke isn’t looking at him, Bellamy’s folded her hands into his, and she has let him do it because it’s impossible to resist the feeling of his warmth against her frozen skin.
She stares into the golden flames that are trapped behind the glass of the fireplace; more than anything, she wants to watch them flicker in his eyes, but she fears the emotion that she might find on his face. Slowly, it hits her that, for the first time since she left him alone in jail, she has no idea what to say to him.
And that hurts. Because even when it felt as though she had nothing left of him, there were always the words; ones that she could imagine speaking to him, whisper into her pillow at night or write down in her journal in hopes that, one day, he might hear her say them.
But now they’re lost to her, and she’s searching every corner of her mind for them. Despite promising to tell her everything, Bellamy seems to be at a loss, too. He’s just sitting there, holding her hand as though it’s the only thing that still binds them together, which… it isn’t. Of course, their lives during the last six years weren’t intertwined, but — like Diyoza said — they were both affected by what happened.
Two naive kids, believing whole-heartedly that they had a future together. Then their hearts broke, and they could no longer believe.
“I left you voicemails,” Clarke admits, her voice gruff. Once she feels his gaze fall onto her, she continues, “It was a part of my therapy. The first—the first call I made was when I got my period back. I lost it for three months. I was distraught, and I needed to talk to someone. You were the first person I thought of.”
“Clarke—”
“I would’ve married you anywhere,” she says, indifferent to the tears that are running down her cheeks. “I was in love with you, I wouldn’t have cared. My dad didn’t either, but you didn’t want to—”
“Are you kidding me?” Bellamy barks, the sharp words plunging into her chest. Then he curls his hands into the fur rug that they’re sitting on, his lips a thin line. “I loved you! All I ever wanted was to make you happy, give you the future that we’d talked about at fucking seventeen years old. A house, maybe even kids someday.”
Even though a violent storm is still causing pandemonium in her mind, Clarke remembers that night as if it were yesterday: They were lying on the floor of his room, sharing his headphones. The song that was playing was 'Don’t Look Back in Anger' by Oasis.
(“So I start a revolution from my bed
'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head.
Step outside, summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out.”
His fingers grazed hers, a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
And he asked, “Ten years from now, where do you see us?”
Her heart skipped. “Um, happy.”
“And what would make you happy? ”)
It happened two weeks after they’d shared their second kiss, in the pouring rain, but before they ever saw each other naked. Still, a fresh hickey was blooming below her t-shirt collar, on her left breast. Effortlessly, they’d slipped into this new stage of their relationship as if they were just waiting for the right moment. All of a sudden, Clarke could feel how much she truly loved him, how it’d always been there as a kind of slow, sweet burn in her heart.
And it’s still is.
“I made a promise to myself,” Bellamy murmurs. “You deserved everything, and I wanted to give you as much as I could. I swear I never wanted to hurt you.” As if to emphasize the affection in that statement, Bellamy gives her hand a gentle squeeze.
“But you did,” is what she blurts, averting her eyes to the fire once more. At the edge of her vision, she sees him dry a tear off his cheek with the back of his free hand.
“Trust me, I know. At the end of the day, I had to figure out what would be worse: Quickly tearing off the band-aid or forcing you to wait six years for a man that I knew wouldn’t come back to you.”
There it is again: He’s talking about himself before prison just like one talks about the people who went off to war and died fighting. Even though she’s smart enough to know that it must be a necessary coping mechanism for him, her stomach clenches painfully because… Maybe this is why he always uses the past tense when he talks about loving her. Maybe the boy who loved her is the one who didn’t come back.
What if he doesn’t love her anymore?
The tears come flooding now, and she doesn’t see a point in trying to stop them. Despite her blurred vision, Clarke notices his free hand reaching out — most likely to dry her cheeks — and she twists her head, childishly, away from him. It doesn’t quite deter him, though, as he tucks of a strand of hair behind her ear instead, which keeps it from sticking to her face.
Then he whispers, “I had my chance of making you happy. I was almost there, and I still blew it; I threw it all away, in a split second, because I lost my temper—and I thought to myself, that if I could do that so carelessly then I never actually deserved you.” At these words, her head moves just a bit of its own accord, and he brushes his calloused thumb along the curve of her neck.
The touch makes her shiver. And, as if that wasn’t enough, his speech is starting to seep into her skin; it’s echoing through her hollow chest, sending signals of hope to the broken pieces of her heart. In spite of the pain, she recognizes the sense of what he’s telling her. Chances are that she’ll never understand completely because she didn’t go through the trauma with him.
But she can at least try.
When she turns back to meet his eyes, she is struck by the look of utter devastation on his face. She hasn’t heard him crying because she’s been too caught up in the web of her emotions. Now, she sees the deep stains of tears on his face and the shadows that have conquered his eyes, and the urge to reach for him overwhelms her, so she cups his cheek.
He kisses the heel of her palm, releases a shaky breath. “I wanted to be your best friend who was there for you when you needed me. I wanted to be a good husband, give you the love and stability you deserved in life. But I—I couldn’t be any of that, not in there. So I had to let you go. I had to let you find someone else, someone who wouldn’t fail you like I did.”
“Bellamy…”
“And I’d already decided that, once I got out, I would leave you the fuck alone. I wasn’t about to come barging into your life again after breaking your heart. I told myself that you had to be with someone wonderful, who’d made you forget about everything I did that hurt you.”
Oh, God…
That’s why he never called. If it’d been up to him, they would’ve never seen each other again. They wouldn’t be a part of each other’s lives anymore.
Realizing that pains her, much like everything else, but once her vocal cords have overpowered the lasting tears in her throat, she hears herself say, “I understand…”
Bellamy gazes at her, his eyes wide and gentle; they seem to be full of awe, but she only catches a glimpse of it.
Because he kisses her; so softly that she doesn’t even feel it at first. Then his lips move, daring hers to part; it is a true shock to her system, one that magically mends her heart. Though it takes her a moment, Clarke responds, placing her hand at the back of his neck.
He makes a sweet noise that reveals his relief, and yet he soon draws back. Resting her forehead against his, she repeats, “I understand. All these years, I didn’t—but now I…”
Now it makes sense.
Before she’s caught her breath, Bellamy kisses her again, pouring more passion into it this time. When tears well up in her eyes, she decides to let them be. She feels his relief, too; it’s radiating off him, making him feel lighter against her. Of course, he must’ve been terrified that she’d never understand his decision to let her go. But she does.
Nevertheless, she sees the need to draw a distinction as soon as they break apart for air. “I understand your choice. That doesn’t mean I agree with it.”
At those words, a small smile blooms on his lips, which puzzles her for a second until he says, “Funny. Your dad said pretty much the same thing.”
“When he visited you?”
Curling the fur on the rug around his fingers mindlessly, Bellamy replies, “Uh, no. When we were at the house last month.”
Suddenly, what she heard her dad tell him through the door that snowy night comes through to her, ‘I know you would’ve made her happy. Maybe you still could.’ It almost seems surreal, that her dad would give his blessing for the third time, after six years of not seeing Bellamy at all.
But he did just tell her over the phone that he knew.
Somehow, he has always known that Bellamy is the love of her life, even when she’s doubted it herself. Maybe it’s just a strong gut feeling, or maybe it’s based on the thousand times that he’s seen Bellamy make her smile and laugh. Regardless, warm affection floods her chest at the realization.
“I can’t make you happy, I told him that. But I promised him that I’d take care of you. I guess I’m failing at that, too.” Gazing at her, Bellamy wipes a tear off the corner of her eye, then presses a sweet kiss to her nose. “I keep hurting you.”
Because she knows that she won’t be able to convince him of the opposite, Clarke tries something else by offering him a solution, “Maybe you should try and be open with me. Not in a selective way... about everything, even though I might not like what I hear.”
Since they reunited, it’s been clear to her that Bellamy’s just trying to protect her from the parts of the truth that might do more harm than good. At the end of the day, she has to understand how serious this must be to him; he didn’t go off on a six-year-long journey to reinvent himself as some people do — No, he was torn from the world at eighteen and sent to a place that’s designed to break even the toughest men. Of course, there are things that he doesn't want her to know, but it might help her to understand. It took her four therapy sessions with Diyoza to open up and, when she finally did, it was as if the heavy grief that she’d carried inside her chest for so long came bursting out.
Suddenly she couldn’t see a point in holding any of it back anymore.
“Clarke, some of this stuff is brutal.” To her relief, this sounds more like a warning than an attempt to deflect the situation.
Smiling, she caresses his jawline with her thumb and says, “That’s why we should cuddle while we talk.”
As a weird justification of her suggestion, she then tells him about the countless medical studies that prove the positive effect that physical contact can have on verbal communication. He simply stares at her, his brow furrowed.
“I don’t need a scientific reason to cuddle,” is what he mumbles, cutting her off mid-rant, then he rises to his feet and picks her up, carries her into the bedroom.
After sleeping alone most of last night, she can’t help but treasure this moment: Bellamy’s lying next to her, close enough that the tips of their noses are grazing; her fingers are tangling themselves within his soft hair, and his eyes are roaming hers, searching for something unknown. When she smiles, he takes the last inch of space between their faces to capture her lips in a tender kiss.
Even though he hasn’t kissed her in many different ways yet, Clarke tastes the apology on his lips before it flows from them, “I’m sorry,” he says after pulling back. “For lying to you.”
“You didn’t lie. You hid the truth.”
Bellamy caresses her temple. “There isn’t much difference between the two. I’ll do better, I promise. And it starts now… It’s odd, I’ve never told you about what daily life was like in there. I should’ve told you that right away. Before I let you go, even. Maybe it would’ve made my absence easier to deal with.”
For some reason, Clarke doubts that: Though the reality of prisons in the United States might not be as horrifying as she’d been made to believe, she would’ve still feared for his life; she would’ve still felt the loss of him as a kind of phantom pain, making it hard to breathe and sleep at night. But she doesn’t tell Bellamy this, just lets him continue.
“Prison is really loud. Even at night, there’s always some strange noise. It was worse in jail, though, and it fucked up my sleep pattern. Once I was transferred to prison, I’d grown into the habit of waking up at around 5:30 each morning,” he says, shifting a little.
To make sure that he doesn’t put more distance between them out of fear, Clarke hikes her leg up on his hip, which causes him to grunt. He pauses for a second, then goes on, “The showers would turn on at 6 am. You walk to the bath quarters with your shower shoes—”
“Shower shoes?”
At her question, a small smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah, the showers in prison are filthy ‘cause they’re not cleaned properly. So, either you wear shoes or—well, it’s fucking disgusting. Anyway, there’s a correctional officer there, who hands you a towel and some shampoo. Always lice shampoo. It would take forever to get out of my hair, which really fucking sucked, ‘cause the showers are horrible.”
In truth, Clarke figured as much because it explains why he rushed to get clean during the shower they took at home but, for some reason, her heart still sinks. Unsure of what to say, she simply presses her thumb to the corner of his mouth, which brings him to elaborate, “The water is freezing. Somehow it burns and the water pressure is dreadful, so it feels like hail on your skin and scalp. Needless to say, I’m very grateful for my showers now.”
“I understand why you missed bubble baths.”
His smile grows. “Right?… Then I’d have breakfast, usually oatmeal since that was the most nutritious option. After I was attacked, I ate all of my meals with Lincoln and his friends.”
At the mention of Lincoln, her curiosity is piqued because Bellamy hasn’t talked about him since she found his scar. “Then I’d go outside for a couple hours, do some exercise until I had to work my shift in the kitchen from 11 am ‘til 7 pm at night. It paid less than minimum wage but at least it gave me something to do with my time. Once my shift finished, I’d have dinner and go to sleep. Then repeat the routine the next day.”
Clarke’s at a loss for words; it’s a lot of information to process in such a short time, so her mind is left scrambling to make sense of how she feels about all of it. After a minute of silence, Bellamy makes sense of it for her, “Tedious, huh?”
“Well… yeah,” is her response, and heat rushes to her cheeks for no apparent reason. Slowly, she works up the courage that it takes to ask, “So, you and Lincoln? You were friends?”
“He saved my life, Princess. That sort of thing tends to bring people closer together. Yeah, we’re friends.” His jaw clenched, he rejects her use of the past tense and lowers his gaze for a moment. At first, the reaction confuses her, but then he mutters, “I haven’t been strong enough to visit him yet, even though I want to. It’s the least I can do for him now that I’m… free and he’s got another year. I’ve talked to him over the phone, though, and he says he understands why I’m scared to go back there, but I—”
“You’ll visit him when you’re ready,” she tells him firmly. “Not a second before. You have to think of yourself, too, I’m sure he knows that.”
“Clarke, you don’t understand. I owe this man my life,” Bellamy croaks, looking at her despite the tears that are glistening in his dark eyes. “And not just because he pulled the other inmate off me that day. After I was released from the hospital, he took me under his wing, kept me safe while I was at my weakest point—and he’d… he’d listen to me talk for hours about how much I missed my family and you, and—” A cruel sob cuts him off; it sounds as though it came from the depths of his chest.
Feeling her heart bleed, Clarke pulls him into an embrace. To her relief, he melts into it. As his tears soak the crook of her neck, she peppers chaste kisses to his temple. “I’m so glad you had him, Bellamy.”
It takes a couple of minutes, but when he’s able to stop crying, he tells her some of the things he learned about Lincoln over the years: He was lured into the world of hard drugs as a poor teenager living on the streets. At nineteen years old, he was arrested for dealing heroin, got released after serving seven years, and though he tried to make the adjustment it was impossible without any help, so he returned to a life of crime. Bellamy met him while he was serving his second sentence.
“He kept telling me that I had to do better than him when I got out. But he believed that I could because I had better friends than he did. And he was right.” Bellamy smiles a little to himself, which softens her heart. “I called Miller first thing, then Murphy. Lincoln told me that it would be the quickest way to rebuild my life. ‘Remember the people who are important to you,' he said.”
Even though she tries not to dwell on it, that quote sears through her chest, and she can’t prevent herself from asking, “And that’s why you wanted to forget about me?”
His eyes soften as he reaches out to caress her cheekbone. “You were different. I loved you too much to risk fucking your life up.”
This time, she forces herself to ignore the past tense. To protect her heart from further damage, she decides to change the subject completely, “What was it like in the hospital after you were…” For some reason, she can’t get the word out of her mouth, and she has to swallow hard before she asks, ”Did they treat you well?”
Bellamy scoffs. “They chained me to the bed.”
Without warning, nausea swirls in her stomach. “Why?”
“It’s policy. I spent almost two weeks there, chained up like an injured animal. Once those two weeks had passed the prison board decided that they didn’t wanna waste any more resources on me, but they were afraid that I’d be too weak and I’d be killed if I was just put back into the general population. So they put me in a cell in the segregation unit for five days, without any painkillers.”
Fuck, this is sickening. As if chaining up a critically-injured person wasn’t already inhumane, the thought of Bellamy being forced off his pain medication while he was recovering from a stab wound makes her see red.
The fury boils in her chest, brings bitter tears to her eyes.
“I’ve never been in so much pain, I thought I might pass out,” he mumbles, and that’s all it takes for the tears to start running down her cheeks. In silent comfort, Bellamy presses his lips to a soft spot above her eyebrow. “I’m okay now.”
“But you—”
“Listen to me, I’m fine…” His reassurance is so soft, and he smiles a little while he attempts to dry her cheeks. “I’m with you.”
Once he’s whispered this, he kisses her once more. It’s tender and warm, sending a wave of soothing heat through her ribcage; when it strikes her heart, she sighs against his lips, pulling him closer.
I’m with you.
At this moment, those three words mean more to her than a simple confession would. If only she could feel like that all of the time.
Chapter 15
Notes:
Hi, everyone! 🥰
I can't believe that there are only four chapters left for me to post; time has flown by. Thank you so much for sticking with me.
I'm going on a Christmas break from updating this fic until the second week of the new year because I really need to focus on my exams.
// Jo
Chapter Text
The crimson rays of the sun are slowly surrendering to the darkness of the late afternoon, so she lights some candles to brighten the living room; they fill the space with the subtle scent of pine. Then she sits down on the couch with her sketchpad and her beloved set of charcoal that is perfect for etching the shadows onto his face. She’s been working on the portrait for almost a week now, but she can’t seem to draw the last line; there’s always more to capture — he is neverending.
Eternal.
Though she shouldn’t, Clarke can’t help but compare this drawing to the ones she did years ago, and she’s noticed that the light in his eyes hasn’t faded as she thought. Now, it’s just a different kind of light, much like a spark in the darkness, persisting through everything, refusing to die out.
While sketching, she’s realized that strength has cut into his features, sharpened them like a blade. She knows that he doesn’t see himself like this, but it couldn’t be more clear to her.
Smiling, she lets her fingertip trace the curve of his jawline and counts the freckles on his nose.
They haven’t seen each other at all today, didn’t even wake up together since she worked an overnight shift at the ER. When she finally got home, worn to the bone, he’d left for work. Because she hardly got an hour of sleep on the horrible mattress in the on-call rooms, she took a nap with Athena, wishing that he were next to her instead.
Waking up without him is strange. Every time, her mind spins into a delusion that has her wondering if he’s left her for good or worse: if he was never really there in the first place. In that case, she would’ve been caught up in the world’s cruelest, most vivid fever dream. When her heart clenched this afternoon at the sight of the empty sheets, she grabbed his sweater off the back of her desk chair and brought it to her nose.
His words swirled in her mind: I’m fine. I’m with you.
Clarke fixes the corner of his mouth, adding a little more depth to it and, like clockwork, her phone rings. Her heart flips in her chest when she sees his name flashing across the screen because he never calls her.
Oh God, he never calls her…
Right away, the excitement bubbling in her heart is smothered by worry. Her hand trembles a bit as she answers the call, and she tries to keep her voice steady when she says, “Bell? Are you alright?” Judging by his even breathing, it doesn’t sound as if he’s having a panic attack, but it still takes longer than she’d like for him to respond, which only fuels her desperation.
“Yeah, I’m alright.” His tone is gruffer than usual, and she hates that the first thought that crams itself into his mind is ‘he’s been crying’. To gather herself, Clarke takes her bottom lip between her teeth as her heart sinks slowly. “I’m leaving the group session now, and I really fucking want you, so—”
She doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence, too stunned to focus. “Sorry, what?” For whatever reason, she’s convinced that she must’ve heard it wrong, there’s simply no way…
Or maybe there is.
“I want you,” Bellamy repeats, his voice gravelly; it sparks a vigorous fire in her veins. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
In truth, it’s a miracle that her phone hasn’t slipped from her grasp. The lust that’s clinging to every syllable sends pleasant tremors down her spine and has wetness gathering between her legs. She thinks about the hunger that must be visible in his eyes, which causes goosebumps to form on her skin.
“When will you be home?” she asks, trying to sound natural, but the words are jittering with excitement.
As soon as he’s responded, Clarke ends the call. Fifteen minutes. That gives her just enough time…
… To swap her blue, polka-dotted boyshorts for her newest set of red, lacy lingerie. She contemplates not covering it up so that he can be struck by the sight of it when he walks through the door to the bedroom, but she ultimately decides against it, figuring that he’ll love to uncover it himself. To trick him a little, she doesn’t change out of her loungewear. Hopefully, finding something sexy underneath her casual clothes will turn him on.
As the final touch, she lights all of the candles in her bedroom.
Maybe it’s lame, but she wants to do this for him.
He’s never been unapologetic about his desires before; it’s a huge step that deserves to be acknowledged. Still, she doesn’t want to seem too eager, which is a matter of pride, naturally, but it also proves to be an impossible task.
At the moment the front door clicks shut, Clarke shoots towards him and leaps into his arms, which are there to catch her. She locks her legs around his waist, buries her hand in the soft curls of his hair and catches his lips in a bruising kiss. She doesn’t want to leave any doubt in his mind that she wants this as much as he does.
Responding to her passion, Bellamy growls into her mouth. Then he starts walking towards the room that she has lit up for him. When their kiss is broken, she sucks hard at his pulse-point until she feels his breath hitch. His warm hands slip beneath her sweater, and she shudders at the touch. Somehow, he manages to pull the fabric off her with just one hand, as the other one remains secured to her back.
“Gorgeous…“ he murmurs, pressing his lips to a tender spot behind her ear. His thumb grazes the strap of her bra while his dark eyes roam her chest without shame; it leaves her breathless for a long moment. “You hid this well for me, huh?” After saying this, he leaves a kiss at the top of her left breast, on a beauty mark she’s had for years.
“Just wait until you see the rest of it,” she teases, causing him to smile against her skin.
Bellamy doesn’t waste any time; he all but throws her onto the bed and climbs on top of her to tug the pajama down her legs. When the lace comes into view, his gaze darkens, and — to her surprise — he places his arm under her waist and flips her onto her stomach.
Flames engulf her heart, sending more wetness to her core. If she weren’t so intrigued, she’d be embarrassed about it. At this moment, though, there is no part of her that feels even slightly self-conscious, as Bellamy moves the hair off the back of her neck and kisses her there; his breath is hot, tantalizing. All that she can do is lay there and wait for him to give her what she needs.
“Grab the pillow for me, Princess,” he whispers.
Once she’s given him what he’s asked for, he places it underneath her hips and removes her bra, throwing it off to the side. At this point, her heart is fluttering so wildly that she can’t focus on anything else. She doesn’t remember the last time she was so excited to have sex with someone; he’s got her more completely riled up, and yet it’s not an impatient kind of desire.
She could wait for hours just to have him.
But that’s not necessary.
Teasingly, Bellamy lets his fingertip trail the curve of her spine before tugging the panties off her legs. “You ready for me?”
“Bell—” Her lips quiver around his name when his long fingers spread her open and slip into her heat. As he curses under his breath, she moans into the crisp sheets. “Please.” Despite her begging, he pulls his fingers out of her again.
Frowning, she glances back only to catch the sight of him slicking himself up with her arousal. God. “Fuck, Bellamy— Oh.” As he finally pushes into her, she almost chokes on the moan that bursts out of her mouth; the thrust is so deep, so strong, that it drives her forward, makes her nipples rub against the sheets.
She has grown so used to the missionary position in the last couple of weeks since that’s the only one they’ve been in; everything else, especially this, feels a bit scandalous. While he's thrusting into her from behind, it feels as though he hits deeper and he seems… bigger, somehow.
Bellamy groans with each movement as his skin slaps against hers; it’s filthy in the best way possible, and she doesn’t want it to end. Being able to take him like this fills her with a strange sense of pride, which is something she has only ever felt before when she was the one in charge. There’s no reasonable explanation for it, but being fucked by him makes her feel powerful.
He presses his lips to her shoulder, and she feels the weight of his body as it encases her, his abs against her back. For some reason, this sensation heightens the pleasure that comes with his next thrust; Clarke cries out at the intensity of it.
Could this be what he imagined doing to her in prison? If that’s the case, it’s not “bad” at all.
In fact, it’s so overwhelmingly good that she tears up.
“I’m so close, Bell,” she whines, too needy to think straight.
When he leaves her then, abruptly pulling out, she whimpers. But then he flips her again and immediately buries his head between her legs, which has the tears spilling over her eyes without warning. The movements of his tongue against her are passionate, though not rushed as one might expect; he’s truly taking his time, gently brushing her sensitive clit with each flick.
It drives her wild.
“Come on, Clarke—” he breathes, tightening his grip on her trembling thighs.
As she falls off the edge, she buries her hand in his hair. It feels like a flood washing over her. For a minute, she’s completely overcome by the pleasure, which leaves her mind void of thoughts. What brings her back to reality is the sound of him groaning. When she forces her eyes to open, she realizes that he’s jerking himself off.
'No,' her mind insists. She swats at his hand, then all but tackles him just to get him to lie down on his back. Though she loved being dominated while it lasted, she recognizes that it’s time to take matters into her own hands — or rather, her mouth. Once he’s locked beneath her, gazing hotly at her, she presses a demanding kiss to his lips before putting her mouth on him.
“Shit—”
If she could, she’d smirk, but her lips have better things to do. Slowly, she sucks him off, reveling in the guttural sounds that she pulls from his throat. It doesn’t take him long to come and, when he does, she swallows his load proudly. Before drawing back completely, she drops a sweet kiss to the tip of him.
“Remember, you don’t need to use your hands anymore. You’ve got me.”
Bellamy seems too dazed to respond. Instead of waiting for him to do so, she lies down next to him, nestling herself in the crook of his arm.
“That was amazing,” she tells him, not to stroke his ego but to make her feelings clear in case he doubts them. After she’s reassured him, he turns to mouth at her temple, which is something he used to do when they were younger; it makes her heart swell. “I’m glad you called me.”
He’s silent for a minute, his brow furrowed and eyes gentle as ever. Caressing her breast with his thumb, he says, “Truth be told, I ended up calling you because of therapy. They told us that one of the most important things to help recovery is being honest about what you want and need. If you can’t—if you can’t be honest about it then you’ll never believe that you really deserve those things.”
Smiling, Clarke kisses his shoulder.
“I just wish that my needs weren’t so… selfish.”
At that, she nuzzles his cheek. “Needs are selfish by definition. But they’re not inherently bad. Like I’ve already said, you don’t have to feel guilty for wanting me.”
Bellamy’s jaw clenches. “I don’t want to feel guilty, but it’s not that simple, Clarke. Sometimes… I wish you hadn't recognized me in that CVS, because then you wouldn’t have to see me like this, every day—”
“Stop right there,” she interjects, her voice quivering. At the matter of a second, a mess of terrible emotions — anger, devastation, resentment — has conquered her mind. Though she should try to understand where he’s coming from, she’s too torn up. Technically, he already told her about all of this when they were at the lake house, but now he’s confirmed that he thinks her life would be easier without him in it, and she can’t handle it. So instead of being gentle, she stammers, “How dare you?”
“Clarke—”
“No. You are not worthless to me because you’re in pain. You’re not a burden, do you understand?” she says, frantic as tears pool in her eyes.
He stares at her, swallowing hard. “I don’t, no. I don’t understand.”
To her regret, the words that push past her lips are stone cold. “Then why are you here? If you think you’re a burden, why haven’t you left me?” As soon as his expression cracks like glass, she wishes she could take everything back.
But it’s too late.
That was truly cruel. Desperate to comfort him, she reaches out, but it’s caught in mid-air by his. Much to her awe, Bellamy brings her knuckles to his lips, then interlaces their fingers and lays them on his chest. “Because Clarke, you’re—” His voice quivers. “You’re my home.”
She senses the tears flow down her cheeks, doesn’t care enough to stop them. All she cares about is listening to him as he continues, “Everything that I’ve been through, it’s made me feel broken; like I’ve lost the things that shaped me, but… on those scary nights in prison where I couldn’t remember who I was, my heart always led me back to you. And I’d remember. I’d remember me.”
“Bell.” Her voice is a fragile whisper between them.
“You’re my home, Clarke,” he repeats, on the verge of crying.
It’s not necessary, so she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she holds him, hopes it’s enough to carry all of the love that she wants to give him.
Danville Correctional Center.
Though Clarke doesn’t scare easily, this place sends a chill down her spine. It looks haunted and soulless with its dark concrete walls and tall barbed-wire fences. Thinking about the fact that her person spent six years in there makes her want to throw up. But she isn’t here to revisit the past.
She’s here to bring the past into the present.
According to the prison system, it doesn’t matter if you won’t be in direct contact with an inmate during your visit: Before she’s allowed to pass through the doors and speak to Lincoln through the phone, the contents of her purse are put under the scrutiny of two middle-aged correctional officers. Clarke knows better than to make a fuss, though.
Finally, after what seems like hours, the officers let her go. She pushes through the double doors, which open into a large room; it’s separated from the floor to the ceiling by a glass wall… or rather, it’s a barricade meant to prevent the inmates from touching the visitors.
They didn’t have this set-up in the county jail where she visited a couple of times. In there, they were allowed to be in the same, small room for about fifteen minutes as long as they were watched by an officer with icy. That officer’s name tag read Lightbourne, and Clarke has never been able to wipe his cold face from her memory.
Forcing herself back to the present moment, Clarke looks at the inmates lined up behind the glass, all wearing the same bright orange suit. Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she swallows the bitter lump in her throat.
Once you end up here, you’re no longer an individual. You’re just another inmate.
After a minute of trying to figure out which one of them is Lincoln despite having no physical description to go off, Clarke steps towards a correctional officer. In truth, she hopes that he can tell how much she despises this place.
“I need to talk to Lincoln.”
The officer frowns at her as if her statement is offensive to him. “What’s the last name? We only use their last names here.”
Clarke crosses her arms over her chest and says clearly. “Forester. His name is Lincoln Forester.”
Judging by the way his expression hardens, the officer doesn’t appreciate her tone, but she frankly couldn’t care less. After what seems like an eternity, he points at the man who’s sitting four chairs from the left end of the wall.
Her heart leaps and clenches at the same time because she finally has a true image of him: Dark-skinned, tall, and muscular with a black yet well-trimmed beard. Lincoln.
Smiling, she starts towards the empty seat that’s reserved for her. As she comes closer, Lincoln’s head perks up, and she sees his deep, earthy eyes twinkle. His lips part to form words, but she won’t be able to hear them until she’s picked up the phone, so she almost rips it off the wall in her rush.
“I’m so happy you’re here...” is the first thing he says, his voice warmer than she expected. “... Because that means Bellamy found his way home, after all.”
You’re my home, Clarke.
Suddenly, she’s battling the tears that are clogging her throat. “He…?”
Offering her a gentle smile, Lincoln replies, “He wanted to come home to you so badly, but he didn’t think that he had a place in your life anymore. At least you proved him wrong, right?”
It seems as though she has known the man behind the glass for years. Maybe it’s because he’s been so close to Bellamy during the years that she couldn’t be, or maybe it’s because she knows that he’s the only reason why Bellamy came back to her alive. “If—” she starts, still choked up. “If you hadn’t had the courage, he’d be dead — and some part of me would be dead, too. So… Thank you. ”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Lincoln says softly, but Clarke doesn’t agree. Not at all.
“You risked your own life to save him. I can’t thank you enough.” He doesn’t try to refute her insistence, just smiles at her again, which brings her to ask, “How are you feeling?”
Of course, that might be a strange question to ask someone who’s serving time in prison — for many people, herself included, that reality would be like hell on Earth. But living with Bellamy has taught her that it’s important to ask, give people a chance to open up. Sometimes, it takes a little encouragement.
“Better than I did the first time around,” Lincoln replies, cracking a small smile. “It’s hard to change your life for the better when everyone you know expects you to keep making mistakes for them. Nobody told me that I could have a different life. Now, someone has.”
Even though it’s none of her business, her curiosity gets the better of her. “Who?”
At her question, Lincoln scratches his chin, his dark eyes sparkling. Then he says a name that she would’ve never expected to hear, “Octavia.”
Octavia, as in Bellamy’s little sister. Baffled, Clarke can only stare at him, but it seems like he was anticipating that kind of reaction. “I was surprised by it, too. Since Bellamy was stabbed, she’s had phone conversations with me once a week. She hated that she couldn’t rush through college and law school, because she wanted to find some way to get me out of here.”
That definitely sounds like Octavia. Six years younger than her brother, she’s always tried to make up for the age difference though determination and fierceness. Memories flash in Clarke’s mind of the girl standing on her tiptoes, puffing herself up every time she and Bellamy were having a typical sibling spat.
“I told her it’s no big deal; I get out in a year anyway, and we’ll see each other—” When Lincoln trails off, his gaze softens, and it hits her: They’re in love. Or, at least, he’s in love with her. “—We’ll see each other again. It’s only a matter of time.”
Before she can prevent it, the words, “Does Bellamy know?” fly out of her mouth. “Does he know that you love his sister?”
For a moment, Lincoln gapes at her, then he says, “Woah, Blake was right. Nothing gets past you. Yes, he knows; it took him a little while to warm up to the idea, but as long as I don’t fawn over her too much while we’re talking on the phone, he’s cool with it.”
“Oh, that’s—nice.” At the corner of her eye, she sees that a correctional officer is approaching from the right. “I think our call time is almost up. This won’t be the last time we talk, though.”
“Please tell Bellamy to take all the time he needs. He doesn’t have to come and visit me, I understand.”
Before she can respond, the correctional officer cuts in, “Miss, your time is up.” But she doesn't give him a bit of her attention; instead, she waves at Lincoln, smiling as she puts the phone back on the wall.
Hopefully, Bellamy won’t suspect anything. It will crush him that she went to visit his friend without him, and maybe she should’ve asked his permission, but she has to find some of the answers on her own, fill the empty spaces. After all, she has missed six years of his life. She'll never get them back, but she can try to make them seem less obscure.
Chapter 16
Notes:
HEY GUYS! 💕 I've officially escaped exam hell, and I'm back to regular posting. Thank you for your patience.
I can't wait for you guys to read this chapter. Though, there is one warning I want to issue: Discussion of sexual objectification .
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
At the corner of Genesis and Elm Street, there is a store that has crystal jars of vibrant-colored hard candies lined up in the front window. It feels as though she grew up while running through the Prussian blue door, hearing the small bell above it chime along to the tune of her best friend’s laugh. This is where they’d burn all of their pocket money: In the winter, they bought candy canes and caramelized almonds; in the summer, they bought tubs of homemade ice cream, which they ate sitting on the curb, watching as the cars passed by.
(“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, examining the violet bruises blooming on her knees.
Clarke smiled around the plastic spoon, feeling her heart swell.
His eyebrows furrowed, and he frowned at her in confusion. “What?”
“Nothing. You’re just... sweet.”
When she leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to his freckled cheek,
she felt his skin burn against her lips. It was a very hot afternoon.
A couple of hours before, he’d nearly bit Mbege’s head off for tripping her during a soccer game.
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Bellamy mumbled, turning away.
But she persisted, dropping a few silly kisses to his temple. “Don’t be so grumpy.”
Those words painted a gentle smile on his face.“I’ll try.”)
Clarke doesn’t realize that she’s no longer walking. Her feet have brought her to a halt. From her spot on the pavement, she’s enticed by the scent of sugar and looks to the sky — the sun has finally melted the last bit of snow. That calls for ice cream, she thinks.
When she comes home, the first thing she hears is the shuffling of footsteps. Before she’s taken off her coat, Bellamy has found his way into her arms. His body radiates warmth, which pulls a low gasp from her lips. Still, his shoulders seem tense, and his breath is rough against her cheek. To soothe him, she brushes her fingers through the dark curls at the back of his head. “What’s wrong?”
As he draws back, Clarke searches for his eyes and finds them clouded. Because of this, she lays one hand over his heart; it’s racing, which makes her own jolt.
“I’m just—” he breathes, but the tremble in his voice cuts him off. “I’m really anxious today.”
In time, Clarke has learned that the best way to help ease his anxiety is by offering a simple distraction. Thankfully, she has just the right one. Brushing her lips against his cheek, she hands him the bag.”Look inside.”
He hesitates for a second, but when he follows her request his expression is softened by awe. Most likely, the countless memories that are bound to this kind of mint chocolate chip have flooded him. His full lips part, his eyes are filled with tears, and Clarke reaches out to caress his knuckles.
“You went to La Vie?” His question is swept in disbelief, as though he didn’t think the store existed anymore.
“Yeah. For the first time in six years.”
In truth, there are so many places she hasn’t gone after his arrest because she was too afraid that they’d echo with her loss; that they’d be hollow without him. It was him who brought the technicolor whenever they went.
But when she's sitting next to him on the couch, watching as he digs a spoon into the ice cream, her heart sparks like fireworks.
Once he’s scooped a bit onto the spoon, he stares at it for a moment. “I haven’t had ice cream since…” His jaw clenches, and he finally brings the spoon to his mouth. At the first taste, his eyelids flutter and, to her sheer joy, he instantly goes for the next bite. She pays such close attention to his face that her own brownie ice cream starts melting around the edges. For some reason, she can’t look away. His expression is one of longing, a sad kind of nostalgia.
“The last time I had ice cream,” Bellamy says, his voice low, “was at your grandma’s party. You know, that strawberry and vanilla-cream one? It was amazing.” As a small smile blooms on his lips, he pokes her foot with his. “It wasn’t the best part of the night, though.”
At his words, blood rises to her cheeks, makes them feel warm.
If she could, she’d turn away to prevent him from seeing her blush, but he puts his hand on top of hers, anchoring her. “In prison, I always felt the most anxious while trying to fall asleep. So I’d close my eyes, try to disappear by remembering that night — replaying it in my head: The lightning bugs, the… glasses of peach wine clinking and that song , it never left my head.”
( “Well, you’ll see her when you fall asleep
But never to touch and never to keep
‘ Cause you loved her too much—”)
Sudden tears clog her throat at the memory. Bellamy manages another genuine smile though she can feel how he’s trembling. Then he lifts their interlaced hands and whispers, “Do you wanna dance again?”
His earthy eyes are glistening with soft vulnerability; it makes her heart quiver.
“Bell, you’re anxious—”
“Yeah, and this might help me,” is his quick response, his desperation shining through the stumbling syllables. Hearing this makes her grab her phone off the coffee table, and she scrolls through the hot mess that is her Spotify playlist. While she searches for the right song, she ignores the pounding of her heart — there’s no way she’s choosing ‘Let Her Go’ again.
That will hurt them too much.
Finally, she settles on one, connects her phone to the speakers and plays the first few seconds for Bellamy. He nods, staring straight ahead with a look of determination on his face. Still holding her hand, he pulls her onto the living room floor. There is room enough in front of the television.
Once his hands are resting on the small of her back, their tremble dies out. Her heart skips a beat as they begin to sway, slowly like the calm tide flowing to the shore.
Fold to your knees,
Your body needs to embody me.
Thinking about how his body naturally follows hers, mirroring its every move even after all of these years, takes her breath away. His touch is warm as ever, keeping her locked in his arms — and, at this rare moment, there’s no shadow of hesitation in his eyes. It’s just the two of them, dancing as they did when they were eighteen. But it doesn’t make them travel back in time. Not really.
The memory is still following their every step, though.
As the music swells, Bellamy’s lips brush against her earlobe; from there, they trail along her jawline toward her neck, and she wants to melt into him. Just like she did that night…
(The secrecy of this invigorated the fire in her chest.
Listening to the distant chatter of the guests,
as he sucked at her pulse point and his hand dived under the skirt of her lavender dress.
His breath hot and heavy against her skin,
his fingers gentle on her thigh,
it drove the hesitation from her mind.
“I want you,” Clarke whispered into his ear. “Please. I’m sure.”)
“Bellamy…” Her voice is fading, a quiet echo between them while tears cloud her eyes. He draws back to gaze into her eyes, then, he presses a lingering kiss to the tip of her nose and her forehead. The warmth from his hands is seeping into her skin, making her shudder. Though his touch has always been tender, it still rattles the Earth — like the delicate wings of a butterfly causing a hurricane.
As the guitar strings are strummed in the background, Bellamy spins her around slowly. When his hand lands on her hip again, he murmurs, “I thought about this all the time.”
At that, a grin grows on her lips. “Dancing?”
“It wasn't all sex to me, you know. I’d fantasize about other things, too, like… you in that dress, my lips on your neck. I’d think about how we were hugging when—yeah, I just—” Clarke notices the tears well up at the corners of his eyes. To battle them, he blinks profusely, lowers his gaze. “I really missed you. I wanted to be that close to you again, I—I still do.”
Despite the fact that there are so many things she’d love to say to him, to reassure him, she chooses to remain silent. Just as the song ends, the beat fading, he says, “I’ve told you that my idea of sex changed in prison, but I haven’t told you about all of it, and it’s making me anxious. I don’t wanna hide anything from you. I wanna be open.”
“Of course. Bell, don’t you think I want you to be open, too?”
He sighs, still holding loosely onto her hand. “It’s just hard when everything makes me anxious. Not being open makes me anxious, but the thought of being open also scares the shit out of me. That doesn't change anything, though. You deserve to know the truth. You deserve to know how I thought about you.”
“Bellamy—”
“And maybe you won’t think it’s a big deal. Maybe you will, but what matters is that you know.” Once they’ve made their way back to the couch, he stirs the sad, melted bit of ice cream that’s left in his tub. ”I’m sorry I’ve been so afraid.”
Clarke places a hand on his knee as her heart clenches painfully. “Hey, look at me.” To catch his attention, she brushes her fingertip along his jawline, feeling the coarse trail of stubble. He meets her eyes, and she adds, “You don’t have to apologize for having emotions.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Bellamy runs a palm along his face. “Having emotions is what made me... You know, I’ve never been afraid of crying. But then I went to prison and I heard stories about guys being beaten up because they were caught crying. In there, everyone’s miserable, looking for the worst possible excuse to take their anger out on someone else.”
Just in case, she prepares herself for the most terrible scenario: Having to hear a story of him being beaten because some asshole thought he was an easy, weak target.
“In the first, uh, I think three years, I found ways to cry when no one could see me, mostly in the shower, which is so… cliché. It didn’t even help all that much. Eventually, I just stopped. It felt less risky, but I couldn’t run from my emotions. They didn’t disappear.” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how he then chose to deal with everything, and yet she figures that it’s best to let him admit it himself. “I fantasized. That’s how I escaped, how I coped , all of that time. And I’m not proud of it. I’m—” he winces. “But it is what it is.”
Even though he’s not looking at her, Clarke reaches for his hand. Her heart has picked up its pace, and her skin feels warmer suddenly. “Are there any of the fantasies that you still have?”
Bellamy hesitates for a moment, then replies, “Just one. But I usually dream about it now: Being handcuffed and you,” he worries his lower lip, glancing at her, “going down on me. It—makes me feel as if I’m in control, that I get to decide what happens to me even when I think I’m trapped.”
As her heart leaps, she leans in to press a chaste kiss to his temple. Unexpectedly, he turns his head so that his forehead meets hers and the tips of their noses graze. “I’m sorry.”
The action is so gentle it makes her tear up.
Drawing invisible patterns on the back of his neck with his fingertips, she captures his lips in a sweet kiss, letting it last a couple of seconds. “How would you feel if it became reality?”
His eyes widen. “Clarke—”
“It wouldn’t be the first time we fulfilled a fantasy, would it?”
( “You mind if we… sit?” she asked, trying to ignore the burn in her cheeks.
Bellamy’s dark eyes twinkled to match his bright, boyish grin. “Like, you in my lap?”
“Yeah, it’s—we don’t have to. I just always imagined it like that.”
At her admission, his eyebrows shot up in amusement. “Oh, then…”
Without hesitation, he pulled her onto his lap, making her giggles fill the bedroom.)
Bellamy gazes at her. “That was different.”
“Not really.”
Because she knows him, she’s prepared for him to start arguing, but he doesn’t. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek. Finally, he says, his voice raw with emotion, “It’s just—it’d be huge for me.” He swallows as tears fill his eyes. “But I don’t wanna rush into it right now. I’m too anxious.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
The following hour passes as they cuddle on the couch. Slowly, the tension seeps out of his body, and Clarke wonders if he’s fallen asleep. Curious, she pokes the biggest freckle on his cheekbone, making him scrunch up his nose. “You want something?”
“Just attention,” she admits, smiling when he opens his eyes to look at her.
Brushing his thumb across her temple, Bellamy mirrors her smile. “Attention, huh?” He leans in to kiss her, keeping it tender though he runs his hand down her clothed back. Just like earlier, the touch makes her shudder, and he hums before kissing her again. It seems as if the slow dance softened him even more.
“Are you feeling better?” she murmurs, tracing the shape of his lips with her fingertip, When he nods, her heart swells in relief.
Later, they eat pizza for dinner. Bellamy’s taste buds haven’t changed much, apparently, as he still wants his side to be with pepperoni and black olives. Her side has barbecue chicken and cheddar. Once they’ve cleaned up, he pulls her onto the living room floor for another dance. This time, Clarke lets him choose the song.
To her surprise, it’s the enticing beat of ‘ Hips Don’t Lie’ that plays through her speakers. She throws her head back in laughter before taking his outstretched hand. Grinning, he pulls her close to him — in turn, she places a hand on his chest. While dancing to this song, Bellamy proves that he still has rhythm. A lot of it , in fact. His moves seem effortless and confident, but he’s still having fun; that is if his warm laughter is any indication.
“You’re so fucking hot.”
At that comment, he winks at her, spins her until her back is pressed against his abs. His warm breath ghosts over the shell of her ear, “Thanks, Babe.” Then his lips press to the slope of her neck, sucking gently on the sensitive skin there.
As flames are ignited in her chest, engulfing her ribcage, she slips out of his grasp easily, turns around and captures his lips in a searing kiss. He groans, and his hands drop to her ass, which has her leaping up; his arms catch her, anchor her against him as she wraps her legs around his waist. Deepening their kiss, Bellamy draws her bottom lip between his teeth, then soothes the sting with the tip of his tongue.
Once they’re in the bedroom, Bellamy all but throws her onto the Queen. She tugs off her sweater as he moves to unclasp her lace bra. But she doesn’t need his help with this. Instead, she tells him to look in the bottom drawer of her dresser.
It takes him a minute to find what she wanted him to: The pair of handcuffs that she bought at a sex shop after her breakup with Lexa. Raven urged her to “get back out there,” which she did, but she never actually trusted any of her casual partners enough to use these. Right now, she just hopes that he trusts her enough.
“Are you sure?”
Bellamy’s staring at the cuffs, turning them in his hands. At her question, he looks at her, a look of steel determination in his eyes. “Yes.” Worrying his lips, he gives them to her. “I trust you.”
They switch places, and she sinks to her knees in front of him. When he reaches his hands out, Clarke has to battle the thought of how many times he’s been forced to go through this before she can bring herself to lock them around his wrists. She doesn’t tighten them much. As soon as he’s wearing them, she interlaces their fingers, peppers kisses onto his knuckles.
“If you, at any point, want to stop—”
“I’ll say so,” Bellamy finishes, managing a genuine smile.
Before she tugs his pants and boxers down, Clarke reminds herself not to rush into the blowjob. Understandably, them doing this is personal to him. She wants him to be as comfortable as possible. Despite the fact that he can't touch her, she kisses him passionately, maps the sharp lines of his abs. When she finally turns her attention to his cock, giving it a few leisured strokes, he’s breathless, his jaw slack.
“Clarke—”
She grins, brushing her thumb around the sensitive tip of him. “Huh? Tell me what you want.”
At those words, he looks at her, his pupils blown so wide that his eyes resemble onyxes. “Put your mouth on me.”
The fire in the pit of her stomach sparks, rising through her upper body. Eager to please him, she takes the head of his cock into her mouth; the earthy taste makes her skin sizzle with desire — it’s already been too long since she last did this. In turn, Bellamy shudders, the metal chain between his wrists rattling as his body jolts. His following moan drowns it out, though, urging her to continue. Maybe she should’ve expected it, but the sounds that he makes are ones that she’s never heard before: Everything from nearly-inaudible grunts to guttural groans that threaten to make the walls crumble. Still, his body is trembling, a clear sign of how overwhelming this is for him.
And he is barely saying anything. At least until...
“Please, stop.”
Startled, Clarke takes her mouth off him and gathers the courage to look at him. To her awe, there’s no trace of pain cut into his facial expression; his earthy eyes are aflame, his full lips parted and chest heaving. “Just… unlock these,” he breathes, reaching his hands out again.
Fumbling a little, she unlocks the handcuffs using the tiny key. They come off, and Bellamy immediately turns to soothe his wrists, rubbing them. Shit , she could’ve sworn that she didn’t tighten them much. Her heart clenches, an apology is resting on the tip of her tongue when he says, “Take your clothes off.”
Being naked in front of him seems different under these circumstances. His gaze is heated and heavy as it settles on her chest, making goosebumps break out on her skin. Still, he doesn’t stare at her for long; he wraps his strong arms around her waist and pulls her into his lap. When he buries his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling sharply, Clarke melts against him.
“Bell, are you—”
The rest of the question dies in her throat when Bellamy draws back to look at her. His dark eyes are glistening with tears, his facial features softened by awe that makes him appear years younger. As her heart flutters, she presses a lingering kiss to his forehead.
“Can I come inside you?” he whispers, and it sounds like he’s afraid she’ll say no.
To end his doubt, Clarke sinks down on his cock, taking him slowly inch by inch. While he fills her up, warmth radiates through her body, and she can’t hold back the small gasp that flies past her lips. More than anything, this position makes her feel nostalgic, her heart lurching.
“Clarke—”
( “Clarke…” She was staring somewhere over his shoulder,
blushing harder than ever.
Gathering herself, she drew back slightly to meet his soft gaze.
“Oh, hey,” he said sweetly, his boyish grin making her want to cry.
Instead, she choked out a teary laugh.
Unreal. It was unreal.
To feel him like this, and yet nothing in the universe
had changed.
He was still looking at her all the same.)
Rolling her hips against his, she keeps the movements slow. Bellamy’s hands splay across her back, caressing her skin. As expected, it doesn’t take him long to come, his cock swelling inside her. What does take her by surprise is how amazing it feels: Chills course down her spine and her toes curl at the sensation; the pleasure of it is only heightened by Bellamy’s broken moan.
The last time they had sex like this, they were eighteen. Trying to forget it has kept her from realizing just how badly she’s missed it.
Afterward, they lie down on top of the blankets, cuddle up against one another.
After several minutes of comfortable silence, Clarke asks, “Are you more anxious than before?” because that’s what she fears the most. Maybe she rushed him into this too soon and it backfired; that would be catastrophic.
“Less,” he murmurs, a small yet fragile smile gracing his lips. “I’m sorry if I worried you, it’s just—when pleasure is mixed up with something that’s tied to all my trauma, I—” His breath hitches, cutting him off. Clarke presses a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It makes me feel as if I can actually work through it, you know?”
Nodding, she traces an absent-minded pattern onto his sternum with her fingertip. “What about the other fantasies you had? You think fulfilling them will empower you, too?”
“I don’t know. It might, but… Here’s the thing, Clarke. I objectified you for years, and then I lied to you about it. You’re not obligated to enact those fantasies just because you want me to feel better.”
At his self-accusation, she sighs, “I realize that. How about you tell me more about them, so I can finally judge them myself?” In the end, that’s what he planned to do today. “I know it’s hard, but I’m not gonna abandon you, okay?”
Once she’s said this, Bellamy puts his hand on top of hers. “I’ve already said that fantasizing was how I coped with my emotions, not because I wanted to but because I felt that I had to. I had a few— very specific ones, like the one I already told you about. When I was overwhelmed by something that happened in there—there was a time when another inmate was tased by an officer right in front of me. I saw his body convulse and his eyes roll back, I just— ”
To soothe him, Clarke brushes her hand through the soft curls of his hair. “I went back to my cell, and I thought about choking you. I didn’t jerk off, I just tried to disappear, seep into the fantasy, if you will. It gave me something else to focus on.”
As soon as the word ‘choking’’ has left his lips, Clarke has to push away the clear image of his hands wrapped around her throat that wants to conquer her mind.
After pausing for a moment, Bellamy continues, “I could focus on making you feel good instead of getting caught up in the horror.”
Worrying her bottom lip, she asks, “I can’t imagine how angry you must’ve been sometimes.”
“Sometimes? Try 'all the time'. I was angry at the rotten system in there, but I was furious at myself. For ruining my own life, for losing my family, for still wanting you..” He takes a shaky breath, caresses her knuckles. “I’d get jealous, thinking about you with other people. Then I’d get furious at myself because I let you go, damn it. I had no right, and I knew that. But…”
Suddenly, she feels his body go tense, and his jaw clenches. Before she can react to it, he’s speaking again, “I’d deal with that by fantasizing about spanking you.” The panic bleeds through his voice, as he stumbles over the words; it barely sounds like him. He’s terrified, and that realization stabs at her soft heart. “Listen, it—it was never about me punishing you for moving on or—I’m sorry. Clarke, I’m so sorry.”
She cradles his face. “Bellamy, look at me. Really. Do I seem horrified?” When she smiles at him, his brow furrows in confusion, and she presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. His lips part, yet no words emerge, so she decides to spill a truth of her own. “You’re not the only one who fantasized as a way to cope with trauma. I did, too.”
“What?”
“It’s that surprising? I went through shit too, you know.”
At that, Bellamy swallows hard, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. “Wanna tell me about it?”
For a while, she was too devastated to even think about sex, but — little by little as a life without him started to feel like an inevitability instead of a long, torturous nightmare — that changed. When she was alone in her dorm room at college, torn up by not being close to him, she’d get herself off on things that would've probably scared the living hell out of her parents if they ever found out.
“I wanted to break into the jail, tear off your uniform and fuck you right there in front of the other inmates. I didn’t care,” she explains. “I told Diyoza about it one day because it—it honestly scared me a little bit. I didn’t understand why I wanted those things, they seemed so extreme. She said that feeling powerless can make us wish that we didn’t care about anything. Because that would make it easier to attain what we need to feel better.”
“That makes sense… She sounds great, your ex-therapist.”
Clarke is just about to make a suggestion, captured by the idea of Bellamy having an alternative to his group therapy, when the doorbell rings. It catches them off guard. They’re not expecting anyone, not even Postmates, and it can’t be Raven because she’s been living at Luna’s apartment for the last month. It probably won’t be long before she packs her bags and moves out officially, though it’s weird to think about that.
“I’ll get it,” Bellamy says, reluctantly moving off the bed to throw his clothes back on.
Maybe she should get dressed, too, but it’s late and she was kind of hoping that they could spend the rest of the night in bed, watching a feel-good movie on her laptop. Spotting the handcuffs at the end of the bed, she grabs them and puts them in her nightstand drawer for safe-keeping.
Just when she’s shut the drawer, she hears the front door open. Seconds later, Bellamy speaks, and it’s clear as day: “Octavia?”
Notes:
The next chapter will have the reveal that you're probably all waiting for... 👀
Come talk to me on Twitter: @selflessbellfic
Chapter 17
Notes:
Hi, everyone! 💕
I'm very proud of this chapter, but it's the darkest one of the fic (by far) and I recommend that everyone reads the content warnings in the notes at the end before choosing whether to read it or not.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Octavia looks fierce as ever, her blue eyes electric and arms crossed over her chest. Carefully, Clarke steps out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Because it’s not her place, she doesn’t want to get in between the two siblings, even as the nineteen-year-old says, “So you can’t spend a single night back home, but you can live here and fuck your ex-girlfriend?”
“You can be as pissed at me as you want, but leave her out of this,” Bellamy bites back without confirming or denying the accusation.
Despite being confronted, he seems collected. She can’t see his facial expression, but his shoulders are relaxed. Though his little sister’s bluntness can be intimidating at times, he’s always known how to deal with it. The same thing can’t be said for Clarke. Nevertheless, she wills herself to move closer because Octavia has chosen to pick an argument in her apartment, after all, which makes this her business.
“Why should I? Don’t you think your priorities are a bit weird, Bell?”
He scowls. “This has nothing to do with priorities. I—I love you and Mom, you know that.” As he says this, the first crack of his voice reveals a dent in his armor; his sister managed to strike a soft cord, and it’s no surprise: His family has always been his weak spot. “It’s just—”
“Do you blame us?” Octavia cuts him off, a hint of hysteria lingering at the edge of the question. “Do you blame me, is that why...?”
“Of course not, O.” When his sister lowers her gaze, Bellamy places his hands on her shoulders in comfort. “I only blame myself.”
At that response, she looks up sharply, her blue eyes full of thunder, “You shouldn’t. That bastard deserved it.” As soon those words have fallen off her lips, Clarke sees Bellamy’s body go rigid, his jaw clench and his eyes flash with sheer panic. His sister must notice it, too, but she doesn’t read the signs in the same way, which becomes clear when she adds, her voice raised even higher, “He threatened to rape me!”
“I know!” Bellamy shouts, “I was there! I killed him!”
(Clarke was browsing the NYU website when she suddenly heard her mom’s frantic voice from downstairs, “Aurora… I— Jake’s getting dressed right now. We’re coming over. No, listen, don’t do that, okay? You’re in shock. Just keep talking to me.”
Her heart shot to the top of her ribcage.
In a second, she was on her feet and ripping her bedroom door open. “Mom, what’s going on?”
It was her dad who answered, “Stay here, Honey. You hear me? You stay here.”)
The memory brings tears to her eyes, but she’s quickly reminded of the present moment because Octavia replies, “Yeah, and you were right to.”
Fuck, she’s making it much worse.
“No, O. I wasn’t,” Bellamy shoots back, his fists trembling along his sides, his every word strained as he struggles to keep his anxiety at bay. Still, he can only do that for so long and, seconds later, his composure shatters. “What I did, it took everything from me, don’t you understand? I lost everything that was important to me, everyone that I loved! And my mental health...” He takes a deep, ragged breath. “So excuse me if it’s hard to live with what I did.”
For a minute, the hallway is completely silent and it feels as though the walls are closing in on them. Bellamy’s dark brown eyes are full of tears; he’s trembling while his sister — for the first time since she picked the fight — appears vulnerable. She’s hugging herself, and her expression has softened.
When she speaks, her voice is small like that of a child, “I just miss you.”
Bellamy bites his lower lip, wipes a single tear off his cheek. “I miss you too, O.” Despite his words, he looks rattled, as though he doesn’t quite know what to think. His little sister then takes a step forward, and he pulls her towards him, into a tight hug.
This is the most characteristic Blake siblings thing Clarke has ever witnessed. It makes her heart flutter.
Some of the tension appears to seep out of his shoulders and his breathing evens out gradually; when it’s returned to normal, he draws back slightly to say, “I miss you and Mom terribly, but you gotta understand that I can’t be at the house. The last time I was there…”
(“Did you see his sweatshirt? The blood—”
“Abby, you’re a doctor, you see that every day. You should have it easy compared to me, compared to Aurora…”
It was clear that they had no idea that she was behind the door, eavesdropping.
Her heart was pounding so hard so thought it’d give out at any moment.
“But he’s like my son, Jake! God, he’s… How are we gonna tell Clarke?”)
Suddenly, she feels dizzy. To keep steady, she leans against the doorframe. Sudden nausea swirls at the top of her chest, slowly rising and making her shiver. Alarmed, she runs past the siblings to get to the bathroom. She’s barely fallen to her knees before she’s retching her heart out like she hasn’t done since college.
Flushing the toilet, she presses a palm to her forehead, trying to relax, but her body is shuddering.
“Clarke?” Bellamy whispers behind her, and she throws a glance over her shoulder at him as she leans against the wall, taking deep breaths. When he sits down next to her, she notices that Octavia is standing in the doorway, looking no less than shocked.
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he places his hand on top of her knee. “Are you okay?”
“Are you pregnant?” Octavia blurts before Clarke’s has the chance to answer Bellamy’s question.
It stuns her for a second, and when her lips part to deny it, no sound emerges. Noticing this reaction, Bellamy turns towards his sister. “I’ll call you, okay? We’ll figure something out.”
To their luck, Octavia takes the hint and leaves the apartment. As soon as the front door clicks shut, Clarke takes a deep breath, running her hands through her hair. “Look, I— I’m not pregnant, I think. I mean, my period doesn’t start for another three days.”
Leaning his forehead against her temple, Bellamy puts his arm around her. “Have you been feeling sick lately?”
“No,” she replies, trying to remember if she’s been more fatigued than usual, but it’s difficult when medical school has made it impossible for her to catch a break in the last three years. Fatigue is just something you have to accept if you want to become a doctor. “I haven’t missed my birth control either. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Then, she tries to rise to her feet, but the dizziness overcomes her again and she is forced to give up, sliding down the wall.
His brow furrowing, Bellamy stands up instead. “I’ll get you some water. Stay here, okay?”
Clarke takes careful sips from the glass of water that he brings to her, worried that she’ll throw up again if she gulps it down. He sits next to her but doesn’t say anything for a while, which allows the silence to grow heavy. As always, she can sense that there’s something on his mind, and she wonders if she should ask him about it.
In the end, however, he breaks the quiet himself, “I know you don’t think that you are, but if you’re wrong, it’s your choice... what to do.”
“Why do you sound upset?” she asks, listening to the strain that lingers at the edge of his voice.
Sighing, Bellamy takes her hand, interlaces their fingers. “Because… to be completely honest with you, I don’t—I don’t think I want kids.”
That statement takes her by surprise, especially since this is one of the things they talked about at seventeen when they were imagining their future together: how many kids they wanted. She said two. He said ‘at least three.’
“What changed?” she murmurs, though she's fully aware that everything changed.
Caressing her knuckles, Bellamy says, “It’s just— No, actually, I still want them, but it’s selfish of me because one day those kids are gonna grow up and they will be old enough to understand what I did, and I’m gonna have to tell them and hurt them. It will hurt them, Clarke. I—I don’t ever wanna hurt my kids.”
His lower lip wobbles and a lone tear rips loose from the corner of his eye; she catches it with her thumb. “I don’t know how I feel about having kids either, especially at this point in my life. I couldn’t handle it. I wouldn’t be ready.”
Bellamy’s eyes grow even gentler. “So, if you are…?”
Even though he trails off, she reads his mind perfectly. She swallows a tight lump in her throat, gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll talk about it in three days, okay? See what happens.”
Worrying his bottom lip, he nods and rises to her feet, then pulls her with him, steadying her with a strong arm around her waist. “I’m sorry about Octavia. Do you want some tea?”
While he makes them cups of steaming lemon-and-raspberry tea, she stays put on the couch as he told her to, and her thoughts drift back to what she was contemplating before his sister showed up uninvited. She figures that there’s no harm in asking, so when he returns carrying the mugs and takes the spot next to her, she suggests, “Hey… Maybe you should make an appointment with Diyoza.”
Bellamy licks some half-melted sugar off his spoon. “Your ex-therapist? You think that’s a good idea?”
“She’s amazing, Bell,” is her quick reply. Grinning, she throws her feet into his lap. To her delight, he starts to rub them gently, an easy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, I believe that, but perhaps we should go together instead? Not as relationship counseling or anything. We’re fine, right? But we need to talk about some things. She could help us with that.”
The thought of sitting in Dioya’s home with Bellamy makes her heart leap. Countless times, she’s been there and tried to explain what it felt like to not have him in her life anymore, and now he’s going to be there right beside her. Talk about turntables. Attending therapy together could be an important step towards healing; one that they shouldn’t give up.
Three days later, her period starts as expected and they celebrate that by eating more ice cream from La Vie. This time, Bellamy decides to try a different flavor: Cherry and white chocolate. Ultimately, he still thinks it falls short of his all-time favorite, which is mint chocolate chip. When they were younger, he would buy that every single time, and it doesn’t seem as though that will change any time soon. Still, Clarke lets him have a taste of her blackberry-vanilla scoop while they walk toward Chestnut Crescent Park; it seems truly alive for the first time in months.
The sun is throwing its golden glow onto the grass, which is filled with small buttercups and clovers. Smiling at the sight, Clarke sits down and, to her delight, Bellamy lays on his back and puts his head in her lap. She can’t resist the urge to play with the soft curls of his hair, threading them through her fingers slowly, and his eyelids flutter shut.
In a month or two, the freckles on his face will be enhanced as the sunlight grows stronger. She can’t wait to see it.
“This is where you proposed to me,” she says, grinning when he opens his eyes.
“Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind the words; the same can’t be said for his cheeks, though, since a light pink tint has crept into them. Still, he adds, “It was a watermelon Ringpop. Your favorite.”
Clarke is surprised he remembers that detail. Maybe it’s not that odd, considering that he bought a real ring for her a year later. More than anything, she wants to know what that one looked like, but she’s too afraid to ask.
They have lots of memories in this place. When they were kids, they chased each other on the monkey bars and laughed on the swings; as teens, they played soccer games with their friends and lay in the grass while listening to music on her iPod.
As the sweet memories swell in her mind, Clarke pulls her phone out of her pocket along with a pair of earphones. She hands him the right earbud, presses play on her Spotify playlist; the one that’s called ‘nostalgia’.
I love it when we hang out in your treehouse after dark
And when you hang my heart against the wall and play with darts.
I know it’s kinda sad but you’re the only home I got
I promise I will love you even with my broken heart.
The following afternoon they’re standing on Charmaine Diyoza’s front porch. His nervousness is tangible, his shoulder tense when she gives it a comforting squeeze. She imagines that it must be anxiety-inducing for him to meet a new therapist despite the good things that he has heard about her.
By any luck, Bellamy won’t meet Diyoza first, though.
Clarke glances at him one last time — long enough to catch a glimpse of the strong determination in his eyes — before she knocks. Just as she expected, as soon as the door is opened, Picasso jumps forward to sniff Bellamy’s hands, tail wagging. When she nudges his palm insistently, he takes the hint and pats her head, a small grin growing on his face.
“I was wondering if I’d ever get to meet you,” Diyoza says to Bellamy, announcing herself. Then she leans against the doorframe and reaches a hand out for him to shake. “Heard a lot about you.” She winks at Clarke in teasing before gesturing for them to step inside.
As they make themselves comfortable on the couch next to Diyoza’s mustard yellow armchair, Picasso curls up on her bed by the fireplace. Bellamy looks at the dog, a soft smile blooming on his lips, and Clarke takes a minute to tell him the short story of her adoption and naming while Diyoza is in the kitchen making coffee for them.
“Of course you named her that,” is his only comment, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Once Diyoza has returned and handed them their cups of espresso, she sits down on her chair, throws her legs across the armrest. It’s difficult for Clarke to fight the urge to giggle when Bellamy’s eyebrows shoot up at the sight.
Surprisingly, Diyoza doesn’t bother to ask what brings them here. Instead, she says, “Try facing each other and describe your relationship. Keep it simple. Clarke, why don’t you start?”
Before they can begin, she and Bellamy have to change positions so that they are sitting cross-legged, looking into each other’s eyes. There is only an inch of space between them, which is soothing, because Clarke has a strong feeling that she’ll want to touch him every other second. In spite of this, she folds her hands in her lap, trying to tame them as she begins to speak, “Okay, um, you’re my best friend—” He smiles at her, his dark eyes growing tender. “We live together. We kiss, we have sex—” She pauses for a moment, well-aware that Diyoza doesn’t know this. Then, she wills herself to continue, struggling against the sudden surge of emotions in her chest. “—And we hurt each other. A lot. We don’t mean to, obviously, but…”
“There are so many things we’re trying to shield each other from,” Bellamy finishes. “It’s overwhelming and confusing, but somehow we keep trying. That must mean something, right?”
Blinking away the persistent tears in her eyes, Clarke nods and offers him a small smile.
For the first time, Diyoza decides to weigh in, saying, “You haven’t just gone through something traumatic as individuals. Your relationship is also affected by trauma, and if you don’t deal with that you’re going to keep hurting each other. Do you talk about the past at all?”
“Not much,” Bellamy admits after a second of hesitation. “I’ve always felt that the present moment matters more if we want to move forward.”
“It doesn’t,” Diyoza states directly, taking a sip of her coffee. “You don’t overcome trauma by avoiding the past. Every time you are triggered by something, it feels as though the traumatic event is still happening, right?”
At those words, Bellamy’s lips part and his eyes widen a little. “Um, yes.”
“If you divide your relationship into past and present, before and after, every reminder of the trauma that you have both endured is going to feel like a huge setback. It’s going to make you feel horrible, but there’s no need for that. You have to be open and honest about the pain of the past. That’s how you can move forward.”
After rendering them speechless, Diyoza asks them to share the most painful memory they have of their relationship. At the request, Clarke’s throat tightens and her heart begins to pound against her ribcage. Then, to her awe, Bellamy decides to open up.
Gazing at her, he takes her hands and says, “I... Kissing you for the last time, when you visited me in jail. I counted until Lightbourne ordered us to stop, it was—six seconds. He let me kiss you for six seconds.”
(His lips were chapped, but she didn’t give a damn.
She kept as close to him as possible, trying not to cry as her hands fell into his hair.
If she kissed him hard him enough, she might be able to dream them both away.
But then...
“That’s enough,” an icy voice said, forcing them apart.
As he drew back reluctantly, the tears streamed down her cheeks.
Never. It would never be enough.
And yet a tiny, pathetic voice at the back of her mind kept pleading,
‘One more. Just one more second. )
He releases a ragged breath, squeezing her hands. “I knew. I knew it’d be the last time and I had to tell you to go. I broke your heart, and I broke my own, too. I watched you walk away, even though I wanted to chase after you because I thought it was the right thing to do.”
When he falls silent for a few seconds, Clarke opens her mouth to take over, but he speaks up again, “—And then, six years later, I hear you scream in the CVS, I see you again. At that moment, everything that I’d deluded myself into believing, that you were better off without me, that I didn’t need you in my life anymore, it all fell apart. My heart broke all over again.”
Though tears are spilling over his eyes, Bellamy doesn’t flinch — he doesn’t even try to wipe them away. Instead, he gazes at her and murmurs, “Okay, what’s yours?”
Her heart is racing, making her feel dizzy just like it did four days ago, but this time she’s determined to power through it.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she forces the words out of her mouth, “The night you killed Emerson, I was in my room looking at NYU classes. It was just a normal night. Then suddenly, I hear my mom on the phone—with your mom. She’s frantic, and I have no idea what’s going on. When I ask my parents about it, they tell me to stay at home. I wait for hours until they come back, and they just talk about it behind my back—about blood and the police and—they don’t tell me, they don’t tell me anything, I—and you just— you turn yourself in, and I have no control —”
When the first sob emerges, it feels like it a mountain being lifted off her ribcage. At the same time, the intensity of it hurts as if someone just punched her in the gut, knocked the air from her lungs, but she can’t stop. In the matter of a moment, she’s sobbing hysterically, unable to catch her breath, and Bellamy is gathering her in his arms, holding her close while he presses soothing kisses into her hair.
“Oh, my god… Clarke, hey, sssh,” he murmurs, brushing his hand through her hair. Once she’s regained her breath a little bit, he asks, “Do you wanna know what happened? Would that make you feel less scared?”
Scared? How can she be scared of something that happened six years ago? Almost immediately after the thought passes through her mind, she remembers what Diyoza said earlier: ‘Every time you are triggered by something, it’s as if the traumatic event is still happening.’
“Please,” she whimpers, drawing back slightly. When their eyes meet, Bellamy’s bottom lip wobbles and he reaches out to wipe the remaining tears off her cheeks, which are sensitive to his touch.
“I don’t actually remember killing him,” is how he begins. “I remember going to his office to collect my mom’s last paycheck because she was too afraid to face him and we needed the money. He handed it to me, but he didn’t let me leave. Instead, he started to taunt me.”
Pausing, Bellamy takes a moment to breathe, then continues, “He said that I couldn’t stop him, that he could do whatever the fuck he wanted and no one was ever going to find out. At this point, I was fuming yet still keeping it together somehow. Afterward, he said that if I told anybody about what he did to my mom, he would do the same to… I remember grabbing the stone figurine off his desk, I no longer remember—” He swallows hard. “—Beating him to death with it. I did remember it, for some time after, but I must’ve blocked it out over the years.”
When he glances at the jug of water on the table, Clarke pours a glass for him despite her trembling hands. He drinks half it before saying, “I must’ve gone home. I don’t remember that either, though. I told my mom that I killed the son of a bitch, and it terrified her, not just because of the act itself but because I was so… detached from it. So cold. It didn’t last long, though. Once she became hysteric and called your parents, it—the reality of it all dawned on me.”
Clarke rubs soothing circles on his knuckles, trying to distract herself from the panic coursing through her veins.
“Suddenly, the rage that had brought me to kill him evaporated into thin air. All there was left for me to feel was fear. Just… paralyzing fear. I knew that they were gonna find out it was me. I hadn’t planned it; I hadn’t done anything to cover it up. I knew I’d go to prison, possibly for the rest of my life, I… saw no way out. ” At once, his face falls, the determination in his expression withering. “I wanted to kill myself.”
Her heart stops beating for a full second. “Bellamy—”
She’s cut off by a sob that escapes his lips and crawls into his lap and leans her forehead against his. “I—you’re still here. That’s…” Despite her will to finish the sentence, the rest of it dies in her throat. Lifting his hand, she kisses each of his knuckles and tries again, “That’s so precious.”
Nodding, he sniffles. “I couldn’t do it to my mom. Not after what I already put her through. When your parents came over, I talked to your dad about it. He—he told me he loved me, said that he was going to do everything in his power to protect me. I just had to trust him, and I did. That’s why I ended up turning myself in, cooperating with the police. I can’t thank him enough for that, honestly. It reduced my sentencing and saved my life.”
Once he’s said all of that, the pieces fall into place in Clarke’s mind. Of course, it’s not actually a comfort in the true sense of the word, but at least now she knows the truth that her parents never wanted to tell her. No matter how much she begged them to. They must’ve thought that they were protecting her. Unbeknownst to them, she’s lived six years with a giant, tight knot in her chest — fear of the horrid details.
The person who ends up breaking the loaded silence is Diyoza. “Do you wanna take Picasso for a walk before we call it a day?”
Conveniently, there’s a small park a mile from Diyoza’s house. While there, Bellamy throws Picasso’s favorite red-and-yellow dotted ball and smiles every time she catches it mid-air. Soon, the sun begins to set, painting the sky with its buttercup and tangerine rays, so they decide to head back towards the house.
On the front porch, Diyoza gives them a final piece of advice, “While you’re walking home, think about something that you’re afraid to know, that you’re afraid to ask each other, but don’t reveal it until you feel ready to hear the answer. Remember, choosing to be open and vulnerable is key. Goodnight.”
Once they turn to walk down the pavement, Clarke links her arm with Bellamy’s, and he asks, “Is she always like this? Vague and direct at the same time?”
“Yep.”
Despite his confusion, it seems as though Bellamy follows Diyoza’s advice because he’s completely silent until they enter the hallway; it’s comfortable and welcoming as always, yet the atmosphere between them still feels heavy. Maybe that’s to be expected after everything.
Worrying her lower lip, she hangs her coat by the door and almost misses his quiet whisper. “Clarke…”
Before she can turn around to face him, his hand encircles her hip and his fingers carefully move the hair off the back of her neck. Then, his lips graze the sensitive skin below her ear. The warm sensation causes a sigh to escape her throat. Reaching back, she lets her fingertips trail along his thigh.
Finally, he asks, his voice still a fragile whisper, “Do you forgive me?”
God…
Her heart quivers.
Struggling to keep the tears at bay, she turns around to cradle his face in her hands; his cheeks are cold but his eyes are gentle. “I already have.”
Notes:
content warnings (!!!)
- rape (mentioned twice, but not described)
- pedophilia
- murder
- past suicidal ideation
Chapter 18
Notes:
This is the last chapter before the epilogue, and it feels so weird to be posting it. For more than five months, this story has been like my baby; I've truly loved writing it and it hasn't been very difficult for me to do so. I hope you enjoy this second-to-last chapter because it certainly made me emotional :')
// Jo
Chapter Text
Nothing in the world compares to this; feeling him slip inside her as the first rays of the morning sun peek through the curtains, dripping onto his bronze, freckled skin and making it shine like armor. With every slow yet deep movement, he brings her closer to the edge, and the haze of sleepiness in her mind is thickened by hot pleasure. A thin bed sheet is draped around their lower bodies, her fingers are brushing through his soft hair, and — in truth — this moment is reminiscent of a dream she had at eighteen. But she is not eighteen. Not heartbroken.
This is real. This is now.
More than anything, she wants to melt into him, live among the stars on his skin; she can’t get close enough because being with him feels like breathing. His hands are slowly mapping her body as if he’s longing to discover something new, but he knows every corner of her at this point; every single curve and edge. His fingertip traces her jawline, which brings her eyes to open.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his gaze gentle as his hand falls onto her throat. When he strokes it, her heart leaps.
“Yeah—” she manages to respond. If his hand weren’t still resting on her throat, it might be easier for her to focus. Instead, her mind has been conquered by an overwhelming desire to feel him compress it. Knowing that he thought about doing so in prison doesn’t help. “Just…”
There’s a lazy smile blooming on his lips, which makes her trail off. Carefully, he brushes his thumb across the column of her neck, and she’s sure that he can feel her pulse throb at his touch. Despite the dim light in the bedroom, she sees his eyes spark with curiosity. He kisses her for a few seconds until her head is spinning, then whispers, “Want me to choke you, Babe?”
Though the question itself is stunning, the sheer lack of apology or hesitance in his voice is what surprises her the most. After being ashamed of his fantasies for years, he finally feels free enough to stand by them. It’s hard to imagine that this sudden change doesn’t have anything to do with the forgiveness that she offered him.
“Please,” she says, unwavering.
Grinning, Bellamy nuzzles her cheek before he starts thrusting again. He keeps the pace slow, but she’s thankful for that when his fingers start to press on the sides of her throat. It sends a pleasant thrill through her body, sparks shooting along her spine like fireworks — and she just knows that this sensation combined with that of being fucked by him would be overwhelming.
This is perfect; there’s no other way to describe it. Somehow, it clears the haze in her mind and fills it with stars instead. As Bellamy gradually adds more pressure to her throat, they glimmer. When her breath stutters, he loosens his grip on her throat, and she inhales, wondering how it makes her body feel light as paper. It forces the strain out of her muscles as bliss rises through her chest like the tide. Naturally. Effortlessly.
Clarke doesn’t realize that she’s on the edge until she is pushed over it. She whimpers while the intense surge of pleasure moves through her body, and he lets go of her throat to cradle the back of her head. While she comes down, she rests her forehead on his broad shoulder, kisses the small constellations of freckles on it. In truth, she doesn’t realize how incredibly warm and sensitive she feels until he spills inside her.
“God… Fuck,” Bellamy pants, slowly pulling out and drawing back to look at her.
Rendered speechless, Clarke can only kiss him, sucking gently on his bottom lip.
Still, his hands wander down her body, squeezing her ass and thighs. It makes her heart leap, blood rushing to her cheeks. The confidence that radiates off him makes her heart flutter excitedly. “I’m so attracted to you right now,” is what she ends up telling him, moving a stray, damp curl of his forehead.
He grins. “Just right now?” and she rolls her eyes affectionately.
“Especially right now.”
Dropping a kiss to her forehead, he pulls the sheet off them completely, probably to make sure that they don’t melt. “I’ll take it…”
The room falls silent as they both come down from the high, but their bodies are still entangled on the soft comforter. In the end, it’s Bellamy who breaks the quiet and interrupts the invisible pattern that she was drawing on his sternum with her fingertip. “I think I’ll go visit my mom at the house today, after work.”
Well, that’s another surprise. It’s been a week since Octavia came to the apartment and revealed that he hasn’t been at home since he was released from prison. Although he promised to call her, Clarke hasn’t heard anything about him being ready to return to the house. Nevertheless, he sounds sincere at this moment, and there’s a furrow in his brow that she attributes to determination.
To reassure him, she slides her fingers through his hair, presses a chaste kiss to his temple. “That’s wonderful, Bell.”
“I’m scared,” he croaks suddenly. “I want to do this, but—” When he flips onto his side to look at her, she caresses his bicep. “I’m scared that, if I go into the bathroom I’ll see the blood in the sink. I’m afraid that if I sit down on the couch I’ll… be haunted by what I did to my family that night, what I almost did to myself.”
The tremble in his voice cuts through her chest like a knife, but she doesn’t say anything. This is one of those times where her touch can convey much more than words, so she leans her forehead against his. His eyelids fluttering shut, Bellamy takes a deep, calming breath. “It’s what Diyoza said. I have to face the pain of the past if I wanna move forward.” Once a moment of silence has passed, he adds, “I have to go alone, though.”
“I understand. I have to help Raven move her stuff anyway.”
He smiles sympathetically. “Oh, yeah. Today’s the day.”
Naturally, Clarke knows that she’ll still see Raven a lot because she’s staying in town; it just feels weird that she’s not going to be living here anymore, even though she hasn’t been around much lately. Over the years, no matter how busy — or distracted — they both have been, being roommates is something that kept their lives intertwined.
Change isn’t easy.
Caressing her knuckles, Bellamy presses his lips to her thumb in comfort. “It’s gonna be alright, Princess. You’re not losing her.”
At his words, tears tighten her throat. Feeling vulnerable, she snuggles up against him, resting her head in the crook of his arm, and he kisses the top of her head, doesn’t say anything else. He holds her until the alarm goes off.
For a fitness enthusiast, Raven surely loves junk food. Once they’ve carried all of the cardboard boxes up the ten flights of stairs that lead to Luna’s apartment, they immediately order a family-sized box of pizza and some fries from Postmates. Then they sit down on the faux-leather couch with cans of 7UP. For some reason, it reminds Clarke of college, but the college days are over.
No more sitting up ‘til past midnight, talking shit about their boring lectures. No more Netflix binges or self-care days. This girl right here, who is more radiant now than Clarke has ever seen her, is in every single happy memory she has of struggling through pre-med courses at college.
Before she’s sensed the words resting on her tongue, they leave her lips, just short of broken, “I’m sorry. I’ve been so distracted lately.”
Raven looks at her for a moment, her brow furrowed. Slowly, a grin spreads across her face. “I can’t blame you.” Though Clarke wants to respond, blood rushes to her cheeks and the words die in her throat, which allows her friend to add, “I’ve been distracted, too. I’m the one who hasn’t been at home to support you through this. I haven’t been there to talk to you about things, so tell me… When did you fall back in love with him?”
Worrying her lower lip, she fights the urge to turn down the path of denial; it won’t lead her anywhere. Because of this, she admits, “I don’t think I was ever not in love with him. I just suppressed it ‘cause it—it felt like he was dead, you know?”
Though it might seem like a stretch, Raven probably knows how she felt back then better than anyone else, excluding perhaps Diyoza. After all, it was Raven who helped her through the most painful days of college, who convinced her that she was too smart to drop out and encouraged her to keep attending therapy as the months passed and she still felt so unbelievably empty.
Wrapping an arm around her, Raven scoots a bit closer. Instead of pushing on the subject further, she asks, “I’ve been a lovestruck fool, too,” which causes Clarke to snort out a laugh, but her friend isn’t done talking. “You’re not gonna get rid of me, Griffin.”
Somehow, that’s just what Clarke needed to hear.
When it finally arrives, they eat their food while watching an old episode of Breaking Bad. During the last ten minutes of the episode, Luna comes back to the apartment. Grinning brightly, she sits down on the couch next to Clarke before taking the box of fries off the table to eat the sad leftovers. Once the credits start to roll, she leans over and says, “Bellamy told me that he was visiting his family today. That must be a huge step for him.”
Clarke nods as her heart makes a tiny, nervous leap at the reminder. “Did he seem anxious?”
“No. Just a bit nervous.” Luna steals her girlfriend’s can of soda only to find it empty. She pouts, then starts to untie her green combat boots. “What’s the deal with you and Bellamy anyway, Clarke?”
“Well, we—”
“He talks about you all the time. More than he talks to the plants.”
Those words tug at the corners of her mouth, even makes her heart flutter. “He talks to the plants?”
Given how soft Bellamy is, this shouldn’t surprise her and yet, it does. Maybe it’s because he rarely goes into details about his days at work; she just always assumed that he wasn’t too excited about it because he was too anxious or burned out. As it turns out, though, he talks to the plants and that’s the best thing Clarke has heard all day.
“Yeah, he’s very fatherly to them. You didn’t answer my question, though.”
Worrying her lip, Clarke replies, “Bellamy and I have never dated. We, um, he’s my best friend and I love him. That’s the only thing that matters to me.”
At the end of the day, she thinks that they’ll always be each other’s best friend before they are anything else. In their case, friendship has never excluded romance and vice versa. To others, it might seem abnormal, but she and Bellamy haven’t questioned it themselves. At seventeen, when they started making out every chance they got, when they talked about their future together as though it were set in stone, he didn’t ask her to be his girlfriend. And she didn’t care.
She still doesn’t.
Clarke’s watching a rerun of Friends when Bellamy finally comes home. As soon as she hears the front door click shut, she turns off the television and steps into the hallway. The light is dimmed, obscuring his facial expression, so she decides ‘fuck it’ before running to embrace him. Hopefully, it’s not too overwhelming for him right now.
He makes a soft sound, burying his hand in her hair. After a minute, she draws back a little to look at him, and she’s struck by the sight of a relaxed smile on his face. It’s wonderfully contagious. As her heart flutters in relief, she rubs his shoulder with her thumb. “Did it go well?”
A low rustle reaches her ears, which brings her to notice the plastic bag that he’s carrying. “I’ve got cookies for us.”
At those words, her heart perks up. “You baked cookies?”
“Yeah.”
Though there are a few tears glistening in his dark eyes, his smile doesn’t falter. Baking is one of the few things that Bellamy used to do with his mom. Often, she was too tired to do anything but sleep after work, but on the weekends when Clarke came to the house, the scent of freshly-baked goods would be filling the bungalow.
Once they’re sitting on the couch with glasses of milk, Bellamy pulls a couple of chocolate chip cookies out of the plastic bag; they’re as big as his palm, crispy around the edges and full of chunks of dark chocolate. When she breaks hers in half, she can tell how gooey it is in the middle, which makes her mouth water.
Bellamy chuckles warmly after popping a piece into his mouth. “I didn’t remember the recipe anymore, but they were very patient with me,” he explains. “Octavia still loves to eat the dough so my mom ordered me to guard the bowl.”
Smiling, Clarke asks, “How are they? Octavia and your mom.”
At that, his eyes grow even more tender. “O, she… I can’t believe how much she’s grown. Of course, I saw her in prison, but it’s like—I didn’t notice just how much she’s changed until now. All of the traits that she had as a child — the stubbornness, the courage — they seem to have, um, grown bigger with her. It sounds cheesy but it’s true. And my mom, it’s unbelievable. She was so happy today, I’ve never…”
When fresh tears spring forward in his eyes, Clarke rests her chin on his shoulder in silent comfort. He licks his lips, then adds, “At the same time, she kept looking at me as though she feared that I was going to disappear. Once we’d baked the cookies and I told her that I wanted to go into my old bedroom, she wanted to come with me. I had to tell her twice that I needed to be on my own in there.”
“And what was it like being back in there?”
“Strange,” he murmurs after a moment of hesitation. “Because she hadn’t changed a thing. Everything was exactly as left it, except my favorite clothes—” A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he looks at her. “But I know where that is.”
Heat floods her cheeks, and the smile on his face quickly grows to a grin. “When I looked in the closet, I found this.” To her surprise, he pulls a shoebox out of the plastic bag and explains, “I started this when I was ten years old. Our friendship box.”
The implication of those words has barely crossed her mind before he takes the lid off, revealing a tiny archive of memories. Their memories. When that has dawned on her, her heart swells so much that her chest begins to hurt. Bellamy seems moved, too, as his eyes sparkle. The first thing he pulls out of the box is a small bracelet made of blue and red beads.
“You made this for me,” he murmurs, his lips quivering. Still, she doesn’t have the time to form a response because he picks the next thing: A yellow Tamagotchi that they cared for together; they’d have it one week at a time, and they managed to keep it alive for seven months. One of their greatest accomplishments, no doubt.
Slowly, Bellamy goes through each item. A lot of them are small notes that they wrote to each other in class, her mindless doodles, even different types of candy wrapper. Finally, he pulls out some Polaroids and, even before she’s looked at them, Clarke knows that they’re of her. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he turns the first one around, showing it to her. “Look at you, just... “
In this one, she’s laying on his bed, wearing his favorite dark blue hoodie that she’d stolen the night before — and ended up stealing permanently less than a year later — holding the oversized sleeves over her mouth to hide laughter. It didn’t work, though, which is clear in the second photo: She’s captured mid-laugh while a stream of golden sunlight illuminates her face.
(“I’m sorry, I’ll pull myself together,” she said, trying to tame her own grin.
Bellamy lifted his new camera to look at her. “What are you talking about? This is perfect.”
As their eyes met, a rush of pure courage went through her, and she pulled off the hoodie,
exposing the black lace bustier underneath it.
“... You’re perfect.”)
The next Polaroid is of her in the bustier. Stripping down seemed to make her more serious since her grin had faded to a confident smirk despite the light pink tint in her cheeks. Afterward, she took the bustier off as well. He lowered his camera out of respect for her, but she told him to keep taking pictures.
Apparently, he only took two, which have been in this friendship shoebox for more than six years.
This “photo session” in his bedroom happened about three months after their kiss in the downpour. At this point, making out had become their favorite pastime. Of course, they’d start out by trying to watch a movie or by contemplating going to the park, and yet the result was always the same: They’d end up kissing, sometimes removing their clothes. That day, they even got each other off with their hands.
“You remember this, right?” he asks, smiling at her.
“Oh, yeah.”
After looking at the Polaroids for another moment, Bellamy puts them back in the box along with the rest of the memories, but he doesn’t put the lid back in its place. Worrying his bottom lip, he looks at her, and she immediately notices that his bright smile has faded. Her heart lurches.
“I also found my old cellphone. I charged it and, to my surprise, it still works. Guess I expected it to have permanently died or something,” he tells her. “As it turns out, I had eleven missed calls. Eleven voicemails.”
Before she can think of anything to say, he continues, “I sat down on my bed and listened to them. I was looking at these things from the box, all of our happy memories while listening to you sobbing. Clarke—“
(“Hey… Guess we’re not having a baby.
I—I’ve been crying all day. It’s ridiculous, I know.
My parents freaked out. I bet you’d freak out, too. If you knew.
Maybe I should’ve told you earlier. Maybe I should tell you for real.
Write you a letter or something, which you’ll never read.
You want me to be happy.
Well, I’m not fucking happy!”
“I fucking hate college. You—you were supposed to be here.
Bell, you were supposed to be with me.
I can’t get over that…
I look at the stars sometimes, and it gives me a bit of comfort.
Knowing that you see them, too.
But then I remember that you’re actually locked in a dirty cell.
Are you cold? I keep worrying about that, for some reason.
How—how long has it been since anyone hugged you?"
“I was diagnosed today. Apparently, I’m depressed.
It makes sense. I haven’t laughed in four months.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that I don’t remember the sound of your laugh anymore.”)
When he interlaces their fingers, she’s pulled back to the present moment, which is made vivid by the tears in his eyes. “I know you recorded those six years ago, but it didn’t feel like six years. The old memories that I was looking at suddenly didn’t seem so old.” He swallows hard, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, still gazing at her. “I’ve been saying it, over and over, but it’s not true, Clarke, I—I didn’t become a different person.”
A single tear rolls down his freckled cheek; he doesn’t try to wipe it away. “I think that was what Diyoza tried to tell me. Pain doesn’t have the power to change us, not who we are at our core, and—it sure as hell didn’t make me love you any less.”
He…
Her lips wobble and her chest clenches.
“I love you, Clarke.” As soon as those words have left his lips, he cradles her face, rests his forehead against hers. Despite the tears that are clouding her eyes, she keeps looking into his, and she smiles, sensing the sun rise in her heart.
“Bell…”
In silent comfort, he presses a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, and she turns her face to make their lips collide, yet Bellamy breaks away after a couple of seconds, murmuring, “I love you so much. I’m sorry if I ever made you believe otherwise.”
Just like that, the question that she’s been too afraid to ask all of this time has been answered. He still loves her, and it feels surreal, but she recognizes the sheer sincerity that paints his features; it makes her want to cry of relief. She doesn’t though; she chooses to focus on the gentle curve of his lips, tracing it with her thumb.
Somehow, she finally manages to speak, and she cuts straight to the chase, “I love you, too, Bellamy,” because even though he probably knows already, it’s the most important thing she could ever tell him.
He takes a deep, steadying breath, then kisses the beauty mark above her upper lip. “I know I’m six years late on this, but…” Drawing back slightly, he reaches into his jean pocket. Seconds later, he’s holding a ring between his fingers. “My mom couldn’t sell it back then, and she’s had it all of these years. Amazing, right?”
Once again, Clarke’s rendered speechless, this time by the sight of the ring: it has a silver band, but the thing that catches her eye first is the round, blue stone in the middle; it bears resemblance to the sea. There are woven many smaller, clear stones around it that glint even though the sunlight in the living room is weakened by dusk.
“What do you think?” he asks, his voice a mere whisper.
Clarke still can’t quite take her eyes off it as she searches her mind for a word — any word — that can possibly describe how she feels right now. Nevertheless, she comes up empty-handed, and the only thing that she can say is, “Can I put it on?”
Bellamy swallows, smiling a little sheepishly. “Yeah, if you want to marry me.”
At that response, her heart bursts in the best way. Ignoring how it’s trembling a bit, she reaches her hand forward, and he makes a sweet sound that falls somewhere between a sob and a chuckle, before slipping the band onto her finger.
Bliss surges through her body, soaking her chest and her already-softened heart. Overwhelmed, she cups his face and captures his lips with her own in a passionate kiss. He reacts by burying his hand in the waves of her hair, sighing into her mouth.
“I guess we aren’t all that different,” she says once they draw back for air.
“What I told your dad, about not being able to make you happy. That wasn’t true either. If I could’ve made you happy at eighteen, I can do it now, too. My illness doesn’t change that. You don’t have to wait, I promise.” He nuzzles her, bringing her closer so that she’s sitting in his lap. “I’ll always be here for you. Right here.”
Right here.
For the first time, Clarke can see their future. It won’t be perfect, obviously, but she doesn’t want that.
She just wants it to be.
Chapter 19: Epilogue
Notes:
🎻 *plays 'my heart will go on' out of tune* 🎻
i can't believe that this is it. writing this fic and sharing it has meant the world to me, not just because of your wonderful comments and support, but because it helped me process my personal experience with mental illness and trauma and healing. thanks for being here every single step of the way 💕 and if you're struggling, please know that you deserve happiness, you deserve everything you want.
// jo
Chapter Text
Six years later...
Never in a million years did she think that needing another packet of birth control pills would flip the universe on its head. Again. It did, though, and now they have to deal with dents in the mattress at two am. She’s still dazed from a heavy sleep when she hears her daughter’s fragile voice break through the quiet in the bedroom, “Daddy, I’m scared.”
Once her eyes flutter open, they struggle to adjust to the darkness, but she can hear Bellamy flip onto his side, the crisp comforter rustling as he does. “It’s okay, Sweetheart. Did you have a nightmare?” Somehow, he’s always immediately wide awake every time this happens, ready to comfort her. When their little girl finds her favorite safe place in the nook of her dad’s arm, Clarke’s heart bursts with warmth.
“No, I’m just scared.”
Finally, Clarke can make out their silhouettes, but she doesn’t want to announce herself and disrupt the moment, so she just listens to her husband’s soothing, honeyed voice, “When I get scared, Ava, what do you and Mommy do to help me?”
The response comes after a moment of thought, “Talk about good things.”
“That’s right, so… Remember when we went to the carnival and you won Hodgie?” Bellamy takes the stuffed hedgehog that their daughter is holding, makes it kiss her nose. “And when we went swimming in Cali and you saw a real starfish? Or when you went camping with grandma and grandpa in their backyard?”
Ava nods, snuggling even closer to him, and he presses his lips to her temple in comfort. Then her small hand wraps around his knuckle. At the sight, Clarke almost tears up; it reminds her of the time that they brought her home and she opened her wide, curious eyes to look at Bellamy, wrapping her tiny hand around his thumb as if to say, ‘I’m not letting you go.’ Tears streamed down his freckled cheeks, but his smile was impeccable.
“What are you scared of, Bean?” Brushing his hand through her curly hair, Bellamy studies Ava’s face. After a few seconds of hesitation, she opens up about a toothless monster that keeps staring at her behind the door. While most other parents would likely dismiss this fear by saying, ‘ Monsters aren’t real,’ he takes her fear seriously first. “That is scary, but it’s just your imagination, Sweetheart. The monster doesn’t have to be scary, you can decide that. If you want to, you and I can draw it tomorrow, make it wear a little hat and flip flops.”
Ava giggles, the sweet sound ringing off the walls, which has a smile growing on Clarke’s lips.
“When I grow up I’m gonna be a monster hunter, so the world will be less scary and you won’t be sad anymore.”
Those words seem to suck the air out of the bedroom. As her chest tightens, Clarke listens to Bellamy breath tremble. Nevertheless, he gathers himself quickly to say, clearly fighting to keep his voice steady, “Listen, Ava. You don’t have to worry about me, okay?”
“But I don’t want you to be sad!” After that exclamation, her hands curl into fists, and Bellamy just brings her into an embrace, releasing a broken gasp when her arms wrap around his neck in pure desperation. “I don’t—”
“I don’t want to be sad either, Baby, but sometimes it happens. It’s just a part of me, okay?”
Sniffling a little, Ava draws back and presses a chaste kiss to Bellamy’s nose, which makes him light up. “I love you, Honey. You make me so happy. Every day… Now, are you gonna be a champ and sleep in your own bed tonight?”
Though she hesitates for a couple of seconds, Ava nods, and Bellamy follows her when she crawls out of bed. Taking his hand, she leads him out of the bedroom towards her own, which used to be Raven’s. Because he always spends a few minutes tucking Ava in, Clarke is left alone to smile at the ceiling. Her heart is swelling, softening in her ribcage.
As soon as he comes back, Clarke scoots closer to nuzzle his shoulder, and he lets out a huff of surprise. Still, he leans down to press a soft kiss to her lips. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Instead of responding to that, she just says, “You’re the most amazing dad. Don’t doubt it for a second.”
To reassure him further, wordlessly, she traces her thumb along the curve of his bottom lip and watches his eyes glistening with tears. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, but he kisses her again, pouring more passion into it, which makes a fire spark in her chest. It never takes much, especially during this late hour, to turn her on, and yet he seems to be surprised by it still, the corners of his eyes crinkling when she gasps into his mouth.
“Stay quiet for me,” he murmurs, dropping a lingering kiss to her shoulder as his hand slips past the band of her panties and cups her mound.
Clarke can’t help it; she mewls, which compels him to kiss her once more. Grinning against her lips, he brushes his finger along her slit before carefully pushing it past her folds. Then he deepens their kiss to swallow her broken moan, and it’s safe to say that the guilt that consumed him, forcing him to suppress his desires six years ago, it’s all but gone. Now, he can make her come without having a furrow in his brow or an apology on his tongue.
(As the song reached its climax, his hands were still on her waist,
mapping the miles of white lace.
His lips grazed her cheek
as he murmured the lyrics against her skin like a promise,
“But don't look back in anger
Don't look back in anger
I heard you say.”)
He crooks his fingers inside her until they hit the spot that makes her see stars. To prevent herself from crying out at the strong rush of pleasure, she bites his earlobe, making him groan against her throat. His hot breath has goosebumps forming on her skin.
Slowly, she winds down from the high, melting into him. The first thing she manages to say is, “God, I love you.”
“Bellamy is fine, thanks.”
Unbelievable. Chuckling, she pushes at his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.”
After muttering that, she maps the web of dark hair on his chest above the neckline of his white undershirt. Though it sounds cliche, he’s sexier at thirty than twenty-four, with a permanent scruff and skin that has softened since the hardships of prison lost their tight grip on him. Lately, it’s been more difficult for her to appreciate her own body; the pounds of baby weight that she can’t seem to lose and the many new stretch marks, but he kisses them every night — just as she still kisses the scar on his ribcage.
If there’s one thing she’s learned over the years it’s that, while some things change, inevitably, others don’t. As Raven so scientifically stated on the night of their wedding in her maid-of-honor speech, ‘I've studied the theory of multiverses and come to the reasonable conclusion that, however many there might be, hundreds, thousands, millions, you guys love each other in every single one of them. At least eventually.’
So, it’s only natural that Raven was the one who realized that Clarke was pregnant. Maybe it was intended to be a joke since it followed her eating an entire packet of peanut-butter Oreos by herself on movie night, but it was strange because she didn’t like them. Apparently, Ava did.
Another kind of food that Ava likes is pancakes, which is why Bellamy makes them every Saturday morning. At 9 am the following morning, Clarke finds him by the stove as always, sipping on black coffee as the pancakes bubble in the pan.
Her heart fluttering, she walks up to kiss his cheek. “I think we should be thankful that she inherited my sleeping habits.”
Bellamy smiles at her teasing, his dark eyes sparkling. “Oh, I am.” After moving the last pancake — one of Ava’s — onto the plate, he turns to look at her, leaning against the counter and notes, “You’re wearing my shirt again.”
“I know, but my own jeans. I call that an improvement:”
Chuckling, he brings her closer to mouth at her hair. “You look beautiful.”
Before she can respond, a chirpy voice says, “Mommy’s always beautiful,” and they both twist their heads to catch a glimpse of their daughter in the doorway before she joins them, scuffling across the hardwood floor in her pajamas — a dark blue one that Luna and Raven bought for her, with all of the planets on it — carrying Hodgie.
“You’re so right, Sweetheart,” is Bellamy’s only response, grinning as he lifts her onto the counter. Then he picks a frozen blueberry out of the bag and holds it in front of her. “Please try it.”
“I don’t like blueberries,” Ava mumbles, frowning at her dad.
Still, Bellamy doesn’t let her off the hook that easily. “It’ been a while since you last tried them. You might like ‘em now. Plus, this one’s frozen. It’s a little different.”
It’s difficult for Clarke to hold back laughter when Ava’s brow furrows, revealing her skepticism. “Frozen? I can eat that?”
“You eat ice cream, don’t you? Ice cream is frozen.”
After that reasonable argument from her dad, Ava looks at Clarke, silently begging her to get her out of this situation, and yet she has to know that it won’t work. For the last year, Bellamy and Clarke have gone all-in on trying to make their child less picky. To their slight surprise, their efforts have been fruitful so far, since Ava has learned to enjoy scrambled eggs, fried mushrooms, even broccoli. It’s taken a lot of patience and creativity, Bellamy having to prepare her disliked foods in various ways, but at least it’s working. Moreover, it has invigorated Ava’s curiosity about cooking, and she watches her dad do it every night, questioning him on what he’s doing.
Finally, Ava takes the blueberry and pops it into her mouth. Though she winces at first, her expression softens as she bites into it. “... It’s okay, I guess.”
Bellamy strokes her hair, still grinning brightly before he mouths, 'Small victories' to Clarke.
While they’re eating breakfast together, they decide to go to Chestnut Crescent Park at lunchtime; it’s the perfect place to have a small picnic, and Ava really loves the swings. When she has eaten the last bite of her pancakes, however, she reveals that there’s something else on her mind right now, “Daddy, can we draw the monster, please?”
It takes Bellamy a moment to catch on, remember what he said last night. “Of course, Bean. Go get your crayons.”
In the matter of the following twenty minutes, a monster with black, spiky fur is transformed from terrifying to humorous; like Bellamy suggested last night, Ava draws a purple top hat on its head and lime green flip flops on its big, hairy feet. As a final touch of artistic flair, she gives the monster a red polka-dotted tie, then presents it to her mom.
Clarke scratches her chin in thought. “Picasso is shaking in his boots, I think.”
At that response, Ava giggles, “Picasso is a dog, Mommy,” and Bellamy bursts into warm laughter, which is contagious. Nevertheless, she manages to gather herself enough to explain that she named the dog after a famous artist. Then she pulls out her phone to show Ava some of hist well-known, surrealistic paintings.
“They’re weird,” she says. “I like mine better.”
“So do I. Let’s hang this on the fridge,” Clarke says.
With some help from Bellamy, Ava signs the drawing with her name and pins it to the door of the fridge with a Saturn magnet. When Raven heard about that, she had to know why, but the explanation was as simple as, ‘It looks like it’s hula hooping.’
At the park, Ava wolfs down a PB&J-sandwich and a handful of purple grapes before running towards the swingset. Bellamy offers to push her, but she says that she wants to show them just how “close to the sky” she can get all on her own. Once she’s run off, Bellamy sighs, shaking his head despite the easy smile on his face.
“Bet you five bucks she scrapes her knees.”
Clarke grins, putting her hand on top of his. “Ye of little faith.”
Ava is as brave and persistent as any four-year-old; it seems like she comes home from preschool every other day wearing a new, colorful band-aid. With each day, she appears to flourish more, becoming more spunky and vibrant, sort of like the budding roses here at the park. It was around this time that they met twenty-four years ago. Right next to where their daughter is swinging, at the end of the slide.
(“Are you hurt?” he asked, sitting down next to her.
Clarke stopped sniffling for a second to look at the boy.
Curly hair, ripped jeans, friendly eyes.
She nodded, lowering her gaze to hide her tears. “Yeah. My wrist…”
Before she could find a non-naughty word to describe how badly it hurt,
the boy was pulling three pink Starburst out of his pocket.
He’d saved the best ones for last,
And he was giving them to her.
“Wait here. I’ll go get my mom.”)
When Bellamy meets her gaze, the softness of his eyes reveals that he’s reminiscing, too. Leaning forward, she captures his lips in a sweet kiss to feel the curve of his smile. Her heart swells as they pull apart, and Ava calls out, “Look!”
They find her swinging a couple of feet off the ground, her short legs kicking the air proudly as she goes up. “You’re doing amazing, Sweetheart!”
After shouting that, happiness pouring through his every syllable, Bellamy drops a chaste kiss to Clarke’s earlobe, leans his forehead against her temple. “Sometimes, I still can’t believe— We’re a family, Princess. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t think I deserved it, but I do. We do, I mean… Look at us.”
They’ve come a long way, made it through the high tides and the currents towards this imperfect yet beautiful life that they share. It’s more than she could’ve hoped for at eighteen, and over the years she’s wondered if it would ever feel real, but it does now.
Because it is.
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