A/N: The next few chapters deal with losing a family member and all the emotions and grief that go with it, so please be warned if that's something that hits a little too close to home for anyone.

Clarke's eyes blinked open rapidly, a mechanical beeping rousing her from a troubled sleep.

She leaned up on one arm, her gaze going to the kitchen, where Bellamy was pulling a plate out of the microwave. "Bellamy?"

He glanced toward the couch. "Shit. Sorry. I was trying not to wake you."

She shook the sleep from her head, getting up and going to lean against the counter. "Is everything okay?"

He shrugged a little, walking around her to sit down. "I woke up starving," he said, nodding toward the plate of leftover dumplings. "I guess it's a good thing you got extra."

"This ain't my first rodeo, Bellamy," she said, and she'd meant it as a cute call back to what he'd once told her in a bakery when she'd stolen his food, but really, given what had just happened, it could've meant something else.

His gaze slid to hers.

She winced. "I meant…you and dumplings…" she said, gesturing toward his plate. "Not…"

He glanced back down at his food, although it wasn't with the same enthusiasm as before. "It's fine, Clarke."

She sighed, sitting on the stool next to him and deciding to go for blunt honesty. "I guess I've been to the 'I need to first starve, and then eat my feelings because my parent died' rodeo too."

His head turned slightly to look at her, a hesitant expression on his face, as if he wasn't sure whether it was okay to laugh or not.

"Bellamy…" she put her hand on his forearm, turning her body toward his. "You can't worry about propriety right now."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll go to the funeral in a couple days and you'll wear a suit and you'll pay your final respects, right?"

He nodded.

"That is all you have to do. That's all that's required of you. Some people act like there's some handbook that says you aren't allowed to smile or laugh or enjoy life for some arbitrary amount of time after someone close to you dies. That's just…ludicrous. If someone close to you dying should teach you anything, it's that not everything can be planned, and sometimes you just have to make the best of every situation. You have to take good moments where you can find them, yeah? Trust me on this, Bellamy. You have to deal with this how you have to deal with this. And if you want to crack a joke…or laugh at my joke about belonging to the Dead Parent's Club…you're allowed. Is it morbid? Maybe. But you and I…we're the ones left here, dealing with losing a parent way too young. And I don't think my dad or your mom would fault us for finding a little humor where we can." She paused, squeezing his arm to make sure she had his attention. "You're not disrespecting her memory if you crack a smile…or if you eat a dumpling," she finished gently, her eyes wide, imploring him to understand.

His eyes searched hers for a minute before he nodded. "Thanks, Clarke."

She patted his arm. "Now share those dumplings, Blake. I'm starving too."

They sat eating at the counter, the plate of leftovers between them growing emptier and emptier until it was bare.

Long after they were done, they sat there in silence, both seemingly unwilling to deal with anything else until Clarke finally said, "I know I said you have to deal with this in your own way…and I realize this makes me a selfish, hypocritical bitch…but you're not getting the urge to flee, are you? Cause…obviously, I get it...but please just…don't," Clarke's last few words sounded like a plea, but she didn't really care, because the thought of him dealing with this on his own made something inside her ache.

Bellamy sighed, his hands busy tearing his napkin into dozens of tiny scraps. "I mean…I wish I could just…not deal with any of this," he admitted, before his gaze turned to her. "But I don't want to run away from you, if that's what you're asking."

"No?" she asked softly.

His eyes searched hers. "Honestly?"

She nodded.

"It's pretty much the exact opposite." He looked away from her, his gaze refocusing on the napkin as a slight blush made its way to his cheeks. "I'd kind of like to hold on tighter."

Clarke's chest physically hurt.

"Bellamy…" She leaned toward him, one leg against his and her hand on his forearm. "I'm right here. You can hold onto me anytime you want."

He nodded.

She squeezed his arm. "I'm serious. Whatever you need. You just have to tell me…or show me."

His gaze stayed forward, focused on the napkin in his hands.

Clarke stood up, picking up the empty plate. "Go get ready for bed. I'll clean up."

She cleaned up the kitchen, then took her turn in the bathroom. By the time she came back out, Bellamy was sitting on the edge of his bed.

She sat beside him, picking up his hand in one of hers. "Can you go back to sleep?"

"I don't know."

She crawled on the bed behind him, sitting down cross-legged on the other side. "Come on."

He turned, sitting on the bed beside her, his back propped up against the headboard, his gaze focused on his hands.

Clarke studied him; really studied him. The slump of his shoulders, the way his whole body seemed coiled, as if he was in physical pain, the way his jaw was set, as if he was permanently clenching his teeth.

She knew him better than she knew herself most days, and she could tell that this wasn't just grief…it wasn't just sadness. There was something else bothering him and it was what was making him so distant.

She scooted closer, again picking up his hand. Her free hand started lightly caressing his wrist and forearm. Just like she knew something else was bothering him, she also knew he needed her to comfort him…to ground him. It seemed like the longer he went without physical contact, the further he withdrew.

"Bell?" she asked cautiously.

"Hmm?"

"What's wrong?"

He finally looked up at her, his face a little uncertain, as if to say 'isn't it obvious?'

She pulled his hand closer, so it rested in her lap. "There's something else bothering you. What is it?"

His mouth thinned as he looked away from her.

"Hey," she said, moving her head to try to catch his gaze again. "Talk to me."

His gaze made its way back to hers slowly, almost reluctantly.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" she asked softly.

He hesitated before admitting quietly, "I'm a horrible person."

"What? No, you're not. Bellamy, what are you even talking about?"

"Yes, I am." He again looked away from her, his gaze going to the left and up, as he tried to blink away tears. "Part of me is relieved, Clarke. My mother died and part of me is relieved. What the fuck is wrong with me?!" His voice ended a little strangled as he tried to pull his hand away from her.

She held on to it tighter. "Bellamy."

He still wouldn't look at her, his gaze somewhere near his dresser as he chewed viciously on his lower lip.

Of course this was about guilt. It was their specialty, after all.

She put a hand on the side of his face, turning him toward her. "You're not a horrible person. You're human."

He made a noise of disagreement, the self-loathing still evident on his face.

She scooted even closer to him, her hands holding on to him tightly to make sure he was paying attention. "We have to take these seminars in medical school on how to deal with losing patients and how to tell their families bad news. They get into the psychology of it all…how different people deal with grief and why and how we need to approach different situations. Bellamy…there is absolutely nothing wrong with feeling a little relief right now. Your mom has been in an assisted living facility for what…almost 15 years? She was mostly confined to a hospital bed, she had a weak heart, she had seizures…and for the past few years, she's barely been able to remember her own name. Her quality of life wasn't great. At least she's not in pain anymore…she's at peace. There's nothing wrong with being a little relieved about that."

His nose flared as he took a deep breath, again shaking his head. "What if it's not about that? What if I'm just glad I don't have to deal with it anymore? What if I'm just glad my life is a tiny bit easier without her in it? What if I'm just a selfish bastard?"

"You're not," she insisted. "Bellamy, I don't even know half…hell, I probably don't even know an eighth of the shit that went on in your childhood. But from everything I've heard, she wasn't your mother, not in the normal sense. She didn't take care of you or provide for you or do any of the other things that mothers are supposed to do for their children. It's not like you had a great mom for the first twenty-some years of your life and she recently got sick and you felt inconvenienced by it."

She moved so her hip was against his as she faced him, their torsos only a few inches apart. "You practically raised yourself AND your little sister. Your mom made some horrible decisions that broke apart your family, and you were still a kid yourself, but you did everything you could to put it back together again. Bellamy, most eighteen-year-olds can't survive on their own without a meal plan and a dorm room that Mommy and Daddy pay for. At eighteen you were…what…working full-time and going to court, fighting for custody of your twelve-year-old sister? And, on top of all that, you still managed to go visit your mom in the facility. Do you know how many people would have written her off years ago? Most people would have blamed her for everything that went wrong and told her to go to hell."

Bellamy was staring somewhere down by his knees. "I did blame her," he admitted.

"Bellamy…you had every reason to. No child should have to grow up the way you and Octavia did. But…my point is…you stuck by her. You're the least selfish person I know. You put everyone else before yourself; your mom, Octavia…me. You take responsibility and obligation and loyalty to a whole new level. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about."

He was still frowning, his gaze refusing to meet hers.

She sighed, biting her lip as she decided to change tactics. "Do you think I'm a horrible person?"

His eyes finally flickered up to meet hers. "Of course not," he said adamantly.

"I spent the better part of a year hating my mother, Bellamy. And I didn't even have a horrible childhood to hold against her. My mom was a pretty perfect mother for the first 14 or 15 years of my life, and again after my dad died. She put me in great schools and she showed up to my softball games and she always made sure I felt safe and loved and all the other things a child is supposed to feel." She squeezed his arm so hard it was probably leaving a bruise, but she needed him to really hear what she was saying. "All those things you didn't have growing up? I did. And when I found out what she'd done…I still deserted her. I still hated her. So you can't sit there and tell me that I'm a good person while thinking of yourself as a horrible one. Bellamy…compared to me? You're a goddamn saint."

Clarke knew she'd played the ultimate card. Bellamy couldn't bear it when she spoke or thought badly about herself, so she'd tied their situations together to make him see reason.

Bellamy was the ultimate self-sacrificer. He'd go out of his way to make other people feel better, but he had an extremely difficult time ever forgiving himself.

Clarke looked down, noticing that, at some point, Bellamy's hand had fallen to her leg. It was currently splayed across her hip, holding onto her tightly.

She could see the turmoil on his face, the clench of his jaw, and the way he was keeping his body still, almost taut, and she knew, somewhere in her gut, that he was dying to reach for her, but was stopping himself.

"Bellamy?"

"Hmm?"

"Tell me something."

His eyes met hers again. "What?"

"You have no problem hugging me in your kitchen when we're heating up dumplings or wrapping an arm around me when we're watching TV. You have absolutely no trouble pulling me into your lap when I'm upset and blubbering all over the place. So why are you keeping me at arm's length now, when I know that you need me?"

He seemed to stop breathing, his gaze focused on his legs. "What if I need you too much?" he asked quietly, his voice strained.

Clarke waited until her heart started beating again before she responded, "Too much as in too often or too much as in too…intensely?"

"Both."

She made an involuntary noise, almost as if it was her body's way of telling him he was insane. She scooted over, sliding into his lap.

They ended up much the same way they'd been the day of the blizzard, her sitting on his lap in his bed, their arms tightly wrapped around each other.

"I'm perfectly fine with you needing me, Bell. I need you too," she admitted.

She could feel him take a deep breath against her before he responded, "You know you're not an obligation, right?"

"Huh?"

"Earlier, you were saying that I supposedly put other people before myself out of obligation, and you mentioned yourself. My mom? Yeah, she was an obligation. And maybe O, when she was younger. And maybe…that first night I brought you back here with O when you were both trashed…that time was probably about me trying to do the right thing. But ever since…I don't look out for you or take care of you because I think I have to. I do it because I want to. I just…I want you to be happy, Clarke. And safe, and…" he took a breath, chuckling a little. "…well-fed, and well-rested and…just anything I can do. I'd do anything for you."

Clarke was biting her lower lip, her head pressed tightly into his hair as she tried not to cry, but didn't exactly succeed. Her arms tightened around him even more. "I'd do anything for you, too, Bell."

They sat that way for a while, until Clarke noticed Bellamy was a little fidgety, as if he was restless or contemplating something.

She went with a hunch. "Are you ready to talk?"

He let out a long sigh. "What would I even say?"

She rubbed his shoulder in what she hoped was a soothing manner. "It doesn't matter. Say whatever you want to say. Tell me about her."

And he did.

He told her about how he remembered his mom from when he was a kid, her hair long and beautiful, like Octavia's. How she'd changed after his dad, who he didn't remember, died. How she'd eventually gotten a new boyfriend, who'd been into the drug scene, and how when she'd learned she was pregnant with his child, he'd fled, leaving her alone with a five-year-old and one on the way.

He told her about his suspicions that his mother had suffered with depression and probably even post-partum depression during those years, possibly contributing to her decision to turn to drugs, even though she had two young children depending on her.

He told her about his time in the group home, how Octavia refused to let him out of her sight afterward, and how she'd barely acknowledged their mother since. He told her about how he'd learned, in elementary school, to sneak as much of his lunch as possible into his backpack, so he and Octavia could share it for dinner.

Throughout it all, he kept insisting that his mother was a good person. She'd hadn't been mean to them or physically abused them in any way, and she'd never done any of the other things, like not providing food, on purpose. She usually just forgot or was too out of it to remember that children needed to eat.

Honestly, it sounded like she just counted on Bellamy to provide for himself and Octavia. After all, when he'd been only six years old, she'd told him 'your sister, your responsibility.'

It was a mantra he'd adhered to for the next 23 years of his life, and counting.

Clarke wasn't sure how long he talked, his voice getting raspier and raspier, both from the exhaustion and the rawness of the emotion, but the sun was just starting to creep through the blinds when they finally slid down and fell asleep, still wrapped around each other.