It's all planned out. He's going to be waiting, quite patiently actually.
"Welcome back, princess." He promises to say, grinning a shit eating smirk. His eyes are lidded, posture cocky and smile lazy. He'll reach to push a strand of hair from her cheeks, his finger tips lingering there. "Thought you got rid of me?"
"You son of a bitch," she'll breathe, motionless. "Bellamy," She grips a firm hold onto his arm, caresses his toffee, freckled skin with icy blue eyes; looks at him not with the adoration and care she would've given Finn, but the look she'd give Murphy if she finds out he's with him now because Bellamy let him tag along. A look of pure surprise and beautiful awe and he likes that - wants that. As far as they know, between them, it's an unspoken thing: "I need you" she once told him. And it itches under his skin to know she's most likely alive out there, nowhere-somewhere. Anywhere, really.
But it's nothing like that, at all.
Her pale face is cut up and bruising, he can't believe it even can - and Clarke's hugging him, clutching him (dare he say, holding) and it's not really clicking. He's not really understanding why she's acting like this, acting so relived and happier, but then again he does (she isn't acting) and right now, he doesn't care. Bellamy's soon circling himself into her, his slack arms almost feel like a hundred pounds, though it hardly matters.
(He can just barely see the 'get a room' in Octavia's eye; the playful way she looks at them.)
He realizes that he never got to say what he thought of, rehearsed. But it isn't like that, not with Clarke, not when she's too fucking irritating and spontaneous for him to manage and strong and brave. Seemingly braver than himself at times.
He pulls away from her, sees this in her eyes. That's what'll be replaying in his head, the sight of her icy blue irises, over and over.
.
.
a/n: a short Bellarke (Bellamy centric) fic. Thank you for reading!