Thank you again for your patience, I really hope you like the next chapter.
They got to his apartment building and he held the door open for her; she remained silent. He wondered if she was purposefully avoiding eye contact with him, or if she was unresponsive because of the circumstances. He noticed that Clarke continued to walk like she had done at the police station; small, hesitant steps, not making a sound because she was still barefoot; clutching her possessions to her chest like someone was going to take them from her. He tried to shorten his stride in order to walk next to her, but she managed to always stay a step behind him, head down, eyes tired and empty.
The elevator dinged as it reached his floor and she followed him out, turning left as he led her to his door. He heard a sudden whoosh of breath, and turned to catch Clarke yawning. He reached over to her and placed his hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, rubbing slightly back and forth in comfort.
"Come on," he said gently, opening his door and ushering her inside. She waited while he flipped the bolt lock, and as Bellamy started down the hallway to the bathroom, Clarke ghosted behind. He got the shower running for her, shaking the cold spray of water droplets from his hand and turned to find her waiting in the doorway. "I'll get you some clothes," he mumbled as he swept past her, heading for his bedroom.
He went to his closet with the intent to get clothes, like he usually did, but suddenly found himself at a loss. Bellamy wavered, glancing around at the shirts, pants, and jackets- hanging on an assortment of plastic and metal hangers- all wedged together on the rack. He frowned and thought, what do girls wear?
Bellamy crouched down, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, and pulled a random drawer open. He rummaged around, destroying stacks of moderately well-folded shirts, looking to see if something of Octavia's was shoved to the back and forgotten. He couldn't manage to find anything of O's, but he did find a pair of his old sweatpants. He checked that the drawstring was still intact so she could tighten them at the waist and thought, pants: check, shirt:…
He stood up, turned around, and reached out to grab a random t-shirt, yanking it off the hanger. He left his closet and started for the door, but then he glanced at his bed and ceased his footsteps. Bellamy didn't remember anything that had happened that night before Clarke's unexpected phone call, but looking at the papers scattered across his bed and strewn on the floor, he gathered that he was grading essays and probably still had many more to mark up. He sighed and started stacking up the papers, placing them on his desk. He straightened out his bed and placed his Dio volume back on the bookshelf.
He went into the hallway and approached the bathroom door; finding it closed he again found himself at a loss of what to do. Come on Bellamy, he thought, you can't be nervous in your own home for fuck's sake.
"Clarke?" he called over the sound of the streaming shower, "I've got your change of clothes."
He waited, but there wasn't a response. Well, what am I supposed to do now? he thought.
"I'm opening the door," he warned. He slowly twisted the handle and ever so slightly cracked the door open. The counter with the sink was to the right, so he slid the clothes through the crack in the door and placed them on the edge. When he pulled the door shut and heard the knob click in place he felt a small sense of relief. Alright, he thought, on to the princess's next request, breakfast.
His bare feet padded across the floor as he made his way to the kitchen. He went to the fridge to scavenge through his scant collection of groceries for something suitable for breakfast. He was surprised to find the remains of a loaf of bread, a few eggs, milk, and maple syrup. He hunted the pantry for vanilla and cinnamon, and of course they had to be hidden behind all the other spice jars. The disorderly arrangement of his pantry had never, not even once, been on his side.
Bellamy had the ingredients mixed and was just dipping the bread slices when he heard the bathroom door open. He placed a slice of bread, saturated with a liquid mixture of eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, and milk, onto the skillet and heard the satisfying hiss of what was soon to be a most delicious breakfast, as long as he didn't screw it up.
"Mmm," he heard a faint hum of approval from somewhere behind him, "smells good." He certainly agreed with her, the scent of vanilla mixed with cinnamon was the perfect blend of sweet and spicy.
He turned from his position in front of the stove and saw Clarke walking past the couch, towards him. She was wearing his old DC Academy shirt and her damp hair had made a dark, wet patch on either shoulder. He looked down to see his sweatpants looking awfully baggy on her smaller frame; they were rolled around her ankles and as he looked at her bare feet he wondered if he should get her some socks so they didn't get cold. Her face looked a bit brighter than it had at the station, and her lip didn't seem as bad now that the smear of blood had been washed off her face, but he still winced when he looked at her black eye. She stopped when she noticed that he was watching her; he waited patiently hoping she would lift her chin and meet his concerned gaze. As soon as he was about to turn back to his cooking, she lifted her eyes to meet his and in a small voice asked, "what's for breakfast?"
"French toast!" he announced, trying to sound cheerful as he threw another slice on the simmering skillet. Turning his attention back to the stove, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She shuffled up to the kitchen bar and wedged herself into a seat, elbows on the counter so she could rest her chin in her hands. He checked on the bread and flipped the slices over. Then, Bellamy picked up the mixing bowl, measuring cup, and other miscelanious utensils, throwing them in the sink. He moved over to Clarke and she looked up when she noticed him approaching.
"Do you want anything?" he asked, "water…juice…"
"Water's fine," she said, briefly meeting his eyes and then darting away.
He went back to the fridge and gave a flat chuckle as he glanced at the few items remaining in his fridge. It was a good thing she didn't say juice because he didn't have any.
He placed a glass of water in front of her and went back to the stove. Deciding that the bread was done he grabbed a couple of plates and used the spatula to transfer the toast from the skillet to the plates. He went to the kitchen bar and set the plates down, sliding one across the counter to be in front of Clarke. He quickly left and came back with the maple syrup, plopping the bottle beside her.
"Fork," he said, holding the utensil out for her to take. She reached her hand out and tentatively took the fork, careful not to brush her hand with his.
She started slowly on the toast, carefully cutting off a square from the corner and daintily bringing it to her mouth. But after tasting the sweet, spongy perfection of well-made French toast, she dug in. She must have been hungry and Bellamy suspected that she hadn't had dinner yesterday, probably skipping lunch too.
Watching her eat, cutting the bread with the knife in her right hand, he thought he noticed something on her wrist. His brow furrowed as he squinted and slightly leaned his head forward.
"What happened to your arm?" he asked lowly, pressing for her to answer without yelling at her. Raising his voice never worked, she would shut down immediately and scream at him that he wasn't responsible for her, that he didn't have the right to demand information from her.
"Nothing," she mumbled, looking down at her plate.
He scoffed in disbelief and before she could blink he snatched her hand and pulled her arm across the counter. The knife clattered against the plate and he heard her suck in a quick breath. He watched her face as her eyebrows scrunched together and she bit her lip to quiet her wince. Looking down at her arm, he studied the blue and yellow patch of skin on her wrist. Bellamy turned her hand over to expose her inner arm and his throat closed when he saw the dark, blue and purple bruises encircling her wrist in the shape of fingers. As he stared at it his face hardened, his eyebrows knit together, and his frown turned into a scowl.
"Then what is this, Clarke?" he seethed. He held her hand gently in his and ran a finger lightly over the line of bruises.
Clarke took a deep breath and waited a moment before answering, "I said I would tell you."
"When?" he asked and pressed down on a spot on her wrist. She winced and twisted her hand out of his hold, hiding it under the counter.
"When I figure out what to say."
"Just tell me what happened last night," he insisted harshly, feeling his frustration rising.
"I don't know how to explain."
"What do you mean how? You don't know how you got arrested for assault? How you got those bruises? You don't know how to explain your busted lip and black eye-"
"How I lost control!" she burst out, "I don't know how to explain how I lost control." Her voice caught in her throat and he somberly watched a tear form in her eye and fall down her cheek. She reached up with her uninjured hand to quickly swipe the angry tear away.
Suddenly he got it. He might not know the details of the events of last night that ended with Clarke in jail, but he could guess that she watched the situation around her slip out of her grasp and she got blindsided as she tried to find something to hold on to.
"Okay," he said softly, stepping down. He grabbed her plate stacking it on top of his and dropping them in the sink, he'd try and wash them tomorrow…or later in the day- technically speaking since it was past midnight- but they'd probably still be in the sink for the rest of the weekend. He turned around and faced her, weight shifting from one foot to the other, not knowing what to say. He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his shoulders, trying to relieve the tension caused by the weight of the day pressing down on him. He cleared his throat, and tentatively said, "You should get some sleep, you've got the bedroom, I'll take the couch."
"Bell-" she started.
"Nope," he cut her off. He pointed to Clarke, "you." He moved his hand to point down the hall, "bedroom. I'm not getting into an argument over something so petty at five in the morning." Which was true; he was tired and as much as he would love to get Clarke all riled up, he would rather get some sleep. But the main reason he wanted Clarke in the bedroom and himself on the couch is so that she couldn't sneak out. It was wrong of Bellamy to think so lowly of Clarke, but once the thought entered his mind, he couldn't get rid of it. And as the overprotective brother he was known to be, he feared she was in trouble and wouldn't ask for his help unless he intervened.
She huffed and rolled her eyes as she stood up from the bar stool, but she walked down the hall as told. Bellamy followed a few steps behind her and when she looked over her shoulder and raised her brow in question, he explained, "I'm gonna grab some clothes."
She walked through the doorway and he moved past her to get to his closet again. He grabbed his one pair of pajama pants that he hardly wore, and a random shirt. Turning around, he froze seeing Clarke laying in his bed, but he quickly recovered and walked forward, frowning at her. She was laying down, but she was not in the bed, rather she was on the bed, laying stiffly on top of the duvet.
He came and stood right beside her, "Come on Princess, get comfy." He tugged at the corner of the duvet, not budging under her weight. "Under the covers!" he encouraged, grabbing under her shoulder and thigh, rolling her to the middle of the bed. She grumbled, words muffled by the bedding, but he could tell by the upturned corner of her mouth that she was trying to repress a grin. He pulled back the covers and she crawled under, laying on her side facing him. He reached over her to grab the pillow from the other side of the bed and snatched the folded throw blanket from the end.
"Goodnight," He spoke in a low voice. He turned and walked to the door with the pillow and his clothes in one hand, and his blanket dragging behind him in the other.
"Bellamy," he heard a faint whisper from behind him when he reached the doorway.
"Yes, Princess?" he said over his shoulder, feigning a whisper.
"Wait," she spoke short and soft, barely moving her lips to articulate the words. He turned around to face her and raised his eyebrows, waiting. Five heartbeats later she said, "Come here."
He trudged towards her, feeling weariness seeping into his bones and getting tired of her vague remarks.
"Will you hold my hand?" She spoke so fast that he had to take a second to put spaces between the words and figure out what she had said. She noticed his hesitation and continued quickly, "just until I fall asleep."
He sighed and his heart melted, the same way it did when Octavia was younger and looked to him to comfort and protect her.
"Yep," he sighed, giving in to her request immediately, as dedicated to her as he was Octavia. He sank down beside her, sitting crisscross on the floor. He watched her stretch her arm out and sink her hand down towards him. He reached his hand to meet hers and grasped it gently. Instinctively, his thumb ghosted back and forth over her knuckles.
"Goodnight," he whispered. He heard her sigh and turned to see that her eyes were closed. He twisted his other arm to reach up and turn off the lamp on the bedside table. He leaned back against it, feeling the knob of a drawer press uncomfortably on his back. His eyes still open, he studied the shapes and shadows that the darkness had cast across his room. He sat quietly, listening to the Princess' breathing and waiting for it to even.
Thanks for reading, I'm pretty proud of this chapter so I really hope you liked it. Please leave a review, any kind of feedback is appreciated and encouraging.
***for whatever reason the website says I have 10 reviews, but when I click to read them it only shows 5. I have tried every which way to see the reviews, so I am terribly sorry if I missed yours. I will email FF but if anyone has had this problem please PM me. Thanks***