This fic is for round 3 (canonverse) of Chopped: The 100 Fanfic Challenge on Tumblr. I needed to use the following tropes in this fic:
1) "Everyone else thinks you're an asshole but you're nice to me"
2) Trapped in or hiding in an enclosed space
3) One character cautiously says "i'm going to kiss you now, okay?" or some variation of that
4) Character swap
In this case, Clarke is now the "Murphy" character and Bellamy is the "Clarke" character. I had fun writing these two character swaps!
This is set during season 4, during episode 7.
Rainy Days
Bellamy never would have thought he'd be stuck in this situation, but, recently, he learned he was wrong about a lot of things.
The drive to Becca's lab was a tough one. Roan was always difficult to work with, Miller was untrusting of everyone around him, Grounders seemed to always know their next move, and they lost most of the hydrazine. That was their last shot at saving everyone.
Well, it was their last shot. He was still holding out hope for the Nightblood solution, as was his mother.
He got to the lab late at night with bad news, only to receive more. Raven was under sedation and her condition wasn't improving, the simulations she was running needed every drop of fuel – including the ones he lost, Arkadia had gone up in flames, Abby wasn't sure of the success with Luna and the possibility of producing a synthetic Nightblood.
Simply put, things weren't going well. Earth was about to go up in flames and they were no further ahead in saving the human race.
To make matters even more complicated, she was there.
Her blue eyes were as cold and calculating as ever. As soon as he got to the island, he could feel them watching every move he made, which was unnerving and made his heart race. There was a time, not long ago, that they were friends – more than friends, actually.
Then, there was the whole fallout with Wells and Charlotte, and she was banished.
That wasn't his first mistake, or his last.
Or fuck up. It wasn't really a mistake – that made it sound forgivable. Him banishing her was the reason she got captured – it was the reason she was tortured – it was the reason she was an outsider.
They never did get over that. He knew that he was partially to blame for the distance between them – it wasn't all on her.
As he moved across the mansion, he thought about when he first seen her again after she was banished – covered in blood and broken. It was in Camp Jaha, after he almost died, after he thought most of his people were dead. Maybe in a different lifetime, they would've hugged then.
Not now. Not in this world.
She nodded sharply at him as he walked through the gates, like that was normal. She acted like he should've expected to see her at camp, even though he thought she died long ago – even after he had nightmares about her screaming because of him.
And, before they could make amends, she was gone.
It was a familiar story. That always seemed to happen – they were just two ships passing in the night. They always missed each other. He was always too late, she was always too far away. They never truly got back to where they were – or where they were headed – after that.
It was painful. He used to know her like the back of his hand. Her kisses were familiar, as were her wide smiles, and the mischievous sparkle in her eye. Now, all he had were memories. They were both just two people – strangers, really – that once knew each other.
He missed her. It'd only been a few months since they had that – whatever that was – but he missed her. He missed their shared smiles and secret kisses. He missed her stark humour and striking eyes. He missed that excitement and electricity that they had together.
He missed everything about her, and everything about them.
He tried to console himself by focusing on the fact they were at least on good terms now.
Okay, maybe it was a little bit of a stretch to say good terms. They were talking, so that was something. There was still this tension between them. He doubted that tension would ever dissipate. It felt like they were cursed to be in a limbo between being with each other and being strangers.
He often imagined how their conversation would go if they ever had time alone. Maybe they'd have time to talk when the Earth was covered in flames and they were safe somewhere. Maybe she'd say these words when they drove back to Arkadia.
Or, more likely, they'd die before they worked through things.
You banished me, she would say.
It was for the best. Really, it wasn't, but he would at least try to lie to her first. After she gave him that look – the one with her eyebrow lifted and her eyes partially narrowed – he'd cave. I didn't want to seem weak. I didn't want people to think I was a bad leader for loving you – for pardoning you. So, I was harder. I was harder on you and it was unfair. I'm sorry.
He knew he didn't truly deserve her forgiveness. They had their time, and they had their fallout.
And, even though he liked to imagine their conversation, he knew they'd never be around each other long enough to have it. It would never just be the two of them. There'd be Emori, the girl that Clarke befriended when she trekked across the desert with Jaha. There'd be Roan, a prince that had eyes colder than Clarke's. There'd be his mom, or Jackson, or someone, always someone.
Even now, while they were completely alone, he knew someone was just in the building over. Emori was in the other room, going through supplies left behind in the lab. The scientists were all closed away in the lab, behind computers or test tubes.
While the rest of their team worked, they were in the kitchen. She stood behind the stove, a wooden spoon in her hands and a smell so good drifting up from the pot in front of her that his mouth began to water.
He didn't know she cooked. He didn't know a lot of things about her, apparently.
She was wearing clothing she must've found tucked away in an abandoned bedroom. He never seen her in a pair of jeans before, and the sight of it made his heart race. She was beautiful.
He knew this fact to be true. He'd seen her covered in mud and sweat; he'd seen her bleeding and broken; he'd seen her sobbing and desperate and in pain. Whether she was fighting for her life, or rolling out of bed, or laughing beside a fire, she was stunning.
The tension was thick, but he tried to ignore it as he stepped into the room. Even though her back was to him, he could see her shoulders tense.
They'd been alone before. Many times at the Dropship, before things got out of control. A few times back at Camp Jaha, before things changed again. Once, in an elevator in Polis, as they made their way to stop ALIE.
This was different though. They were standing in a white kitchen, their guns long forgotten in the other room. She was showered and wore brand new clothing. Food was being cooked – real food, not rations from the Ark.
This was domestic and slightly uncomfortable. It felt mundane – and, if anything, Clarke Murphy, was not mundane.
From her sun-blonde hair, to her ice blue eyes, to the dimples across her cheeks when she smiled – she was not mundane, she was ethereal.
Clarke was a breath of fresh air. She was the first light after a long night. She was the first blade of grass after a harsh winter. She was the first rain after a drought. She was a mystery – a mystery he would love to spend eons figuring out.
Whatever she was, she was not mundane. She was like fire and ice, all at once. She didn't belong in jeans – she belonged in her clothes she pulled out of an abandoned cellar. A spoon didn't belong in her hands – a knife did.
Before life got complicated, all of those situations – the knife, the cellar – those would have been strange. This would have been normal.
It wasn't now. It was different.
What also was different was the way she turned to him, a partial smile on her lips. "You hungry?" He must've looked as surprised as he felt because she laughed – a true laugh. It made his mouth run dry. "You know I'm not a terrible cook."
He swallowed thickly before talking. "You heated up a can of soup for me once," he pointed out, thinking back to the days of the Dropship. "I exactly wouldn't call that cooking."
"Sorry to disappoint," she said, her voice still holding that same lightness. She lifted up the pot on the stove. "Soup again. I guess it must be my specialty, or something." He glanced at the pot, but didn't move forward. When he hesitated, she smirked. "I didn't poison it."
"No, it's not that," he said. Despite the strangeness of the situation, he could feel a smile forming on his lips too. This was oddly comfortable. "I was just wondering where you learned to cook."
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she grinned. Clarke lifted up the spoon and held it out towards him. It was still a good few feet away, but he didn't hesitate to move forward.
It was intimate in a strange sort of way. She held the spoon to his lips, her eyes bright, her eyebrows lifted, and a soft smile on her face. He blew on the liquid when it was a few inches in front of him, his eyes never leaving hers.
When he moved forward to close the distance between them, her other hand lifted and cupped beneath his lips, catching a few stray drops of soup that didn't make it past his lips.
He really shouldn't have been thinking of kissing her in that moment. He should've been savoring the food.
Still, his throat felt tight and it was impossible to swallow. It felt like he was suffocating from being so close to her – being like this was something he thought more time than he'd like to admit, but actually being in front of her was almost overwhelming.
She grinned as she pulled the spoon away. "Good?"
"Yeah. Good." He tried to keep his voice even. She seemed pleased with that answer and she turned back to the stove. He let his eyes sweep across her blonde hair, his thoughts wondering to how good it felt to weave his fingers in. He thought of how it fanned out against the black floor of the cellar they found and claimed as their own. "You look good."
Before he could correct himself, because he most definitely didn't mean she looked good, she let out a short back of laughter and glanced at him over her shoulder. "I know."
His heart practically stopped, because damn, maybe he did mean that she looked good. Her eyes seemed to draw him in like a siren song and her smile made his heart melt.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, her lips lifting like the used to. He felt his chest grow tight. "You look good too."
Bellamy wasn't used to how normal this felt. He fought to hold on to that sense of strangeness, or feeling like an outsider with her. That was the reality he had to clutch, because it was safe. It was familiar. It was home.
(Once, her arms were home. Once before, she was home.)
He felt overwhelmed – like he was drowning in this moment. This normalcy, and her soft smiles, and their flirting, it was too much.
So, he did what he did best. He ran.
"Abby told me this place has showers," he said, his throat suddenly tight. "I… I should go. Do that. I should have a shower."
She turned back to the stove, but he could still see that classic Clarke smirk. "Yeah, you smell like shit." He scoffed at that and she snorted.
"You know, you're an asshole," he commented, his amusement coming through with his tone.
She grinned wider at that. "Would an asshole make you soup?"
She turned fully to him, abandoning her spoon in the pot. The breath got knocked from his chest. Her grin was wide and teasing, and her eyes sparkled like the sun did in water.
"You're right," he said, all teasing bleeding out of him. All that was left was this sense of amazement, and the feeling of being a stranger to his own life. "Everyone else might think you're an asshole, but at least you're nice to me," he corrected.
"Better," she grinned. Her smile faded the slightest bit as she glanced at him. It felt like she could see his soul with how piercing her eyes were. "Showers are good though. I had one the other day, and it's nice. It doesn't feel real."
His throat was tight when he responded to her. "Nothing here feels real."
Her smile was completely gone. "Well… Some things do," she told him, her words slow and weighted. Before he could analyze her words, he forced a smile on his lips and retreated.
"I'll be there if you need me," he called half-way out of the room.
As he stepped into the shower, he couldn't get their parting words off of his mind. She was right. Having hot water for a shower didn't feel real.
He was also right when he said nothing on Becca's island felt real.
For the last few hours, it felt like he was in an alternate universe. Before the sun was dipping below the horizon, he was stabbing people in the neck. Now, he was eating soup, his feet pressed against cool linoleum, and hot water ran down his skin.
It didn't feel real, because it felt too good. For the last few months of his life – of their lives – they had to fight for survival. Every day was a fight for their lives. They didn't have luxuries like hot water, and soup from cans, and four solid walls.
They had knives, and guns, and blood, and death. They had rivers to wash in and animals to kill.
He also couldn't get their interaction off his mind. He thought of how bright her eyes were, and how golden her smile was. He thought of how her laugh reminded him of a sunrise, and how her voice reminded him of honey.
She was beautiful, in every way possible.
And her words. He'd admit that he was usually pretty oblivious to flirting, but there was something there. He tried to convince himself that, whatever it was, it was just remnants from when they used to be together. Him admitting she looked good, and he replying with the same about him was all just left-overs.
Right?
Right.
(Then why couldn't he get her off of his mind? Why did it feel like he could melt on the spot with a simple smile from her? Why did she make his heart race?)
Nothing was real. He knew that. If nothing was real here, then they weren't real either, right? Whatever was going on between them couldn't have been real.
There was a sharp knock on the door, drawing him out of his thoughts. He shook the water out of his hair before popping his head out from beyond the curtain. The door was barely a step away from the edge of the tub, and he could hear her clearly now that he was beyond the water.
"Bell?" That was Clarke's voice, unmistakable. It held a desperate note to it that made his heart stop for entirely different reasons than before. "Bellamy?"
He didn't bother to turn the water off, but quickly stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a pair of shorts and slipped them on before answering the door.
As soon as he cracked it open an inch, she burst in, two guns in her hands. Her face was like stone, but he could tell something was wrong. She didn't meet his eye as she pushed into the room. He stumbled a few steps back, hopping right back into the shower.
"What the hell, Clarke?"
She quickly shut the door behind her and turned the lock, relaxing the slightest bit as she did so.
Water was raining down on him again, soaking through the material of the shorts. His annoyance from her bursting into the bathroom was stopped when she stepped in after him, her finger pressed against her lips.
"Don't make a sound," she told him. The guns were placed on the edge of the bathtub behind the shower curtain, away from where the water could get to them.
The space was cramped. The cool tile of the shower was pressed against his back, sending goose bumps across his skin. She stood directly underneath the showerhead, missing most of the water coming down on them. Still, her hair was getting wetter by the second.
He took in her appearance quickly. She was changed from before, wearing softer clothes than what she cooked in. Her hair was also loose from her braid, which surprised him more than it should have.
What surprised him most was how distracted she seemed. Usually, she would've been cracking jokes about being in the shower with him, because how could she not, but she was completely silent.
Something was wrong.
His heart was racing and his mouth was dry out of panic. "What's going on?"
She lifted her finger to her lips again, her eyes snapping back to his. When she spoke, it was nearly a whisper. "I heard someone." Those words alone sent a chill through him. Someone was in the house with them. "I thought I should come get you."
The water was streaking down her face now and dampening her clothes. Her hair was quickly becoming plastered to the sides of her face.
With her words, his heart plummeted to his stomach. Someone was here?
"What did you hear?"
She shifted uneasily, and that was when he noticed just how close they were. Their bodies were practically fused together and he could feel every movement she made. Her breath ghosted across his bare chest in small pants.
"Someone was standing outside my room, but they moved further down the hall. I knew you were showering so I thought…" She glanced up at him, her eyes locked on his. "I thought I should get you."
He knew he should've been terrified that someone was in Becca's mansion, but… he wasn't. Not in that moment, anyways.
All he could think about was how beautiful Clarke was in that moment. She was soaking and focused and determined, and it made his heart rate quicken.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thicker than it was before. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his mind.
He couldn't stop thinking about how close they were, and how intimate this was. She wore a simple tank-top and shorts, while his chest was bare and he wore only shorts. They were both dripping wet, their noses inches apart.
They hadn't been this close in months.
She must've been thinking the same thing. "I didn't realize how tight the fit was," she commented after a long moment. "Sorry." She didn't sound sorry in the slightest, but neither was he.
"You came to get me," he pointed out. "Thank you."
"I told you I'm not always an asshole," she said, grinning cheekily. For a moment, he didn't think about the fact someone was in the mansion, most likely here to kill them. They were just two adults having a friendly conversation in the shower.
Her eyes flicked down to his chest, just for a brief moment. He tried to fight back the smugness that hit him when her eyebrows lifted. She glanced back up at him, a smirk on her lips. "You've been working out?" Of course, Clarke Murphy was not going to be one to pretend she wasn't just checking him out.
"Is this really a good time?" he asked. Her smirk widened at that.
He glanced away from her, suddenly convinced that this was indeed a very bad situation. No, not because they were probably going to be murdered, but because they were falling into that normalcy again. Being so close to her again was making him remember all their stolen kisses and all of the times they were pressed like this before.
Gods, he wanted to kiss her, and he knew he shouldn't. Things were complicated enough with the world ending, he really didn't need to add this to his list. While he loved her, he knew tem being together would be complicated. There was too much history for it not to be.
"You know, Bellamy-"
She never got to finish her sentence. There was a knock on the bathroom door again, making the blood in his veins freeze. Despite the hot water running across his skin, he felt frozen in that moment.
This must've been the person who Clarke heard. Who else could it be? They were completely alone in the mansion, other than each other.
He reacted before she could and moved forward, reaching for his gun on the edge of the bathtub. Clarke's hand wrapped around his bicep, steadying both of them. He could feel her hot breath against his shoulder and her nose against his arm as he moved.
"Bellamy?"
He froze in his movement, his hand outstretched for his gun. He recognized the voice on the other end of the door.
"Bellamy, is that you?"
It was Abby knocking on the bathroom door. All of the tension and worry left him faster than his sigh of relief. There wasn't an intruder. It was just his mom.
With his relief, his head moved forward a few inches, coming to rest in front of Clarke's. Her hand still rested on his arm, but it wasn't gripping it anymore. She was smiling softly, clearly relieved as well.
"It's me," he called, his voice shaky from the adrenaline.
"We're going to start testing shortly." There was a brief pause. "Do you know where Clarke is? She's not in her room."
Bellamy's eyes snapped to where Clarke stood, her nose now inches away from his. All the breath got knocked from his chest by their proximity. His head felt foggy from her sly smirk.
Her eyes seemed to challenge him. Do it, she seemed to say. Tell your mom exactly where I am.
Somehow, he doubted telling Abby that they were in the shower together – no matter how innocent the action truly was – would go over well.
Then again, she was always one for a little chaos.
"Nope," he managed to get out. Clarke grinned wider at that. His stomach flipped. "No idea."
"Alright. Be down in ten."
He didn't move away from Clarke when the footsteps left the bathroom door. He was frozen beside her, his heart racing faster than it had been when he thought they were about to die. Being so close to her again made him feel drunk with a deep-running affection for her.
"Sorry," Clarke said after a long moment. She didn't pull away from him or make a move to leave the shower. In fact, she shifted forward, closing the gap between them the slightest bit. His breath hitched. "I thought-"
Before he could think, he was speaking. "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"
His words surprised him, but Clarke only grinned wider, like she was anticipating this.
"Fucking finally."
And, true to his word, he kissed her.
Her lips were firm, yet her touches so soft, and it made his head spin. His hand moved up to cup the sides of her face, and his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her closely. Her fingers wove around the hair at the back of his hand, pulling gently at the curls.
Kissing her stole his breath and made his knees go weak, and it felt right. Being in her arms again felt like home, and it felt like he never left.
He never wanted to leave again.
Even with the world ending, this felt right.
No.
Especially with the world ending, this felt right.