THIS STARTED OUT SO FLUFFY AND TOOK SUCH A TURN IM SORRY
real talk: i have so many weirdly specific head canons about clarke griffin and the 100 that its probably unhealthy
the few that feature here
1. clarke really loves her sleep okay; she will fight for her sleep. she'll fight you. she'll fight a bear
2. pottymouth!clarke
3. i fully stand by the concept of clarke being a relatively normal, slightly mama hennish, young woman, had she not been born when she was
4. military!bellamy
possible triggers: minor body horror/gore (someone gets a lil injured and needs stitches (the wound is cleaned, etc)), PTSD mentions (i tried to do it justice and am willing to change some things if they're incredibly wrong), panic attacks, blood mention, someone punches a mirror (off stage, but its mentioned)
i think that covers it
disclaimed
...
Literally, all Clarke wants to do is sleep. She's spent twenty-two hours on her feet, running off caffeine, a catnap in the lounge, and desperation, and there is nothing more that she wants to do than collapse on her bed. It is actually her dream in life, at this point.
She stumbles through her door at three, body aching and calling out for rest, and just drops everything. She has tomorrow—
today off and she'll probably spend most of it sleeping.
Which is totally fine with her.
...
It's five, when the mowing starts.
...
She lives in a small neighborhood, okay? It was one of the main draws for her, when she was deciding to be a grown up and rent a house instead of an apartment. Small neighborhood, nice neighbors. She'd been greeted with casseroles and lasagnas and open invitations to barbeques when she moved in. Octavia, from across the street, quickly becomes one of her best friends, which is fantastic, because this is like every single TV show marketed to Clarke's age group. Small neighborhood—
she knows everyone that lives here and none of them are crazy and mow their lawns at the crack of dawn.
Groaning and cussing, she rolls out of bed and stumbles to the window. Throwing it open, she sees a figure across the street at—
Octavia's?
There's a flash of fear, because really, who is the shadowy male figure on her friend's lawn? It occurs to her then that a murderer would not take the time to mow the lawn, and O definitely mentioned having an older brother that was coming home from deployment. This must be him—
Bellamy.
Clarke wants to be nice. She does. But—
it's five. She's exhausted. So—
"What the hell are you doing?" she shouts. She's not even worried about the neighbors. Like, if they're getting woken up by something, it's going to be the lawn mower. The figure—
Bellamy looks up and squints, frowning. "Mowing my lawn, princess," he drawls lazily, gesturing to the mower. Clarke bristles. Princess? Did he just call me princess? Fuck that.
"I'm not sure if you noticed, dickface," she bites out—there aren't any kids on this street, right? "But it's five in the morning."
"The sun is up," he says, nodding his head towards the barely there streaks of pink in the sky, "and so am I."
"Some people are trying to sleep."
"And some people are trying to keep their house in order."
She sputters for a moment, entirely too exhausted to even string words together to form some sort of vaguely English sounding response. She hears another window slam open, and, from the right of her, someone shrieks, "For the love of god, shut the fuck up!"
She glances over, leaning further out her own window to see which of the college students is yelling at her. Oh. Great. It's Andrew, the cute one. Fucking hell, man.
"Better get back to bed, princess," Bellamy calls, grinning. "Wouldn't want to wake the neighbors."
His eyes cut away from hers for a moment, but return almost immediately, his expression flickering for an instant. Clarke glances down and notes the impressive show of cleavage she's been providing.
Strike me now, she pleads, retreating quickly and slamming her window closed. The mower starts back up, and Clarke groans, grabbing for a pillow to hold over her face. Maybe if she holds it in place long enough, she'll just pass out.
When that doesn't work, she waits.
The mowing ends in a half hour, and Clarke downs a dose of ZzzQuil and hides in a cocoon of blankets.
...
She wakes up at noon to someone knocking on her door.
"Clarke, I know you're sleeping and I'm super sorry about that, but could you pretty please answer the door?" Octavia calls, voice traveling through Clarke's home easily. She should start sleeping with her bedroom door closed. Probably would make it easier to actually fucking sleep. She groans—
well, really, she kind of screams, mostly into her pillow. Whatever.
"Octavia," she yells, stumbling out of her bed and into the hall, down the stairs, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "I don't know if you know this, but I can hear colors right now."
She runs a hand through her hair, snagging on every tangle because of course, and throws her front door open. She stares at Octavia blearily, expectantly, before she realizes that there is another body there as well. She glances up.
Chest.
And up.
Jaw.
And up.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
She realizes, a beat late, that she says the last part aloud.
Octavia sighs, "Can't say I wasn't expecting that." She steps back, shoving her brother forward, and Clarke crosses her arms over her chest, cleavage be damned—she is not wearing a bra and she is not in the mood to talk to Douchey McDoucheface. "Bell, this is Clarke, my best friend. Clarke, this is Bellamy, my asshat brother that's terribly sorry about mowing the fucking lawn at five."
Bellamy's lips quirk up into a smirk and he greets, "Hey princess."
"Oh, fuck you."
Octavia reaches out and smacks her brother's arm. "Apologize," she commands, shifting back and crossing her arms, eyes narrowed.
"I'm very sorry," he begins, not sounding the least bit apologetic, "for disrupting your beauty sleep."
"Christ," Octavia mutters, rolling her eyes, and Clarke is really tempted to hit him. She's only kept from doing so because of Octavia and the fact that if she moves, she's about ninety percent sure she'll just pass out where she stands. Maybe even sleep standing up. Who knows? Not her.
Octavia manhandles Bellamy away from the doorway, towards the steps, and she says, "I'm so sorry about him—he's usually not this terrible. No, that's a lie. He's kind of a dick, but he's really not horrible when you get to know him."
"S'fine O," Clarke mumbles, scrubbing at her face with her hand. "I'm gonna go sleep some more."
"I'll text you for dinner?" Clarke hums in agreement, waving at her friend before closing the door and sagging against it heavily. She shuffles back up the stairs, almost crawling at one point, and makes it on top of her covers before she starts to snore.
...
When she finally wakes, it's four in the afternoon and Clarke thinks that everything may've just been a bad dream. But her phone buzzes and Octavia's name reads across the screen. Clarke swipes the screen, blindly typing what she hopes is her passcode in.
3:57pm
dinner?
3:57pm
ravens coming and im making pizza
Oh, shit, man.
Clarke has a ridiculous weakness for Octavia's homemade pizza, and that'll be enough to help her survive a night over at the Blake's, Douchey McDoucheface and all, right?
4:03pm
claaaarrrrkkkeeeee
4:04pm
clarke i know ur awake i can see u reading these texts
Clarke grins. Taps out a response with what is probably too many emojis. She spends a moment, after, contemplating if she could get away with sleeping for an hour more, but her phone goes off again, buzzing in her hand, and she peers down her nose at it.
4:06pm
come over at five xoxo
She needs to shower. And change. Become slightly less bear-like, slightly more like the twenty something that she is. She glances at her closet and groans. Sweats are fine for friends, right?
...
She ends up in something other than sweats, which, really, is a huge feat, considering her burning desire to be as comfortable as possible. Not that jersey maxi dresses aren't comfortable—they just imply that she is feeling more awake than Clarke would like people believing.
She can smell the pizza even before she leaves her front steps, and Raven pulls up just as she's crossing the street. "Outta the way," Raven yells, revving her engine. Clarke makes a face, sticking out her tongue for good measure. See—
she can be fun. She's not just the angry sleeper from across the street. She's not—
she's not sure why she feels the need to prove this, honestly, because Bellamy Blake is a terrible human being that just happens to be very, very attractive, but also very much the older brother of Clarke's best friend, and she really shouldn't be thinking about him, okay?
She waits for Raven at the curb, leaning against the Blake's mailbox. Her friend approaches, finally, slamming the door to her car behind her. Clarke frowns when she notices how stiffly Raven's walking, almost limping.
"Is your leg bothering you again?" she asks, worry tingeing her voice as she reaches out to take Raven's bag, at least, not expecting her to be receptive to any other help.
Raven brushes her off, snaps, "I'm fine," as she struggles up the few steps. Well—
okay. Clarke knows well enough not to try and push her help onto Raven, knows that she'll just be more stubborn, will probably hurt herself more than she already is hurting. Instead, she stays a careful step behind, watching her warily for signs of distress, for stumbles.
Octavia usually leaves the door unlocked when they've got dinner plans, so both Raven and Clarke are surprised when the handle doesn't give way under Raven's hand. "O?" Raven calls, knocking. There's some movement in the house, and then—
"Bell, I told you to leave the door unlocked!" There's a muffled response, from above their heads, and Octavia flings the door open in a rush of motion. "Sorry," she says with a grin, kicking the door open wider as she leaves for the kitchen again. "My ASSHOLE BROTHER," she shouts before lowering her voice again, "doesn't trust me when I say that the neighborhood is safe at five in the afternoon."
Clarke wants to say something, anything really, but then her mouth starts to water when the full impact of Octavia's cooking hits her. She takes a deep breath.
Steady. It's just a fucking pizza.
But Clarke's been living off of cereal and cheese sandwiches from the cafeteria at the hospital, so homemade food is, like, the epitome of luxury right now. Especially anything that Octavia's made. Clarke's not bad at cooking—it's just that being friends with O, who makes five course meals in her spare time because she's bored, has set the bar pretty fucking high.
So, now that her jaw is properly on the ground and now that she's definitely drooling over food, a shirtless Bellamy Blake comes down the stairs. Raven shoves past her, following Octavia, who's about halfway through a story about a fourteen year old that hit on her at work and normally Clarke would listen, but she's a bit busy trying to look busy, so that it's not glaringly obvious that she was just struck speechless by the sight of abs and pecks and all that skin, tanned and taut—
fucking hell.
Bellamy makes eye contact, his lips quirking up into a smirk. "Like what you see, princess?"
She's summoning the indignant response that she wants—which is really fucking hard, okay—when Octavia shouts from the kitchen, "Stop harassing my friends, you dick!"
Clarke squeaks out a pitiful, "Yeah!" before she marches herself into the kitchen and trains her eyes on her friends—
she considers it an accomplishment when she doesn't look at Douchey McDoucheface as he waltzes through the kitchen, the living room, and out the sliding door to the backyard.
"Your brother is back?" Raven asks, reaching for a slice of pizza.
Octavia slaps her hand away and warns, "Cooling." She takes a breath and gathers her hair up, twisting it into a bun as she answers, "Yeah—he got in last night and has already pissed off Clarke."
Raven rounds on her then, eyebrows raised higher than Clarke had ever thought possible before she'd met the woman. "I worked a double," she explains. "And got called in from the parking lot for an emergency with one of my patients." She yawns, mostly unintentionally, and Raven makes a sympathetic noise. "I passed out when I got home—."
Octavia cuts her off. "And my terrible brother woke her up two hours later. They screamed at each other from across the street."
"Exciting!" Raven claps happily, grinning.
"It really wasn't," Clarke grumbles, leaning on the bar, watching curiously as Octavia bustles around, grabbing bottles of this or that. She checks the oven and Clarke smells—
"Did you make garlic bread?" Octavia nods, crouching to inspect the tray in the oven. "O," Clarke says soberly. "I think I love you."
...
Bellamy stays away, really, once the bread is done—
he only stops in to steal two slices of pizza before disappearing down into the basement. Raven eyes him as he goes, eyes glued to his ass, which Clarke only really notices when she looks away from it.
Octavia is, thankfully, distracted by the cat at that time.
...
...
It's a small neighborhood, okay, so Clarke takes the opportunities provided by such a small community to their full advantage. If one of these opportunities involves timing picking up her mail with whenever Bellamy is around, just to glare and blush and hurl barbs at one another then—
it's a small neighborhood.
She spends a lot of time at Octavia's, and avoids making eye contact with the elder Blake, if at all possible.
It's fine.
She's fine.
Nothing's going on.
...
...
Same scene, four weeks later—
Clarke drags her sorry ass out of her car, hands shaking as she fumbles for her house key. It's noon, and she has been awake for twenty four hours. She thinks that she's mostly caffeine at this point? Is that medically possible?
She went to fucking med school, she should know this shit.
Her knees are weakening and she makes it to the couch before she collapses, not bothering to change out of her scrubs.
...
She's slept for forty seven minutes when she jerks awake, shaking and scared—
she dry heaves over the edge of the couch, bile rising. Her father's body is burned into her retinas, and every time she blinks the nausea begins anew. She wants to die. Wants him to not die. Fix this, she'd screamed at her mother. This is your fault.
Oh, but it wasn't.
Guilt sits in a hard knot in Clarke's chest, and she lays still, staring at the ceiling. She goes without blinking as long as she can, until her eyes are dry and irritated. Her body rebels. She blinks and her stomach roils.
Which is when the lawn mower fucking starts.
And Clarke thinks it's the combined lack of sleep and the nightmare—the night terror—but she is itching for a fight and Bellamy Blake is smug and calls her princess when she gets angry, so here she is, fucking angry. She launches to her feet—
she's strong until the door, where she doubles over to dry heave again.
Small, minor distraction.
Their street is deserted, so Clarke storms across without looking both ways, because she is a fucking adult, kay? She can make her own dumb decisions—this is looking to be her dumbest yet.
But Bellamy spots her, and flips the mower off, preparing, squaring his stance. "Blake!" she bellows, still teetering on the edge of being sick.
"Hey, princess," he greets, running a hand through his hair lazily, smirk permanently affixed.
"Don't call me princess, asshole."
"Did I wake you from your slumber?" he asks, hand brought to his chest in mock horror.
"You know what—," she starts, stopping abruptly to double over and heave. Nothing comes up, but she wipes her mouth out of instinct.
"Jesus, Clarke—."
When she rights herself, she launches back into it. "You are a terrible—."
"Clarke, hey." His voice is gentler than she's ever heard it—no, no, she heard him that quiet that one time that she dragged Octavia home from their favorite bar, and she'd puked all over her older brother's shoes. He hadn't—
from what she'd seen of Bellamy Blake, she'd expected him to be frustrated or angry or exasperated, but he'd just slid his arm around his little sister and guided her to the living room, voice low and smooth and comforting and—
and now is not the time for Clarke to think about that. She gasps, "You're such a fucking ass, okay?" Oh god. She can't breathe. She doubles over again, clutching her knees.
"Princess, you need to breathe, okay?" His arm slides over her back, hand on her waist. He places the other at her elbow. He thinks she's going to pass out.
She might pass out.
She's going to pass out.
Her head is so, so light, and Clarke sags against him without really meaning to. Bellamy's arm is strong around her waist, and he's basically supporting all of her weight. Clarke keeps dry heaving, and he has to stop every few moments to let her, since, apparently, gut wrenching heaves aren't conducive with walking/dragging your neighbor off your yard.
She thinks that if she weren't currently shaking, she'd be embarrassed. But—
um.
Shaking.
...
He brings her a glass of water and a bucket—
"One of my buddies used to get like this," he offers hesitantly, scratching at the back of his neck. "It was a coin toss to whether he'd puke up the water or not, so…" Bellamy trails off awkwardly, but Clarke accepts his offerings with a small smile. He's sweeter than she'd thought—
more in line with the way Octavia always talked about him while he was deployed. She sips the water carefully; he sits at the opposite end of the couch and doesn't look at her.
When Clarke trusts her body to not, like, freak out on her, she asks, "So, are you out?" Bellamy's brow furrows, and he glances at her for a moment. "Of the military," she clarifies abruptly.
His forehead smoothes. "Oh, uh," he tugs at the collar of his shirt—Clarke tries not to stare at his collarbone when it's exposed. It's a fucking collarbone and get your shit together, Griffin. "Yeah. Was my final tour."
"How many times were you deployed?"
"Four tours. Nine months each." Clarke lets out a stuttering breath. That's a—
"That's a long time," she says shakily, like an idiot. He nods and shoots her a tight lipped smile. "When'd you join up?"
Stop talking. Just. Stop. He probably doesn't want to talk about this.
"When O turned eighteen." They fall into silence—not uncomfortable, but not companionable. Clarke knows bits and pieces of their past, from Octavia—
knows that their dad died before she was born, that their mom died a few months before Bellamy's nineteenth birthday, when Octavia was still in elementary school. But it seems a lot more real, hearing it from him. Octavia regards her past with sort of an off handed air—
it was done and over with, and she felt no need to dwell on it. She'd told Clarke that her older brother had sacrificed a lot to make sure that she didn't go into the system, and that he was protective of her, and Clarke had pictured this gallant, young soldier—
not the hesitant, irritating man that was looking at her out of the corner of his eye. There was a thick scar that wound its way up his forearm.
"I—," Clarke starts, shutting her mouth as soon as she does. She's not sure what she was about to say, but it would probably have been weirdly emotional. They had a moment.
One. No need to ruin it.
Bellamy, thankfully, ignores her.
...
He walks her back to her door silently, hand hovering just near the small of her back, never quite touching. Clarke, as tired as she is, watches his retreating form until he disappears back into his home.
Distantly, semidetached, she feels an ache in her chest.
...
...
She gets home after the end of her ER rotation, on a Tuesday afternoon, the next week. Ever since that day, she's noticed that Bellamy avoids noisy yard work whenever she's home—she once saw him notice her car and carry the weed whacker back to the shed. But she's—
Clarke can't explain it. But she likes Bellamy Blake. Likes his warm, strong hands, likes his calm presence. And something hasn't sat right with her since he'd walked her home silently, and she thinks she's finally figured it out. She changes quickly when she's home, grabs the six pack from her fridge, and marches over.
After about a minute of insistent—but measured—knocking, Bellamy answers.
"Octavia isn't home," he says gruffly, hand at the back of his neck again. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Clarke raises the beer. "I was—um. I was wondering if we could talk?" She feels incredibly exposed, waiting for him to either accept her or reject her. Whatever. She can drown her sorrows in the six beers. She's about to backtrack, apologize and walk away purposefully, when Bellamy steps back and widens the door.
"Come in, princess," he grumbles.
...
She waits until they're well into their first beers before she speaks.
"Thanks," she stutters. "For, um. For the other day."
He takes a swig. "S'nothing."
She chances a look. Bellamy's eyes are trained at the wall, and Clarke forges on. "But it was though. I don't usually—uh—."
"Clarke," he says seriously, finally looking at her. "You don't have to explain."
So she doesn't. They finish the pack in silence. Octavia comes home to find her brother and her best friend screaming at each other—
"What the fuck, princess, that was a fucking blue shell!"
"You started it, dickface!"
...
(It becomes a tradition. Every Tuesday, after her rotation is over, Clarke brings beer and whoops Bellamy's ass at Mario Kart—
"Lucky shot, Griffin—."
"Thanks, grandpa—."
Octavia sidles up to her on a night out, when Raven is buying a drink, and asks casually, slyly, "So you and my brother?"
Clarke blushes beet red and stammers. "What? Jesus, O, we're friends—if that. He's terrible and rude and inconsiderate and did I mention rude—!" Octavia rolls her eyes, and Clarke tries not to think about Bellamy that night, hands on her hips—
when she stumbles home that night, she drops her shades immediately, stiffening when she spies Bellamy's shape in the driveway. She can't—
he's terrible. Rude.
She spends most of the night staring at the ceiling.
She doesn't like Bellamy Blake, right?
Right?)
...
...
Bellamy is sort of the last person that Clarke expects to see in the ER waiting room, at two thirty in the morning.
He's sitting in the corner, cradling his hand against his chest, and Octavia is across the room, arguing with the admitting nurse in low tones, and Clarke glances around the room quickly before she marches over.
"What happened?" she demands, sitting next to Bellamy.
He looks up, startled, and hisses, "Jesus christ—!"
She gestures to his hand impatiently. She doesn't have all day. Night.
Whatever.
Very carefully, he pulls away the dish towel that's been wrapped around it. "Bell—," Clarke breathes, taking in the damage. There's cuts all over, blood dried on the palm and oozing out of scrapes, and she counts at least three pieces of glass embedded in the knuckles. Christ almighty—
"Dr. Griffin?" Mel, the admitting RN, calls her over. "Can you take him?" She starts to protest—she really shouldn't work on anyone that she knows, that she's friends with, that she—
um.
"We don't have anyone else, Clarke," Mel explains, looking tired. Clarke holds out a hand for his paperwork. Octavia mouths a thank you, and Clarke waits at the desk for her to collect her brother.
Bellamy looks distant—lost, even. Clarke glances down at his papers as she leads them down the hall. Octavia's—
shit.
Octavia's indicated PTSD, which, like, Clarke could've guessed because four tours, but she'd never really thought of it. Okay. Okay.
"So," she starts, tugging the curtain around to block off the bed. "What the hell happened to you?" She tries to play it off like a joke, but Bellamy suddenly looks very young, with his hand cradled to his body, and she is so, so invested in him. In his well-being. She wants him to be okay—healthy. Friendly, non-romantic investment in his well-being.
Octavia shifts her weight and says carefully, "He punched a mirror."
Shit. Okay.
Bellamy huffs, glaring at his sister over Clarke's shoulder, and she pulls up the chair to the bed side. She holds out her hands expectantly, and Bellamy offers her his. Clarke takes his wrist gently, rotating his arm to inspect his palm, to assess damage. He'll probably need a few stitches along the palm, butterfly bandages on the knuckles.
"How'd you get cut here?" she asks quietly, glancing at his palm.
"I, uh—I tried to clean up. Before O woke."
Octavia makes a disapproving sound, but Clarke nods. "You're going to need some stitches here," she says, fingertip hovering above the largest cut. "And I'll need to get out the glass. Are you up on immunizations?" He nods. Clarke lets go of his wrist gently and rolls away, making a few notes on his chart. "Do you want a numbing agent?"
Bellamy stares at her, stares at the chart—and then back to her. His eyes are dark and intense, and Clarke has to remind herself that his sister—her friend—is right behind her. He shakes his head.
"O—okay."
She steps out, then—takes a deep breath and preps a suture tray. The ER was busy about thirty minutes ago, leaving all the other attending physicians and nurses off with their patients—
she could probably call someone in to help her, but it's simple, yeah? No use in bringing in more people than needed.
She scrubs up and rolls the tray over. As she nears the curtain, she can hear hushed voices, can pick out bits and pieces of the conversation—
the argument.
"—Bell," Octavia whispers. "You need help."
Clarke halts, because—
this isn't anything she needs to hear. This is a private matter, something for them to discuss in private, in safety. She waits a few moments, and when she doesn't hear Bellamy respond, she draws back the curtain and says with a smile, "Your order, sir?"
The Blakes are glaring at each other, but Bellamy takes a break to offer her a smirk. "Don't think that's what I asked for, Clarke," he murmurs, eyeing the shot prepared on the tray.
Octavia softens slightly, and intervenes. "Bellamy," Octavia cautions. "It's procedure."
It's really not, but Clarke thought that she could at least give him the option of numbing, in case he changed his mind. He gulps. Looks from the shot to Clarke's face and nods shortly.
"You're sure?" she confirms, hand already reaching out for the disinfectant. Bellamy nods again, and Clarke sits, rolling over the tray with her. She finds a spot without any injury and wipes it down carefully, supporting his arm by the wrist.
"This'll hurt," she warns, glancing up at Bellamy, who keeps his eyes on her. He nods shortly, grunts out something like approval. "Do you want me to—?"
"Just stab me already, Dr. Griffin," he forces out, with a ghost of a smile on his lips and, okay, she knows that this isn't a great situation, but he's really, really pretty, okay? It's not her fault that her mouth goes a little dry.
Instead of contemplating the implications of being attracted to someone when they're injured, Clarke positions the needle and pushes it in quickly. Bellamy tenses, and his grip on the bed tightens. Clarke hears Octavia suck in a breath behind her, and Clarke focuses on keeping her hand steady. When she withdraws, he doesn't relax, which isn't entirely unexpected, really, considering the way he's eyeing the needle and thread.
"I'm going to clean it now," Clarke murmurs, leaning back to grab the tweezers and a bowl. She thinks that he'll benefit from knowing what's happening, so she continues. "I have to remove the glass and any other debris, okay?"
"Thanks, princess," Bellamy bites out, closing his eyes briefly when she brings the tweezers near his hand. She doesn't take it personally—
she's heard worse from patients, and this is Bellamy, so, really, what was she expecting? The lidocaine mix works fast, she knows, so Clarke gives it an extra minute—just in case—before she goes after the first piece, the biggest piece of glass. Cleaning takes only a little time—
Clarke is good at what she does, so she makes short work of it, pausing for a moment only when she's counted three winces and a grimace in under two minutes. Octavia keeps making little sounds of disgust when she peers over Clarke's shoulder at the bowl, slowly filling with bloody shards of glass.
Her stitches, when she makes them, are neat and precise, and Bellamy only groans once, choking it off within seconds. Clarke wraps his hand in gauze when she's done, and tries not to stare at him too long.
She leaves the Blakes to one another for a while, wandering back up to the front lobby to file discharge papers. Mel's sleeping at the desk, coffee untouched in front of her, and the waiting room, for once, is empty. Clarke takes that as a sign, and handles Bellamy's paperwork herself. Still feeling—
Clarke's not sure what she's feeling. But it's unsettling, and there's a black hole in her stomach, so she writes out care instructions by hand. On a whim, she draws a cartoon version of herself, wagging a finger and listing off options for letting it out, other than punching a mirror. Feeling cheeky, she scribbles down her schedule, with the note mow your lawn at these times.
There's movement at a bed off to the right, and Clarke covers the papers quickly, face burning for a reason she doesn't want to put a name on. Mel startles awake, and shoots Clarke a grateful look when she realizes what she's done. Clarke nods at the cup in front of her, and advises, "The coffee on the third floor lounge is better."
"Oh my god, really?"
"Mhm. Page Harper—it's her break and she'd probably be willing to run some down to you."
"Oh, god," Mel breathes. "Bless you." She picks up the phone and waits, asking, "How's your guy?" Clarke flushes at the title—
it means nothing.
It means nothing, dumbass.
"He's fine. He'll be fine. Can you enter this prescription for me?" She passes over the papers and Mel scans them—her eyebrows raise and Clarke knows—she fucking knows what's caught her eye and—
"Really?" Mel questions, flipping the paper to face Clarke. Clarke really wishes she wouldn't.
"Don't say anything," Clarke requests. "Just, don't. Please."
"O-okay Doc," Mel says, making a face. "Your life, your romance."
"It's not—," she sputters. "We're not—."
But she wants to be. She really, really wants to be. But she's so—
if she could, she'd wiggle her hand around in a questionable, non-committal gesture.
She shoves the thought out of her mind and spins on her heel, leaving Mel to her laughing and judging and typing. Halfway down the hall, she doubles back because, of fucking course, she left all the after-care info with Mel. The nurse hands over the papers with a raised eyebrow, to which Clarke responds with a well-timed rude gesture, because this is her business, okay?
Octavia's texting—probably Lincoln—when she gets back; Bellamy's staring at the trashcan sullenly.
"Hey, so," Clarke greets, dropping on the stool and rolling between the bed and Octavia. "I called in a prescription for some painkillers, 'cause your hand is going to hurt like a bitch in the morning." Bellamy nods towards Octavia, who slips her phone into her pocket to receive the packet. She flips through it as Clarke continues, facing her older brother.
"You're going to want to change the dressing at least once a day—more if you sweat or shower. Try not to get it wet, but if you do it's not the end of the world. Um—." She racks her brain for the rest of her instructions. "Put some Neosporin or some other antibiotic on the stitched wounds when you change the dressing. You can take the butterfly bandages off in a week; make an appointment with your regular doctor to get the stitches out in like a week and a half."
She realizes that she's grabbed his good hand, without meaning to.
Shit.
"I think that covers it," Clarke finishes abruptly, dropping his hand and spinning around to face Octavia. "Think you can keep this one out of trouble for a week?" Octavia nods, a tiny smile forming and Clarke glances down at the open folder in her hands and—
jesus fucking christ, tonight cannot get any more embarrassing.
She clears her throat and stands, ushers the Blake siblings out. It's nearly four am, and Clarke's shift is almost over. Okay. This has been—
uh.
It's been uh.
They walk out towards the lobby together, and Clarke wipes her palms on her pants. "I'll see you guys later," she says with a tired smile, leaning against a pillar.
Octavia glances at the clock on the back wall of the admissions desk and asks, "Do you get off at four?" Clarke hesitates, then nods. "Come over when you're done."
Oh.
Oh god.
Clarke starts to say no, to find an excuse, but Octavia sings, "I'll make pancakes…"
Well, that changes things. "I'll be there in a half hour," she sighs, finally. Octavia makes a happy noise, and Clarke thinks that Bellamy even smiles, so, like, yeah, okay, not bad, Griffin.
She waves as they walk out into the humid night—
morning. It's morning. Jesus christ. She sees Octavia pull out of the parking lot, onto the street, and no, no Clarke, don't turn around, because Mel is already—
oh, yes. She's already laughing at Clarke. She spends the last ten minutes of her shift watching the waiting room TV, because it gets more channels than the lounge one and Mel will page her if she's needed.
The clock strikes four.
Clarke ignores the implications when she shoots to her feet and says goodbye to Mel, already halfway towards the lockers.
...
(Breakfast is loud, thanks to Octavia, making idle conversation as she expertly flips the pancakes. Bellamy takes Clarke's hand in his good one, and she tries to hide her blush.
She also tries to hide her disappointment when he takes it back in order to eat—
because, you know, stitches and shit)
...
...
It was friendly hand holding.
Clarke's about two more repetitions away from completely convincing herself of this, and she hasn't seen Bellamy for almost a month. She's gone over to hang out with Octavia and Raven, and every time, she bites her tongue when she starts to wonder where the elder Blake is—
lucky for her, Raven doesn't.
"Oh, yeah," Octavia will respond, scanning the room. "He's got some stuff. Things." Or, some equally vague answer that both scares and worries Clarke, because those are two different emotions, no matter what Raven says.
So Clarke isn't really expecting him on her doorstep, one sunny morning.
She's very aware of her state of undress as she leans against the door frame, peering up at him, blinking sleep out of her eyes. This is, luckily, one of her normal days—
the kind where she goes to sleep at ten at night and wakes up at eight in the morning. She glances at his hand, checking it over—
he's had his stitches removed and it's all healed up well, small little scabs and scars the only sign of any damage to begin with. Bellamy rubs at the back of his neck and clears his throat. "Hey dickface," she greets, offering him a small, sleepy smile. And—
god. Clarke realizes she's a goner when he smiles, because when he grins—an honest to god grin—Bellamy's entire face lights up, makes him look about ten years younger.
"Hey princess," he responds. "I just wanted to thank you. For this." He raises his hand.
Clarke snorts. "S'my job."
"Still. Thank you." Clarke ducks under the intensity of his eyes, studies the floor. When she looks up again, Bellamy is looking at her yard, judgment written all over his face.
"Look," Clarke begins, immediately defensive. "I don't have a lot of time to keep my lawn at neat as some people." She punctuates the statement with a pointed look across the street. Bellamy opens his mouth; hesitates and—
there it is again. He rubs his neck when he's nervous, Clarke thinks. It's endearing.
"Do you want me to take care of it?" he finally offers. "When I clean up my own yard."
Clarke leans forward, and she thinks that maybe Bellamy will move back, but he stays where he is. When she peers out at her lawn, she is very aware of his chest, his heartbeat almost beneath her ear. Okay. Play it cool, Griffin. And, okay, yeah, her lawn is kind of trashed. There are weeds everywhere, and the last time it got mowed was when she and Finn were still—
well.
"Yeah," she murmurs, leaning back. "That'd be great." When she glances up again, Bellamy is staring at her. And she—
oh, god, she just.
Ugh.
"You haven't punched anymore mirrors, I hope?" She tries to make her voice light, joking, but the worry is evident, and he has to know that she saw the chart, yeah?
Bellamy blinks at her. "Uh—yeah. I've been. Um. I've been in a support group. Seeing a therapist." Clarke smiles, because good. "O's idea," he tacks on, which, yeah, she figured.
"That's great, Bell." Her hands shake a little and, really, why? Literally, why? Bellamy glances down, then back up to her face.
"You had—uh. You'd said you wanted to talk." His voice is gruff, but his words are tender. Clarke thinks she might die. "Do you—do you still need to?"
Oh.
Clarke worries her lip. This is—
she doesn't think that he needs to hear what she had wanted to tell him. He is struggling—
recovering, getting better, and he does not need her struggles added to his own. But Bellamy's rubbing his neck again, eyes so earnest that it hurts, and Clarke can't not open the door wider.
"I've only got hard cider," she tells him. "Also it's nine in the morning, and I'm not sure how into day drinking you are?"
"Very," he laughs, stepping past her, further into her home.
...
(And that's how Clarke has hot morning sex with her best friend's brother at nine am.
As if.)
...
She's two ciders in, admittedly a lightweight, and she is comfortably warm, inhibitions lowered.
"I have nightmares, sometimes," she begins, haltingly. This has to sound like nothing, compared to him. Jesus christ. Okay. "Mostly about my dad." Bellamy raises his eyebrows and Clarke realizes how that must sound.
"Oh, uh—," she searches for the right words. "Not like—he um. He died. Really, um—in a car wreck." Bellamy's face is blank, but his dark eyes are understanding. He nods at her to continue. "My mom and I made it, but I—it's just not something I can really forget about."
Clarke decides to omit the part when she almost died, too. The part where she hated her mother for distracting him—hated herself more for doing the same. The part where her hands still shake when she's driving and it begins to rain, how she has to pull over and breathe. The part where she's still a wreck over it, when it's been more than a decade.
But the cider shakes in her hand, now, when she thinks of it, and she thinks that Bellamy knows.
...
(She also thinks that he knows what she's about to do when she surges forward, an hour later.
He is warm and yielding beneath her lips, and when he pulls back, grinning, Clarke can't help but mirror him)
...
...
Clarke wakes at nine on her day off, to the sound of a mower starting up below her window. Fighting a grin, she kneels in her bed and throws her window open, leaning out to peer down at the man on her front yard.
"What the hell are you doing?" she asks, remembering that morning, years ago, trying to fake anger that she doesn't feel. Bellamy looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.
"Mowing my lawn, princess," he calls back, grinning.
"Ass—."
"Daddy!" a little voice shouts, and Clarke tracks the blur that is their son running out from the porch. "You said Mommy needed to sleep." She bites back a laugh. Bellamy looks between her and Jake, pleading, but Clarke just gestures for him to answer.
"Well, bud, uh—Mommy and I have a tradition, yeah? I mow the lawn, and your mom yells at me." Jake nods solemnly, looking up at the window and grinning at his mother, and Clarke mood gets brighter—if that's possible. This is—
the baby cries from the nursery, and Clarke lets out a little sigh.
Yeah.
This is worth waking up for.
fin