Authors note: This is just a little something I wrote to take my mind off of my upcoming Econ midterm! Yay school! Also, the title is from the song of the same name by REM.
Bellamy typed at his desk, answering the never-ending stream of emails he seemed to get these days. Different students asking for extensions on papers and pleas for clarifications on the easiest reading on Tacitus he could find, other professors in his own department arguing on the legitimacy of the Antonine Dynasty. (Bellamy claimed that to be a dynasty, especially in Roman eyes, hereditation was not required. Many disagreed.)
He was in the middle of one extensive, albeit sarcastic, reply when his cell phone started ringing. That was unusual; everyone who knew him knew that he never answered his personal phone at work. He deemed it unprofessional. So he let it go, returning to his rant about the emperors of the second century. But he couldn't continue for long. His phone rang again, so Bellamy picked up, annoyed.
"Yes, what is it?"
"That's really how you answer a call, Blake?" the other end replied.
Bellamy groaned, rubbing his face with his free hand. "Raven, what do you need?"
"Stop sounding so bothered, this is important. It's Clarke."
Immediately, Bellamy sat up in his chair, at full attention. "Clarke? What about her? Is she okay?" In the back of his mind, he knew he sounded desperate, but he couldn't care less at the moment. Although Raven never mentioned it, he knew that she saw how much he cared for her best friend.
"It's nothing too bad, but she's sick."
"Sick?" Bellamy asked. How could that be? He just saw her the other night, when their group got together for a casual movie night at Octavia and Lincoln's place. Their couch was the comfiest, and somehow, by the grace of god, Clarke had ended up next to Bellamy. Clarke was infamous for falling asleep at every movie night, always tired from her long shifts at the hospital. A half hour in, and she was out, resting her head on Bellamy's chest, breathing softly onto his shirt. It was heaven.
"Don't freak out," Raven cautioned. "It's just a fever. But she's a bit out of it, and isn't letting anyone take care of her."
"God, she's so stubborn, even when she's indisposed," Bellamy grumbled.
Raven agreed, then continued, "but I think that she'll let you help her, Bellamy."
Bellamy blinked. "Me? Why?"
"She was calling out for you last night, when was half-asleep and burning up. Please, just get down here." With that, Raven hung up, and the line started beeping.
In a flash, Bellamy shut his laptop, stuffed his backpack, and ran out of his office. After a moment's thought, he ran back inside, told his assistant to reschedule his appointments and issue apologies, and then returned his sprint to his car.
She was calling out for you, is what Raven had said. It made his heart burst. But he threw it away as false hope. Clarke was too important to him to risk a change in their relationship. She was his best friend, the one he could always turn to in whatever mood he was in. She never put up with his shit, but would support him when he needed it. So while she might never love him in the way he wanted, he knew she did love him in her own way, in a way that transcended normal friendship.
He made it to Clarke's small apartment within twenty minutes (a personal record of his), and dashed up the two flights, skipping every other stair. He raised his fist to knock, but the door opened before he made constant. Raven stood in the apartment, hair sticking out of her ponytail, sweatpants stained with some sort of grease. She breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank god," she said, motioning him inside. When he gave her a confused look, she rolled her eyes. "You sound like an elephant when you walk up the stairs, Bellamy. Anyone can hear you from a mile away."
Storing that information for later, Bellamy asked, "So how is she?"
Raven shook her head. "The same. High fever, not drinking, tossing in bed."
Bellamy put his bag down, already filling a glass of water. Before he entered Clarke's room, he turned back to Raven.
"Hey, Reyes."
"Hey, Blake."
He paused, wondering if he should even ask. "Do you know why she would even ask for me?"
Raven's typically hard eyes softened. "Bellamy, I think you know why. You're just too stupid to admit it to yourself." She pointed at him. "Keep me updated. I need to get back to work."
Bellamy stood still as he absorbed what Raven's words meant. The slam of the door took him out of his stupor, and he went back to attending to Clarke.
He knocked softly on the door, not expecting a response. Yet, Clarke, in her stubbornness, yelled out, "what'dyawant?" Bellamy grimaced, her voice sounded sluggish, as if her tongue wasn't functioning properly.
Creaking the door open, he shuffled in. "Hey Clarke," he said softly. "It's me."
Clarke turned in her bed to face the door. She looked so small, surrounded by a multitude of pillows to provide comfort. Laying halfway under and halfway above the covers, Clarke's shirt was starting to ride up as she torqued her body. She was also wearing small boxers, and Bellamy had to remind himself that she was sick, and this was not a time to revel at her legs.
"Bellamy?" Clarke mumbled, her mouth obscured by a pillow. She seemed not to understand, but then her eyes widened. It only made Bellamy notice the darkened bags underneath her blue eyes. "Bellamy!" Clarke said louder, and then made an attempt to rise from the bed. She pushed her torso up from the bed, but she was so entwined in the covers she couldn't get up, so she huffed, then gave up and fell back into the bed.
Bellamy laughed, setting the glass of water down on her bed stand. "Hey, that's no way for a princess to act," he joked.
Clarke shoved her face deeper into the pillow.
"What was that?" Bellamy asked when Clarke made a noise.
She turned her head, whipping her golden hair around. "I said, I don't feel like a princess right about now!"
Bellamy sat on the bed, which lowered under his weight. "Naw, I guess you don't." He touched Clarke's head, and she closed her eyes when his cool hand reached her forehead. "God, Clarke! You're burning up!"
She waved a hand in the air aimlessly. "Aw, you flatter me. But I know I always look hot to you," she said, eyes glossy.
Bellamy froze, hand still on her head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was Raven right? Shaking his head, he reached for the water.
"Clarke, please drink something. You must be dehydrated. I can see your lips are all chapped."
"Oh, looking at my lips, now?" Clarke asked, letting Bellamy help her sit up in bed. He fixed the pillows to serve as a backrest, attributing her flirtation to delirium.
She let Bellamy tip the glass to her mouth, gulping down the whole glass. Once she was done, she sighed contently, relaxing into the pillows. Bellamy fixed the sheets to wrap all around her, making sure she was warm. Some of the sheets felt sweaty, and he made a mental note to make sure they got washed when he got a chance.
He made a move to to get up, and Clarke's eyes immediately shot open as she raised her voice. "Where are you going?"
He patted her arm reassuringly. "Just getting you some food," he said. "Don't worry. I'll be back."
Clarke shook her head. "But I'm not hungry. Just stay."
"I don't believe you. Just wait here."
Clarke opened her mouth to fight back, but Bellamy turned around and walked to the kitchen. It took all his might, with Clarke calling his name, but it was for her own good.
After rummaging around in the kitchen for a while, Bellamy returned with an arrangement of sliced oranges. He let it in Clarke's empty lap. She pouted.
"What's wrong? You love oranges," Bellamy said, patting her leg. Clarke crossed her arms.
"Yes, but you were gone for a while," she complained.
Bellamy resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "I'm sorry. Will you forgive me if I eat the oranges with you?"
Like a child, Clarke nodded once, handing him a slice. They chewed in comforting silence, and then he even got a small laugh out of Clarke when he made the cliche joke of an orange slice smile.
The smile disappeared quickly, when Clarke clutched her head, claiming that the laughing made her head ache. Bellamy apologized. "You always are so serious anyways," he told her.
Clarke put her juiceless orange down on the plate. "No I am not."
Bellamy brushed her hair from her face. "Yes you are. You always work hard, are always so serious about what you do, and always taking care of all of our friends. So just rest, and let me take care of you. You've been doing a good job so far, don't backtrack now."
Bellamy absently began rubbing his thumb on Clarke's cheek, taking in her wonder. Even drenched in a aura of sickness, she looked beautiful, her hair shining in the light pouring in from the window. He wondered if she would remember this, his closeness. Obviously she would know he came to care for her, but to what extent, he wasn't sure what he wanted her to recall.
Bellamy stopped when he felt a light pressure on his hand that was on Clarke's leg. It was Clarke's own hand, trying to squeeze its way between his fingers. She gazed at him, her blue eyes a mixture of serenity and wistfulness.
"Thank you," she whispered, as her eyes drooped.
Bellamy took her hand in both of his. "For what?"
Her eyes fluttered as Clarke fought to stay awake with him. "For always being there for me. For being you. Bellamy Blake."
A wide smile slowly made its way on Bellamy's face. "Any time, Clarke. You know that, right? Any time."
Clarke squeezed his hand one last time "I do know that. I do."
"Hey, Clarke."
"B'lmy?" Clarke mumbled.
"Why didn't you let anyone else help you?"
"H'lp mh?" Clarke's conversational skills were dwindling.
"Yeah. Why me?" Bellamy pushed it.
Clarke lifted one eyelid for just a second. "B'cause," she said. "You're the one I w'nt. You're the best," she said. Her head fell to the side as she lapsed to sleep.
As she started to snore, Bellamy lifted her hand to his lips, giving them a soft kiss. "Good night, Clarke," he said.
In her sleep, Clarke smiled, hugging her pillow.