The following assumes that the world is fine and Bellarke are an established relationship. Let's just roll with it.

14. "Is there something you want to tell me?" + Bellarke (The 100)

Clarke bent over the bush, heaving her guts up again and again. The vomit tasted foul, burning the back of her throat. She felt like she could feel the acid from her stomach corroding her teeth already, making them rough to her tongue's touch.

She felt a pressure on her ponytail, pulling it up. She turned to see Monty hunched over her, his hand obviously the one clasped around her ponytail. "You okay?" he asked, obviously concerned.

She nodded, frowning at him. "Why are you holding my hair?"

He released it, stepping back. "Well, you already have it tied up, so there's no use holding your hair back. But I kinda wanted to show some support."

"So you … grabbed my hair." Clarke wasn't sure if she should be surprised by that or not. She took several deep, steadying breaths and moved to her feet, feeling a little dizzy.

"What's going on here?" Bellamy's voice boomed through the convoy in typical Bellamy fashion. He stalked over to them, brow knotted in concern at the sight of her. She must've looked awfully pale to make him look so worried.

"I'm okay," she said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. She wiped at the sweat beading on her forehead. "We should keep going." They needed to make it to Arkadia by nightfall, and they were wasting time, all halted just to watch Clarke puke.

"We're taking a break," said Bellamy, in a tone that brooked no argument. Clarke could have insisted that she was in charge, but she was feeling too queasy for that. "Come on, let's get you sitting down and drinking some water."

Clarke obeyed his orders, making a mental note to grouch about them later. He led her into the woods a little, finding a log for her to rest on while he unhooked his canteen from his pack and handed it to her. Typical Bellamy, handing his own canteen to a girl with vomit mouth.

Clarke rinsed her mouth out before drinking in earnest, the cool water soothing her throat where it felt like the bile had burned it. "We can keep going," she said, smacking her lips.

Eyeing her skeptically, Bellamy shifted so he was seated on the ground in front of her. Monty was back up at the road with Raven, so they had a modicum of privacy for Bellamy's next question: "Is there something you want to tell me?"

She felt panic, the kind that had been planted in her gut as a seed and was now blooming throughout her chest like a steady, living anxiety. It was too early in their relationship for this to happen. She couldn't tell him, not now. "It's fine," she insisted.

"Clarke, you're puking your guts up by the side of the road and you look like a ghost. What's happening?" He rested a hand against her knee. "You can tell me anything, Clarke. We can face it. Together."

There was no way she was getting out of this. This was a secret she could only keep for so long …

"You're a terrible cook," she blurted out, clapping a hand over her mouth afterwards as though it would keep in the words after she'd already said them.

Bellamy looked taken aback. "What? I don't–"

"You made dinner last night, at the camp, but it was so bad, Bell, it's made me so sick."

"But everyone ate it, Clarke," he argued.

"No, they didn't. I was just the one you were watching the whole time, so I didn't have a chance to throw it out like they did."

"They didn't even eat it?"

"No," she said, biting her lip. "But there are probably some really sick squirrels right now." At the look on his face, she drew him close. "Bell, I'm sorry. It's not your fault you're not naturally gifted at everything. It wouldn't be fair if you were."

His breath blew against her neck as he sighed. "I don't understand why you ate it."

She pulled back so she could look him in the eye. "Because I love you, you idiot."

He grinned broadly. "You really do, huh?"

"Yeah. In spite of your terrible cooking skills, I do."

"Well, I love you in spite of your terrible vomit breath."

"Whose fault is that?" Clarke demanded, indignant. "You're the one that cooked it."

"You're the one with the martyr complex so bad you actually ate it."

Clarke snorted. "Yeah, I guess that's true." She leaned her forehead against his, eyes flicking down to his lips.

"Clarke," he began, voice thick.

"Yeah?"

"Please don't kiss me."

She rolled her eyes and pulled back. "Seriously?"

He seemed truly regretful. "You just smell like vomit so bad, babe–"

She proceeded to breathe all over his face until he covered her mouth with his hands, placing a kiss right on top of them.

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