Clarke sighed tiredly, rubbing the back of her neck as she forced her feet to carry her into the bathroom just off her bedroom. She paused in front of the mirror, piling her hair into a bun on top of her head so she could take a quick shower and then pass out.
It was Friday afternoon, and although she'd worked a fairly normal shift today, from 7-3, the past few days had taken their toll. The hospital was basically a circus, everyone running around frantically, trying to get everything prepared for the big operations next week. That included blocking off an entire corner of one of the floors (so the family members could recuperate together), rearranging patients, hospital staff, and elective surgeries so that enough surgeons, surgical nurses, and anesthesiologists, as well as enough operating rooms, would be available, and the rest of the hospital staff was even on a "cleaning and beautification" mission (although the hospital was already spotless, of course) because multiple news crews would be coming in for press conferences and to interview the patients, as well as people in the hospital that participated somehow in the rare transplant chain.
Clarke had assisted on an appendectomy and a C-section, set two broken bones, sat with someone while they passed a kidney stone, and repainted the blue stripe on the wall in the lobby, all in an eight hour shift today. She would have just headed straight for her bed, but she had blue paint all over her forearm, plus she hoped the hot water would work out some of the kinks in her back.
Her hair sufficiently secured out of the way, Clarke reached in, turning on the shower.
The pipes gave a terrifying groan and, after a few seconds, water started shooting everywhere.
Clarke stood there, shocked, staring in horror as water seemed to be spraying out in a never-ending torrent, hitting the ceiling, the wall opposite the shower, and even the door, which Clarke happened to be standing in front of.
"Shit," she said, looking around quickly at the damage being done. "Shit!"
She finally sprang into action, fighting the blast of water so she could get back over to the shower, trying to turn the water off. She managed to get the handle turned back into the off position, but that unfortunately didn't stop the deluge.
"Shit!" she cried, backing out of the bathroom and grabbing her phone, which she'd thankfully left on the dresser in her room.
She pressed "Call" on the first name that popped into her mind.
"Hello?"
"Bellamy! You have to tell me what to do!"
"Clarke? What's wrong?"
"There's water everywhere, Bellamy! And I tried turning it off, but it didn't do anything. I'm literally going to have to build an ark to get out of here!"
"Clarke! Can you move to a different room? I can hardly hear you."
Taking a deep breath, Clarke stepped out into the hallway, where the sound of spraying water was still evident, but no longer overpowering.
Bellamy's voice came through the phone again. "Okay. Now what happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I went to turn on my shower, and water just started spraying everywhere. I mean…everywhere, Bellamy. I tried turning it back off, but it didn't shut it off. I don't know what to do. I'm going to be swimming in here soon. Can you tell me how to turn it off?"
"Shit, Clarke." She could hear him rubbing his hand over his face as he thought. "The shower? They usually don't have separate shut-off valves."
"Well that's just great, Bellamy. Now what am I supposed to do?! Leave the house to the fish?"
"Do you know where the main shut off valve for your house is? It's typically in the basement or on an outside wall…probably near where your hot water heaters are?"
"You do realize I have no idea what that is or how to turn it off even if I could find it?" she said, exasperatedly.
"Yeah, probably. I'm actually only a few neighborhoods away…we're working on a house over in Eagle Park. The guys are just packing up now. I can be there in like…5 minutes."
Clarke heard the slam of a vehicle door, followed by the ignition starting.
"Five minutes, Clarke. Meet me outside, okay?"
"Okay. Yeah," she said, as they both disconnected.
Casting a worried glance back over her shoulder at what had to be turning into something out of a disaster movie, Clarke made her way downstairs, stepping out onto the front step. It wasn't until she stepped into the chilly air that she realized she was also drenched.
She'd pulled off her scrub top, which left her in a grey camisole and scrub bottoms. That would have been chilly enough in the cool fall air, but the water that was practically dripping off her (she was pretty sure it was dripping off her hair) made it downright frigid. Still, she wasn't willing to go back upstairs to change, afraid that she'd end up missing Bellamy and making this even worse.
Within just a few minutes, she saw his familiar grey pickup heading down her street. Racing through her front lawn (in her bare feet, no less) she met him at the curb.
"Jesus, Clarke," he said, opening the door and hopping out. "You're going to freeze to death."
"I don't care. Just make it stop!"
Shrugging out of his bulky brown work jacket, he pulled it around her shoulders before hurrying to the toolbox in the bed of his truck.
Shivering into the sudden warmth, Clarke hurriedly zipped up the coat, watching as Bellamy got out a long metal tool, then started searching her front lawn.
"What is that? And what are you looking for?"
"It's called a meter key…and that's what I'm looking for…the meter."
He walked to the corner of her yard, then back just a few feet, into one of their landscape planters. Before she knew it, he'd lifted off what looked like a miniature manhole cover and was using the tool he'd brought to do something down in the ground.
"Done," he called to her.
She walked over to him, stepping gingerly on the mulch in her bare feet so she could glance down in the hole. "Done? What did you do? I thought you said the main shut off valve was by the house?"
"It is. I didn't want to take the time to look for it, though. This is the meter shut off valve. Does the same thing, basically."
"So Old Faithful will have shut off in my bathroom?"
He chuckled. "There's still water in the line from here up to your house, so it won't shut off immediately, but it should stop soon." He glanced up at the house. "Actually, I should run up and take a look before it stops completely, see if I can tell what's wrong."
Clarke gestured with her hand, indicating for him to go on ahead.
He jogged ahead, while she maintained a slower pace, practically forcing her half numb feet to carry her into the house and then up the stairs.
She found Bellamy in the doorway to her bathroom, hands on his hips as he surveyed the damage.
Hearing her approach, he turned to glance at her. "You weren't kidding about the whole 'flood of Biblical proportions' thing."
"Nope."
He sighed, looking in the bathroom again.
The water had slowed to a mere trickle by now, but it was obvious where it had been spraying, since the wet spots were still evident on the walls and ceiling.
"So, what's the problem, Doctor?" Clarke asked.
Bellamy raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that your title?"
"Not when it comes to this stuff. I'm not even qualified to prescribe an aspirin in the field of home repairs, apparently." She glanced at him. "You need to show me where that shut-off valve thingy is."
One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "Will do. It looks like something's wrong with the pipes in your wall though."
Clarke leaned her head against the wall, banging into it a few times.
"Clarke, it's fine. It can be fixed, and I have the water shut off, so it won't do any more damage right now. We need to get some of this water mopped up though, before it does damage to the floor or the ceiling downstairs."
At that, Clarke glanced at the bathroom floor, which contained a good inch or two of water, and it was starting to seep out onto her bedroom carpet.
"Shit!" Clarke wasn't sure why, but that seemed to be her go-to reaction for today's events.
Bellamy stepped in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Seriously, Clarke. It's fine. We can fix it. Just tell me where your towels are."
"Towels…right." She started to head into her bathroom, only to stop short. "Well, there are some in that cabinet over there," she said, gesturing to the cabinet over the toilet. "Only a few though. I'll go get more."
She headed out into the hallway, stopping in both her mom's bathroom and the main bathroom, which was usually only used by guests. She returned a few minutes later with an armful of mismatched towels, and found Bellamy in her bathroom, his jeans tucked into his work boots, gingerly laying the lilac-colored towels from her bathroom on the floor.
Something about the scene struck her and she had to turn her chuckle into a cough…or two. "Is this enough?" she asked, holding up the pile of towels.
He glanced up. "Probably. We're going to have to keep wringing them out anyway. You either need to put on rainboots or something or else just let me do this. Your pants are going to get soaked."
Clarke shrugged, tossing him a few towels and setting the rest on her bed. "It's fine. It's warm enough in here anyway, and I'm already soaked," she said, taking off his coat and then rolling her scrubs up to her knees.
Bellamy frowned at her exposed feet when she joined him a minute later. "You're going to catch pneumonia, Clarke, and then what? Who's going to fix that? Literally all I can do in that department is give you aspirin."
Clarke rolled her eyes fondly. "You can't catch pneumonia from the cold, Bellamy. That's an old wives' tale. It takes a little thing called infection."
He huffed, still clearly not pleased.
"So, is there any rhyme or reason to this or are we just going for it?" Clarke asked, glancing down at the water, which was still high enough to cover the tops of her feet.
"Just go for it."
"Awesome," Clarke said, throwing down the towels she'd carried in and then spreading them out.
They worked in tandem for the next half hour or so, placing towels on the floor, letting them soak up as much water as possible, and then wringing them out in the bathtub. After they'd soaked up a good portion of the water, they wrung out the small rugs that had been in there, and Clarke carried them to the main bathroom to dry in that bathtub.
On her way back, she was walking quickly and not paying attention, so she didn't even notice that most of the water had finally been cleaned up, leaving only a few puddles and the rest of the tile floor a nice shiny, slippery mess.
Her bare feet slid out from under her, and her arms did a decent imitation of a windmill as she tried to right herself, but to no avail.
She was just about to pitch forward, onto the floor on her face, when Bellamy saw her predicament, and stepped forward, grabbing her by the waist.
Unfortunately, her momentum, and the slippery floor, pushed him back a step or two, until he ended up sitting down hard on the edge of the tub, Clarke landing on his lap.
They sat there for a moment, the wind knocked out of them, before Clarke started giggling, almost hysterically.
It wasn't long before Bellamy joined her.
Struggling to catch her breath, Clarke pressed her face into the side of his neck. "So, not only do I make you come over here, shut off my water, and help me mop up 1200 gallons of water, then I make you bruise your coccyx trying to save me too. Have I ever mentioned I'm the worst friend in the world?"
"My what, now?"
She picked up her head, glancing at him. When she realized what he was referring to, it sent her into another round of giggles. "Coccyx, Bellamy. Your tailbone."
"Well, why didn't you just say that?" he asked, face slightly red.
"Sorry. Blame Med School," she joked. "Seriously though, are you alright?"
"I'm fine. You?"
"Yep. Thanks for catching me, by the way."
"Just one of the many services I provide, Clarke."
"I see that," she said, smiling.
He tightened his grip on her waist, helping her stand up. "Careful," he cautioned.
Clarke made sure she had her footing before moving, then watched him stand gingerly, wincing as he straightened to his full height.
She tried not to smirk, considering she knew exactly which part of him was currently in pain and why he didn't want to talk about it.
"This is good for now, right?" Clarke asked.
Bellamy glanced around, placing a few more towels on the ground where the puddles remained. "Should be, why?"
"Come on," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the bathroom. "I need a beer."
They ended up in the living room, beers in hand, before they realized they were both drenched.
Neither one felt like facing the wrath of Abby Griffin if they ruined her couch, so they stretched out on the large area rug in front of the fire place.
Clarke downed half of her beer before setting it to the side and lying back, chuckling. "Seriously, who did I piss off in a past life to get this kind of Karma?"
Bellamy joined her, turning to look at her. "What do you mean?"
"I was literally going to take the world's shortest shower because I was exhausted and wanted to go to sleep. It was all because of this stupid blue paint," she said, turning her arm to show it to him, except…it was gone.
She started laughing. "Well…I guess all of this did serve some purpose after all. You know…the most time consuming, most expensive, most tiring way to get paint off your arm," she joked, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "Everything has to be difficult, doesn't it?"
"Seems that way, sometimes, doesn't it?"
Clarke mumbled something unintelligible, pressing her feet under his thigh.
"Jesus Christ, Clarke!" he almost shouted, since they felt like ice cubes, even through his jeans.
She chuckled, but made no attempt to move them.
"I told you to put on shoes," he grumbled, but he took them between his hands anyway, rubbing them to warm them quicker.
Clarke smiled against his shoulder, looking up at him. "Did I ever tell you that you're the best friend anyone's had, ever?"
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered.
They stayed that way for a few minutes, until her feet no longer felt like blocks of ice and they both had a chance to recover from the marathon mopping and wringing competition upstairs.
"I would just tell you to come home with me, but I assume your mom will be home at some point and expect her house to have running water?"
"Yeah, probably," Clarke said, frowning.
"Come on," he said, sitting up. "Let's go to Lowe's."
"Bell, you don't have to do anything else. You've already done too much. I'll have her call a plumber or whatever."
He scoffed. "You did not just insult me like that."
Clarke grinned, sitting up as well. "We can't go to the store like this," she said, glancing at their clothes.
"So go change," he said. "I don't have a choice though."
Clarke considered it for a moment. "Actually, you do," she said, glancing over him again as she stood up. "Your jeans aren't that bad, are they?"
"No, they're okay. It's just my shirt," he said, pulling the long-sleeved t-shirt away from where it was clinging to his body.
Clarke nodded, trying not to react to the sight that made, heading into the half bath off the living room and grabbing a clean hand towel.
She tossed it to him. "Here, take your shirt off and dry off. I'll bring you something to wear."
Running upstairs, she quickly changed into a pair of leggings and a long, tunic length thermal shirt, pulling on a pair of warm socks and her favorite riding boots.
She headed quickly to her closet, moving things around till she found what she was looking for, grabbing it off the hanger, and heading into the hallway.
Remembering that she'd left Bellamy's jacket laying on her bed, she returned for that, then jogged down the stairs.
When she got to the entrance to the living room, she stopped short.
Bellamy was standing with his back to her, his shirt off as he shook his head, trying to make sure the water was out of his hair. With that, he ran the towel across the back of his neck.
Clarke stood there, a little dumbstruck, watching the muscles in his back ripple as he moved.
"Clarke?"
Blinking, Clarke glanced up, realizing that, at some point during her momentary loss of brain function, he'd turned slightly to glance at her.
"Yeah…sorry," she said, stepping further into the room and holding out the shirt that was in her hand. "Here."
That turned out to be a giant mistake, as Bellamy turned around fully to face her, giving her an unobstructed view of his chest…and his arms…and his abs...
This was getting ridiculous. She knew Bellamy was strong…his work required it and she'd seen how strong he was on numerous occasions…of course that meant he was muscular. Hell, she'd even seen him with his shirt off before…at the gym, at the lake, at the pool…
But there was just something about him wearing jeans but no shirt, his hair slightly damp, standing in her living room and looking at her like he sometimes looked at her…
"Here," she said, a little roughly, thrusting the shirt at him.
He took it, glancing down curiously, his brow furrowed.
It was a tan flannel button down shirt. Weirdly enough, it actually looked like something he'd have in his own closet.
"…is this your dad's?" he asked cautiously.
"Yup."
"Clarke, I don't have to…I can just put this back on," he said, holding up the damp shirt in his other hand. "Or we can put it in the dryer for a minute before we leave. No big deal."
Clarke realized that he was still looking at her carefully, and that his hesitance to wear the shirt probably stemmed from her reaction a moment ago-she'd been pissed off that she couldn't stop staring at her best friend like some kind of creep, and he'd probably interpreted it as 'I don't really want you to wear my dad's shirt.'
"You're not getting pneumonia on my watch, Bellamy," she said, tongue in cheek.
Getting the joke, he relaxed slightly, holding the flannel shirt up again. "Are you sure? I understand if you don't want anyone else wearing this."
"Unless…" she paused, a new thought occurring to her. "Does it freak you out or something?"
"What?" he frowned. "No, of course not."
"Then there's no one else I'd rather have wear it."
He nodded, slipping into the shirt and buttoning it.
Seeing him in it sent a pang of nostalgia through Clarke…as well as an odd sort of longing for something she didn't quite know how to name.
"I wish…I wish you could've met him," she said softly. "Or…I wish he could've met you. Both, I guess," she admitted, looking up at Bellamy.
"Me too, Clarke," he said sincerely.
They stood there for a moment in silence, thinking about that.
"Lowe's?" Clarke asked.
"Lowe's," Bellamy replied.