Clarke sighed as she walked into the on-call room a few days into the new year, letting out a tired breath as she rolled her neck, trying to ease some of the tension in her shoulders.

She'd just finished assisting on an open-heart surgery, which was thrilling, of course, but also exhausting. Between prep, surgery, dealing with the complications, and then post-op duties, Clarke had been on her feet for hours.

It also meant she'd been away from her phone for hours, which she realized when she opened her locker and powered up her cell, finding three missed calls and two missed texts.

It wasn't so much that the number was excessive (she was pretty sure she'd had more notifications from Jasper in a five-minute span, and that was usually while they were sitting in the same room) but it was who they were from that immediately made her heart leap into her chest.

The three calls were from Miller and the two texts were from Murphy, which let her know, without a doubt, that something was wrong with Bellamy.

Her hands started shaking, a nervous energy coursing through her as her mind immediately started conjuring up all the horrible things that could have happened. Bellamy worked on a construction site, surrounded by sharp tools and a dozen other dangerous situations.

Her brain started doing its own logistics, trying to remember where he'd been working today, trying to figure out if he'd have been brought to her hospital or her mom's.

The Clarke that was calm under pressure with her patients was nowhere to be found, because this was Bellamy and if Murphy had been worried enough to contact her, something had to be terribly wrong.

She took a moment to take a deep, steadying breath-the kind she usually took before a big surgery, because she realized that every second she spent worrying was another second she didn't actually know what was wrong. She managed to steady her hand long enough to draw her unlock pattern, finally pulling up Murphy's texts.

Murphy: [12:15pm] Has Bellamy talked to you yet? He wasn't in a good way when he left here.

Murphy: [1:30pm] Miller said he can't get ahold of you either. Listen, Bellamy's mom died and he didn't take it well. You should probably make sure he's okay.

Clarke's heart stuttered in her chest.

She felt both an immense relief that Bellamy wasn't injured and a staggering sadness, because she knew exactly how much pain he was in right now.

Before she could respond to Murphy's texts, Miller's face popped up with his incoming call.

"Miller?"

"Clarke! I've been trying to get ahold of you. Bellamy's mom…"

"I know. I was in surgery all day. What happened? Is he okay?" Clarke asked, sitting on the bench in front of her locker.

"He got a call right before lunch. I guess it was from that facility she was in. They told him she passed away. He left work to drive out there. I didn't find out about it until an hour or so later when my dad called me."

Miller had quit the family business a few years ago, choosing instead to become a security guard, which is how Bellamy had become David's second-in-command at the construction business. Bellamy had gotten the call at work, which is how Murphy and David knew, and they'd contacted Clarke and Miller.

"I just left his apartment. He didn't really want me there. He's not…" Miller paused, sighing. "You should probably go over there."

"I will. Thanks for calling, Miller."

She disconnected the call, then quickly typed out a response to Murphy.

Clarke: [4:37pm] Thanks for letting me know. Going to check on him now.

She stared at the timestamps, remembering what Miller had said. Bellamy had gotten the call just before lunch, which meant he must have found out just before she turned her phone off and left it in her locker. That meant he'd been dealing with this alone for four or five hours.

Clarke hurriedly grabbed her bag and her coat, and was in her car and on her way to Bellamy's within ten minutes.

She'd found Chief Kane, telling him that there'd been a death in the family and she needed to leave immediately, because that's what Bellamy was-family.

She quickly found a parking spot in Bellamy's lot, then made her way through the building to his apartment, knocking gently.

She waited a moment, then tried again.

When there still wasn't an answer, she used her key, opening the door slowly.

The lights were off, the fading sunlight from outside leaving the apartment mostly in shadows.

"Bellamy?"

Her voice must have registered, even when the knocking hadn't, because she saw movement on the couch as he turned toward her.

"Clarke?"

"Hey," she said gently, shutting the door behind her and setting her stuff in the entryway before she walked over to turn on the lamp beside the couch.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, seemingly confused.

"Miller called me. And Murphy texted. They're worried about you," she said, moving to stand near him but unsure what to do.

He seemed a little confused by the addition of Murphy, but quickly got past it. "They shouldn't have bothered you."

"Bellamy…why didn't you call me?"

"You were at work," he said, his voice a monotone. "There's nothing you can do anyway. And it's not…it's not a big deal."

"Bellamy," she half-whispered, her hand going to his shoulder.

He tensed up for a second before leaning into her touch, seeming to crave more contact.

She immediately moved into his personal space, stepping between his legs and running her hand through his hair. "Don't do that. Don't hide from me," she pleaded.

His hands came up to grip her hips as he leaned closer.

She pulled him to her, his head against her stomach as his arms banded around her, holding on tightly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of his head as one of her hands rubbed his back and the other kept combing through his curls. "I'm so sorry."

He didn't say anything, just kept his grip around her firm and his face pressed into her stomach.

She kept holding him, but it didn't feel like enough-she didn't feel close enough.

"Sit back," she said quietly, loosening her arms and straightening up to her full height.

He hesitated a moment, as if he didn't want to let her go, before he finally leaned away from her, scooting back on the couch.

Without even thinking about it, Clarke crawled into his lap, her arms again going around him to pull him close.

He sighed gratefully, his arms tight around her back as his head landed somewhere between her chest and her shoulder.

She held him as tightly as she could, her hands roaming over everything she could reach: his back, his shoulders, his hair…as if she could take away some of his pain or provide some comfort via osmosis.

They didn't speak, staying wrapped around each other silently as the sun continued to set, throwing the room into further darkness.

He wasn't really crying, at least not noticeably, but she felt a tear hit her scrub top every now and again.

She waited until his arms loosened slightly, no longer holding her in a death grip, before she pulled back a little, taking his face in her hands. She brushed his curls off his forehead. "You okay?" she asked quietly, then could have kicked herself, because she remembered how stupid she'd found that question when she'd been in his position. "I mean, of course you're not…but are you okay for right now?"

He nodded, his eyes looking up at her from just a few inches away.

"I would literally be good staying like this for the rest of the night…but I really need to pee."

He let out a puff of air in what she assumed was supposed to pass for a chuckle.

"I've been in surgery since noon," she explained. "That's why I wasn't here sooner. I would have been," she told him, her hand still running through his hair.

"I know," he said quietly, his head leaning into her hand of its own volition.

"You should've called me," she chastised, although without any real heat.

"I know," he answered again.

They stayed like that for a moment until Clarke squirmed a little.

He let out another puff of air, one corner of his mouth raising fractionally. "Go pee," he told her, helping push her up.

Clarke did, cursing her overly full bladder, which seemed to take three times as long as normal to empty itself. Of course, when she wanted to get back to Bellamy as quickly as possible, even her own bladder was against her.

She quickly washed her hands, then headed back out into the living room, where she found Bellamy in much the same position she'd found him an hour ago, sitting forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head resting in his hands.

She went to him, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, her knees just brushing his. She took one of his hands in both of hers. "What do you need?" she asked.

He looked up at her, his eyes somber with grief. "Nothing," he shrugged.

She kept his hand in one of hers, using her thumb to brush over his knuckles. Her other hand found its way back to his hair, as if petting him could fix things. His face seemed a tiny bit less tortured when she was touching him though, so maybe it wasn't a horrible solution.

"You must need something. What can I do?" she asked, studying him. "Food? Water? Do you need me to call anyone or make any arrangements or anything?" A thought dawned on her. "You called Octavia, right?"

Honestly, she would feel bad about the fact that she hadn't called Octavia herself to offer her condolences yet, but her first priority had to be Bellamy, especially since she knew Octavia had Lincoln.

Bellamy stiffened, looking away from her for the first time since she'd sat down. "Yeah, I called her."

"When is she coming in?"

"She's not," he said harshly.

Clarke flinched a little, taken aback both by the hostility in his voice and what he'd said. "She's…not?"

He shook his head roughly.

"But…the funeral…"

Bellamy shrugged, standing abruptly and walking over to the window. "You know how she felt about her. I could hardly ever get her to go visit. She didn't…" he sighed, putting his hands roughly on his hips, his gaze still staring out the window. "Ever since…the day I told you about…when we got back from foster care after her overdose…Octavia hasn't considered her a mother…hasn't considered her anything, really. I guess kids know, ya know? They know who takes care of them…who they can count on…and Octavia was always so smart…"

Clarke took a step toward him. "Bellamy, she has to…"

He turned on her a little angrily. "My mother made her life a living hell a good portion of the time, Clarke! If Octavia doesn't want to fly across the country for her funeral, I'm not going to hold it against her!"

Clarke's eyes widened a little, knowing how upset Bellamy must be for him to yell at her like that. "Okay," she agreed softly.

He continued to stare at her for a second, before some of the breath, and some of the fight, visibly went out of him. He reached a hand out, as if he was going to touch her, "Clarke…I…" He instead shoved his hand roughly into his hair, pressing his palm over his forehead. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I'm sorry. I just…" His hand went back to his hip as he looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Can we not talk about this? It's fine. I'll go to the funeral the day after tomorrow, Octavia will stay in California where she belongs, and then we can all move on with our lives. It's fine."

He sat back down on the couch, turning the TV on and staring at the screen.

Clarke stood there, unsure of how to proceed, just watching him.

After a minute, he looked up at her. "I'm glad you're here. But let's just…not talk about it, okay?"

Clarke nodded, going over to grab something out of her backpack, then stopping at his fridge. She walked back to the couch, holding out a bottle of water and two Advil.

His gaze met hers questioningly.

"For the headache," she explained.

His face twisted up a little, because of course she'd known without him even saying a word. "Thanks," he said, accepting the bottle and the medicine.

"You need food, too," she told him.

"I'm not hungry."

She glanced at her watch. "It's after 6 now, and you didn't eat lunch or dinner, right?"

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"You're the one that's supposed to keep me on an eating schedule, Blake. I'm not sure if I can be entrusted with a responsibility this big," she said in jest, going to the pull the Panda Hut menu off the refrigerator and walking back over to him. "Do you want chicken or beef?" she asked, knowing he always switched back and forth between his two favorite dishes.

He just shook his head, his eyes still on the television.

"I'd offer to cook, but I'm pretty sure the smoke alarm will just make your headache worse."

He continued to stare at the TV.

She cocked a hip, determined to take care of him, even if he was going to be difficult about it. A Bellamy who was crying would have been met with sympathy; a Bellamy who was being difficult was going to be met with tough love. "I'm ordering you food, but it would be better if it was something you'd enjoy eating. So, would you like me to order you egg drop soup, or would you like to pick between chicken and beef?"

His lips pursed a little. "Chicken."

She nodded. "There we go."

She grabbed her cell phone, heading for the door. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she told him.

He barely nodded in acknowledgement.

She spent a good 20 minutes in the hallway, first calling the Chinese Restaurant, then her mom, then Kane, then Octavia. She ordered extra dumplings, told Abby what had happened and that she probably wouldn't be home for a while, asked Kane for the next two days off from work, and gave Octavia her condolences. The last call was the hardest, of course.

She was sad for her friend, but also a little perturbed by Octavia's refusal to come home, especially since Bellamy was here, dealing with their mother's death on his own. If nothing else, she'd have thought Octavia would want to be here for her brother.

By the time Clarke was finished with Octavia, the Chinese food had arrived. She went downstairs to grab it, then made her way back into the apartment.

She found Bellamy in exactly the same place she'd left him, his body tense and his eyes staring vacantly at the TV.

"Food's here," she informed him.

He sighed, getting up and making his way to the bar.

Dinner was a quiet affair, where neither of them ate much and they spoke even less.

Clarke knew he was in pain, knew he was grieving, and she wanted to be there for him in any way she could, but she almost felt like she was walking on eggshells.

She wasn't sure if his standoffishness was fully attributable to Octavia's decision not to come home and his reluctance to deal with his grief or if there was more to it. Part of her wondered if he was just reluctant to open up to her, given that she'd once made the same mistake as his mother, who he'd just lost.

Clarke's heart clenched at the thought that maybe all that joy she'd felt on Christmas, that new beginning as something more than friends she'd thought they were ready for, it might not have just paused, because of his grief…it might have disappeared entirely, his grief a sharp reminder of what exactly was at stake.

Regardless, she was determined to be there for him, in the capacity of friend, at least, for the time being.

So, when they finished picking at their food and went back over to the couch, she only hesitated for a second before snuggling into his side, like she always did.

He tensed up for a moment, and she had the terrifying thought that he was going to push her way…but after a few beats of limbo, he finally put his arm around her.

Clarke stared at the TV, although she wasn't really watching. Instead, she was concentrating on Bellamy.

A few minutes later, she could literally feel some of the tension draining out of him, bit by bit. His body relaxed, seemingly muscle by muscle, and his breaths started seeming less harsh, less forced.

She waited until he felt almost like himself again before she turned her head up to look at him.

He looked down, meeting her gaze, his a bit sheepish. "Sorry I'm being a dick," he muttered.

Her hand moved up his chest, to touch the side of his neck. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. You're here, trying to be nice to me, and I'm…" he trailed off. "I just don't know how to…"

…deal? …process? …grieve?

All of them probably fit.

Her thumb was rubbing back and forth on his neck. "I know, Bellamy. It's okay. You're allowed to be grouchy, if that's what you need."

He continued looking down at her, his face still tumultuous. "I still don't want to talk about it."

"That's okay."

She had some kind of sudden, desperate urge…an instinctual need to hold him. She knew he needed physical contact, that much was obvious, but technically, he was the one holding her right now, and she needed it to be the other way around, although that was easier said than done, given that he was taller than her and outweighed her significantly.

"Do me a favor?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Lay down with me."

He looked at her a little oddly, not sure what she was getting at. "Okay?"

Clarke leaned away from him, scooting to stretch her body out.

Bellamy moved to lay down behind her, like he always did, but she stopped him before he could get comfortable.

"No, scoot down," she said, pushing on his shoulder until he was further down the couch, his head even with her torso.

"Clarke, you don't have to…"

"Hush," she told him, pulling his head down to rest on her chest.

He hesitated for a moment, but his arm finally came up to wrap around her stomach, his body settling next to hers.

Clarke looked down at him, and maybe it was a little silly, since his feet were up over the arm of the couch, but she had a feeling that this was what he needed. She'd also be lying if she said it didn't make her feel a little better, too.

So, she wrapped her arms around him, one hand rubbing his back while the other found its way into his hair, pressing gently against his scalp in case he still had a headache, which she was pretty sure he did.

She felt even more tension leave his body, and she almost thought he'd gone to sleep until he moved his head, tilting it up to look at her.

He no longer looked angry, or standoffish, or any of the other isolating emotions he'd been giving off for the past few hours…instead, he looked broken.

Clarke was struck by another desperate urge…this time, to kiss him.

Which, really, she'd had to talk herself out of kissing him dozens, if not hundreds, of times in the past few months, but usually, the urge to kiss him stemmed from her horniness, or his attractiveness, or the fact that he made her happy. This time, the urge to kiss him felt visceral, as if her heart needed to show his how much she loved him.

Clarke bit the inside of her lip, trying to quell the urge, at least for the time being. "Okay?" she asked him shakily, practically holding her breath.

He nodded, laying back down and wrapping his arm around her tightly.

Clarke let out the breath she'd been holding, her hands resuming their caressing patterns, although they felt jerky, even to her, so she could only imagine how they felt to him.

Clarke stared at the top of his head, feeling his breathing even out more, until she was fairly sure he was asleep this time, wondering what on Earth she was going to do.

She wasn't sure Bellamy wanted to be with her romantically…she couldn't say for sure that he'd ever wanted that, to be honest. Trying to initiate something now, right after he'd suffered a huge loss, would be a terrible idea, not to mention the fact that she'd feel like she was taking advantage of him in his grief-stricken state.

Kissing him now…out of the blue…or forcing him to make a decision about their relationship while he was mourning would be a horrible thing to do. The last thing she wanted to do was give him something else to worry about. But if he kept looking at her like that…like his soul had shattered into a million pieces…she didn't know if she'd be able to stop herself.