Work Text:
bell: Come over later. Please.
clarke: what’s up???
clarke: shitty day?
bell: High school kids are the actual worst.
bell: Remind me why I decided to teach again?
clarke: because you’re a huge fucking history nerd???
bell: Oh, right. That.
bell: But you’re coming over, right?
clarke: i’ll bring the booze
bell: You read my mind.
+
Maybe it’s not the healthiest way to deal with bad days at work—and Clarke should know, since she’s working on her residency at Mass General—but drinking with Bellamy to numb the pain of an awful day never seems quite as pathetic as it would if she was doing it alone. He’s her best friend, and she’s there for him when he needs her to be. With a twelve-pack of cheap beer in hand.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he grumbles when she shows up at his apartment later that night. He’s in sweats and his hair, which is usually a curly mess even on a good day, is wild.
“That bad?” Clarke asks, shutting the door behind her. Bellamy groans and rakes a hand through his curls.
“Senior spring,” he says by way of explanation, which is actually enough to suffice.
Clarke sets the case down on the kitchen island and absently cracks a bottle open, passing it to Bellamy. “Fuck,” she commiserates, and he sighs. “Did Wallace get on your case about it?”
He takes a swig of beer and swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nah, the administration gets it, it happens every year. It’s just that—you know, I haven’t gotten tenure yet, and if their final grades are shit, then—” Bellamy cuts himself off with a curt shake of his head, and Clarke frowns.
“Bell, come on. You’re a good teacher. The kids know it, the administration knows it.” She watches him shrug off the compliment. That’s pretty unsurprising because he’s never known how to deal with people being nice to him—not even her. But Clarke presses on anyway, determined to make him understand his worth. “You don’t have to worry about—that.”
Bellamy laughs, but it’s humorless. “We really don’t have to keep talking about this, you know.”
“Like you’ve ever turned down a little ego-stroking,” she accuses, and he feigns a look of innocence. “But seriously, you’re allowed to vent.”
“Nope, I just wanted to get drunk.”
Clarke cracks a smile. “Well, I’m down for that, too.”
He shrugs, his expression sobering. “It’s really not a big deal, I just—overthink things.”
“That’s what alcohol is for,” Clarke says, and takes a sip of her own drink. She grimaces.
Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “What, is it too strong for you, princess?”
“Shut up,” she says, flipping him off, but there’s no heat behind it. She’s come to kind of love the nickname, to sense the note of affection behind it that wasn’t there years ago. “I just got off a double shift and I didn’t have time to get anything stronger than this.”
“How long’s that been in your fridge?” Bellamy asks, a light smile playing on his lips.
Clarke sighs. “You really, really don’t want to know.” She takes another sip and winces. “Ugh, it’s basically water.”
“If you wanted something stronger, all you had to do was ask,” Bellamy says, and starts rummaging around in his cabinets. “I think I’ve got whiskey or something lying around somewhere.”
“Hey, who’s the lifesaver now?” Clarke says, and he smiles.
Clarke props her elbows up on the counter and watches him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’re looking to get drunk and talk about how you’re feeling about all this.”
Bellamy pulls a face at that. “Who said anything about talking about feelings?” he grouses, but he dutifully snags a dusty bottle of Maker’s Mark out of a high cabinet and sets it down with a satisfying clink on the counter. “I never agreed to that.”
“Right, I forgot that you don’t have feelings. Your default setting is grumpy and emotionally unavailable,” Clarke says with a teasing lilt.
“Ouch,” he shoots back, clutching his heart. “You wound me, Clarke.”
She grins at him. There’s something kind of nice, kind of endearing, that she’s the person he wants to see after a shitty day, that she has the privilege of seeing him at his worst and still having fun. Sometimes they talk it out, but more often than not, they end up sprawled out on his couch watching bad reality TV and getting embarrassingly drunk on cheap beer like a couple of teenagers.
It’s stupid, how much she looks forward to nights like this.
He pours out a draught of whiskey and hands her the glass, and as she moves to take it from him, her fingers graze over his knuckles. She fights the urge to shiver.
Clarke goes to take a generous sip, but Bellamy raises a hand to stop her. “Shouldn’t we make a toast, or something?”
“Always one for speeches,” she teases. But she obliges him, lifting her glass to him. “To the punk-ass high school kids that make your job a living hell,” she says, and he grins before taking a drink.
Then his eyebrows furrow and he gives her a look of concern. “Wait. Did you just say that you pulled a double shift?”
“Yeah, and?” She lifts a shoulder. It’s nothing new: she’s a few years into her residency program, and at this point in her medical career, she’s gotten accustomed to working weird, long hours.
“Clarke, you shouldn’t be—here,” Bellamy emphasizes, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “God, I’m so self-absorbed, I should have—”
A laugh bubbles out of her, and he looks at her, surprised. “You’re being such a mom,” she says as she takes another sip that burns on its way down. He glares at her, indignant.
“I’m not a mom,” he says, and Clarke rolls her eyes good-naturedly, which makes him sigh out of exasperation. “I’m not. Would you just—Clarke, you need to sleep.”
“Your couch is as good a place as any for that,” she says.
Bellamy grumbles a little, but he doesn’t really fight her on that.
“Seriously, Bell, I’m fine. And it’s not about me right now, okay?” Clarke says, raising an eyebrow at him. “I’m here for you.”
Something changes in his expression at that, and Clarke isn’t sure how to interpret it. It’s a split second before he eases a smile back into place, and he tilts his glass in her direction.
“All right,” Bellamy says with a curl of his lip. “But since it’s my night to wallow in self-pity, I get to pick what we watch.”
Clarke groans. “If it’s Ancient Rome: The Rise and Fall of an Empire again, I swear to God, I seriously will fall asleep on you.”
“I’m holding you to that,” he smirks.
+
It doesn’t take long for the two of them to get really, thoroughly drunk.
At some point, Clarke manages to wrest the remote control away from Bellamy, and she’s squinting at the onscreen menu through bleary eyes, scanning for something a little more palatable than a bone-dry historical documentary.
“If you think about it, it’s kind of the same thing,” she point outs when Bellamy protests over her choosing a Keeping Up with the Kardashians marathon over his stupid Roman history doc that they’ve watched eleven times before, by her count. “We’re witnessing the rise and fall of an empire. I mean, how much longer do you think Kim and Kourtney and Khloe are gonna stay relevant? It’s the end of the golden age of television, Bell.”
He rolls his eyes, but the warm flush on his cheeks from overindulgence belies his stern tone. “Can’t you just watch this trash at your own place?”
She scowls at him and steals his beer right out of his hand, sneaking a sip. “Yeah, but. I like your apartment better.”
Her apartment happens to be on the east side of the city. Where the twenty-somethings with lawyers and doctors and hedge-fund managers for parents live, in rent-controlled units in the middle of a gentrified, wrought iron fence-clad utopia. So, indisputably, her apartment is better. Cleaner, fresher, more spacious. The TV is enormous. Her couch is from Pier 1.
But she likes his apartment better, because it’s a place where stains on the carpet are just part of the landscape. Messes in Bellamy’s apartment are okay. Getting sloppy drunk on his couch is okay. Encouraged, even.
To be honest, she likes his apartment better now that she sort of… belongs here. A little while after they actually became friends, after Octavia threw her hands up and quit trying to force them to be civil to each other and it just happened naturally, Clarke kind of insinuated herself on his place. She left a set of pajamas in his second bedroom, just in case she didn’t want to take the subway all the way back to her apartment late at night. More often than not, she’ll come bursting through the door with bags of groceries tucked under her arm and a crazy story about med school in her back pocket. They spend more of their time together on his couch than they do apart, at this point. It’s routine, at this point.
Clarke tries not to examine their friendship too closely. Tries not to let Octavia’s gentle prodding and Raven’s pointed looks color her interactions with Bellamy. Because what they have here—right here, in this moment, getting drunk and bickering with each other about something stupid—is simple, uncomplicated. And she’d like to keep it that way.
“Ugh,” Bellamy groans, reaching up to rub at his face. “I need new friends.”
She jabs at his side with her elbow, but the blow is weak, and she ends up curling into his side. “Please, you love me.”
“Mm,” he agrees, murmuring into her hair. “I guess I’m stuck with you.”
It keeps devolving from there, the combination of whiskey and cheap beer and the last dregs of a bottle of tequila that Bellamy finds from the last party O threw at his place creating a lethal cocktail that sets the room spinning.
“God, I’m such a lightweight,” Clarke complains when she stumbles back to the sofa and collapses over the arm. “I was so much better at drinking in college.”
“Pathetic,” Bellamy chides lightly, but he’s looking a little out of it himself judging by the lazy grin on his face. It’s not often that she sees him smiling like that. He’s usually so—so composed.
She glares at him—or, tries to, but it’s hard to keep a steady focus. “When I wake up in the morning with a massive hangover and have to work another double, I’m kicking your ass,” she threatens, but Bellamy just chuckles and presses a chaste kiss to her temple.
“Terrifying,” he deadpans when he draws back. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
She’d dismiss the comment normally, write it off as drunken rambling, but something in Bellamy’s expression pulls her up short. The earnest way he looks up at her with warm brown eyes, the softness of his features. It gives Clarke pause.
“You—you think I’m cute,” she says slowly, hesitantly. Gives him a chance to make a joke out of it.
But he’s serious now—at least, as serious as his inebriated state will allow. He nods at her, solemn, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he breathes. There’s a hint of reverence behind it.
Clarke swallows thickly. The TV’s still droning on in the background, but all she can hear is her heart pulsing in her ears, and she can’t tell if it’s because she’s so far gone or because of the guy in front of her.
She realizes, dimly, that their faces are just inches apart. They’ve been close before, but never like… this.
She waits for him to say something more, but Bellamy’s not one for talking just to fill a void. His eyes flicker to her lips, and, unbidden, she finds herself studying his mouth. Perfect, full lips with a defined cupid’s bow.
She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t noticed them before.
Bellamy leans in, but pauses just before their lips touch, leans close enough so that his eyelashes flutter against her cheek. Even like this, drunk and stupid, he’s careful, gentle with her in a way that he isn’t with anybody else. And that’s what pushes her over the edge.
It’s an all-consuming kiss, warm and greedy and a little sloppy, but they’re drunk and her head is swimming and her hands are scrabbling for purchase on the back of his neck. Her fingers sink into his curls, and she feels a shudder work its way through her body when he moans a little into her mouth at the feeling of her nails raking across his scalp. His tongue skims her bottom lip, and she sinks into him, yields herself completely.
She doesn’t know why it never occurred to her to kiss her best friend before, why her sober mind never considered the possibility, because it’s so impossibly good that it steals her breath away.
But it’s over before she can fully lose herself to it, because he’s pulling away and dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “Oh my god, Clarke,” he mutters, and that’s how she remembers how drunk they are right now.
“Shh,” she whispers, threading her fingers through his hair, and Bellamy relaxes into her touch. It’s late, and they’re drunk.
They can figure it out later.
+
(Spoiler alert: they don’t figure it out.)
There’s one tiny obstacle in the way of talking about the fact that they kissed last night: Bellamy doesn’t remember.
He’s already up by the time she wakes up in an uncomfortable heap on his couch and takes stock of the situation. Clarke might have been pretty drunk, but she knows she kissed him. (Or, that he kissed her. Or both. Whatever.) The semantics don’t matter as much as the fact that she kissed Bellamy Blake and liked it. A lot.
The realization brings heat to her cheeks, and she sighs. Fuck. This is gonna be awkward.
She wanders into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and hoping that the furious blush on her cheeks is fading fast. He has his back to her while he pours water into the Keurig and grabs mugs from a cabinet overhead, and she settles into a chair at his kitchen counter to watch him.
How had she never fully appreciated the broad planes of his shoulders before? She props her chin in the palm of her hand and appraises his form, not in that detached, clinical way that she supposes she’s grown accustomed to looking at him, but in a curious way. And it all kind of clicks for her in the morning light, how he’s all hard lines and soft curls and tall and broad and easy to lose yourself in. It’s embarrassing, the wave of longing that washes over her when she traces his features with her eyes.
Bellamy turns suddenly, startling at the sight of her at the counter, his eyes widening slightly behind his oversized glasses, and she blushes in spite of herself.
“You’re alive,” he says dryly, and she forces a shaky smile.
“Barely.”
Bellamy shakes his head and hands her a cup of coffee. “Yeah, same.” His fingers brush hers in the process, and she jolts a little, but his face is impassive. “Sorry about that. I know you’ve got another double today.”
Clarke takes a tentative sip of her coffee. It’s scalding, but she barely notices. “It’s fine,” she says, brisk. He quirks an eyebrow at that, but his expression clears.
“You know, you really didn’t have to come over last night,” he says, a little sheepishly. “I feel bad, imposing on you and all.”
She bites her lip. “I wanted to.”
“We drank too much,” he says, scratching his head. “Stupid.”
Clarke cocks her head to the side. “Do you… um, do you remember much from last night?” she asks after shifting her gaze to the countertop. For some reason, she doesn’t know if she can handle meeting his eyes. They’re too intense.
He lets out a faint laugh. “Yeah, um. That’s the thing. I think that I kind of—blacked out a little there.” Bellamy grimaces. “Not my proudest moment.”
She looks up at him sharply. “So, you really don’t remember?”
“Last thing I remember is you stealing the remote,” he admits with a hint of a flush in his cheeks. “It’s all a little fuzzy after that. Don’t really know how I’m standing right now.”
Clarke sucks in a breath. He doesn’t remember.
“What about you?” Bellamy asks, watching her carefully. “You remember anything?”
Oh, God. Does she ever.
“Not really,” she says, lying through her teeth.
Bellamy smiles. “It’s a mystery.”
“Guess we’ll never know.” She can’t keep the quaver out of her voice, and Bellamy must hear it, because he frowns.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, face drawn with concern. It’s a frustratingly beautiful face, and she hates herself for thinking it, because she caught feelings for her best friend and he’ll never know how, or why.
She nods. “I’m good,” she lies. “It’s just—I should go. I’m on call in a bit.”
Bellamy’s silent for a moment, his eyes searching hers for an answer, but he just nods and pushes away from the counter. “All right. See you later, then.”
“Yup,” she manages, and gulps the rest of her coffee down before making her way to the door.
“Clarke,” he calls, before she can turn the doorknob, and she freezes. “Um, thanks. For coming over.”
She turns over her shoulder, and smiles tightly.
“Any time.”
+
clarke: SOS
clarke: we have a situation
raven: okay griffin what’d you do this time
clarke: why do you always assume that i did something?
raven: am i wrong???
clarke: well no
clarke: it wasn’t all my fault okay?
clarke: fuck
raven: ????
raven: mind filling me in here?
clarke: …we kissed
clarke: me and bellamy. we kissed
raven: ….
clarke: we drunk-kissed and he doesn’t remember
raven: aha
raven: now you’ve got my attention
clarke: excuse me why are you acting like this isn’t a big deal
raven: because you’ve had a thing for him for, like, ever???
clarke: um NO I HAVE NOT
clarke: he’s my best friend rae this is bad
raven: okay im sensing that this is an in-person convo
raven: grounders. stat.
+
“Wow,” Raven muses. “You’re right, this is bad.”
Clarke buries her head in her hands. “I know.”
“I was talking about you,” Raven says pointedly. “You’re a mess. Looks like you haven’t slept in a week.”
Clarke lifts her head to glare at Raven, who’s smirking a little. “That’s a low blow. You know I’ve been working long shifts.” She blows out a long breath. “Well, that, and I’m slowly driving myself insane.”
“Good thing you work in a hospital,” Raven quips, taking a sip of her martini.
“Raven,” Clarke whines. “Help me.”
She makes a pathetic face at Clarke. “I don’t know what to tell you, babe,” she says, a touch sympathetic. “You’ve got a crush on your best friend.” Raven pauses. “Well, actually, you’ve had a crush on your best friend, but you just figured it out.”
Clarke groans, and tosses back her drink. “Nothing was supposed to happen,” she says helplessly, spreading out her hands. “I just—he was stressed about work, and not getting tenure, and we got a little drunk but—I didn’t mean to kiss him.”
Raven nods. “Sure. I believe you.” Her expression betrays her tone.
“And maybe he didn’t mean it, either,” Clarke adds, with a little more confidence. “He was drunker than I was. He probably didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Raven says thoughtfully as she swirls her straw around her drink. “Drunk minds speak sober truths, and all that.”
Clarke runs a hand over her face. “Not helping.”
“Sorry,” Raven says, but she doesn’t really sound it. She’s grinning.
“Seriously, what am I gonna do?” Clarke asks, and she must sound pretty desperate because Raven’s expression sobers. “I don’t know how to act around him anymore.”
Raven chews on her lip. “You know, you could always… tell him?” she suggests. “Just be straightforward. ‘Hey, Bellamy, we drunk-kissed the other night. Thoughts?’”
Clarke’s horrified expression is enough to get Raven to relent.
“Okay, so you’re not up for that,” she says, lifting her hands in surrender. “Gotcha.”
“I can’t do that,” Clarke says. “Because—what if he doesn’t feel the same way?”
Raven frowns. “Clarke, you know that’s ridiculous.”
“Do I really, though?” Clarke asks. “If he seriously had feelings for me, don’t you think he’d remember kissing me? Don’t you think he’d have done something about it already?”
Raven is thoughtful for a moment, and then she brightens with an idea. “Okay. We’ll do drinks tomorrow night with everyone, here. And I’ll watch you two together. Make sure he feels the same way.”
Clarke looks at her, skeptical. “Get real, Raven.”
“Seriously, was I wrong about you?” Raven asks, and Clarke flushes. “That’s what I thought. I’ve got a sixth sense for this kind of thing.”
Clarke sighs. “Fine. We can do drinks.” She shoots Raven a warning look. “But you can’t tell anyone about this, okay? Not even Wells.”
Raven looks a little guilty at that. “Um, yeah. About that…”
“Come on, really? It’s been, like, an hour since I told you!” Clarke says, incredulous. Raven shrugs.
“He’s freakishly perceptive. You should know, you’re the one who set us up.” Raven pulls an apologetic face. “But that’s all. We’re the only people who know about—whatever you and Bellamy are.”
Clarke relents, choosing to ignore that last comment. “Okay. But you can’t tell Octavia.” Then she winces. “Or Jasper.”
“Jesus, Clarke. I’m not a monster.”
+
clarke: hey, if you’re not still dead from the other night… drinks at grounders???
bell: I’m down.
bell: Is that what the kids say nowadays?
clarke: oh my god, never use that expression again, im begging you
clarke: raven’s inviting a bunch of people so if o wants to bring lincoln….
bell: Oh. Yeah, sure.
clarke: is that okay???
bell: Yeah, just didn’t know it was a group thing.
bell: Why wouldn’t it be okay?
bell: I’ll see you there, princess.
+
She’s tense by the time the group starts wandering into the bar. Which, logically, doesn’t even make sense because she’s got a cocktail in front of her, and still she finds herself on edge.
Raven lets out an audible sigh when she shows up with Wells on her arm and sees Clarke sitting in their usual booth with anxiety written all over her face.
“You need to calm down,” she admonishes Clarke as she slides into the seat across from her with a drink in hand. “Honestly, Clarke, this is high school shit. You like him, he obviously likes you, end of story.”
Wells touches Raven’s shoulder and casts a sheepish glance in Clarke’s direction. “She’s a little harsh, but she has a point,” he says. “I’ve seen the way Bellamy looks at you. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Clarke takes a generous sip of her mojito. “I hear you guys. I do.” She chances a quick glance at her phone, at the last conversation between her and Bell, and her heart lurches in her chest. “But I’m gonna need a lot of alcohol to get through tonight.”
Raven smirks. “Now that’s something I can help you with,” she quips, and pushes off in the direction of the bar. Clarke just sighs.
“Tell me that everything’s gonna be okay,” she says, plaintive. Wells smiles, warm and encouraging, and she’s a little grateful that he knows, that he’s here for moral support.
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he echoes, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his own. “Don’t let Raven get in your head.”
But it’s hard not to let that affect her. She’s tense and awkward, and even though Clarke is pretty sure that none of their friends can tell, she feels like she’s operating on another plane of existence.
Well, maybe Octavia can tell, because when she arrives with Lincoln and catches Clarke’s eye, she arches an eyebrow.
“So, have you talked to my brother lately?” she asks cryptically, and Clarke shrugs, the picture of nonchalance even though she’s panicking internally about being too revealing.
“Um, no,” she says. “I mean, he said he was coming. So.” Clarke cringes at her obviousness, but Octavia just nods and drops into a seat across the table without another word. But it is hard to ignore the side glances Octavia keeps directing at her throughout the night, as if she knows something Clarke doesn’t.
It’s unnerving, but she can’t think about that right now.
She has every intention of staying sharp until Bellamy shows up, but, well. Raven keeps plying her with drinks, and then Monty gets a round of tequila shots, and she’s tipsy in no time at all. So much for that idea.
At some point, Raven nudges her shoulder and tilts her head in the direction of the bar. “Looks like your man’s here,” she slurs, and Clarke shoves weakly at her shoulder in protest.
“Shut up.”
Her eyes wander lazily over to him, where he’s leaning up against the bar looking solemn and dark. Another bad day, she can tell, from the way his hair is tousled and the fact that he’s wearing glasses again instead of bothering with his contacts. That fact should register with her, but instead she feels warmth creeping into her veins, and she knows she needs to get closer to the source.
She manages to slide out of the booth and find her footing on slightly unsteady legs.
“Wait, Clarke, you getting another round?” Jasper calls out from the opposite end of the table, and the entire group snaps to attention to look at her expectantly. She flushes.
“Uh, I just—I’ll be right back,” she stammers, and just catches a glimpse of Raven’s smirk and Octavia looking on with a bemused expression. She doesn’t dwell on it, just stumbles over to Bellamy.
He glances up just as she approaches, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he nods in greeting. “Hey, princess. Looks like you got a head start.”
Clarke smiles, ducking her head. “I’m not that drunk.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” Bellamy’s smile is faint. His eyes drift over her, and she warms under his gaze. He clears his throat and the moment passes. “Need another drink?”
“You read my mind.”
She leans into him as he flags down the bartender and he takes her weight like it’s nothing. Just lets her fall back against his chest and tucks her head under his chin. The intimacy of it, the familiarity, the warmth of his breath fanning out over her scalp is intoxicating.
He orders her a pale ale and a water (“Because it’s important to stay hydrated, Clarke,” he says, because he’s such a mom and he can’t help but give into the instinct to mother his friends) and a beer for himself. Clarke frowns at him.
“That’s all?”
Bellamy smiles wryly. “Really trying not to black out again,” he says.
“You’re so responsible,” Clarke teases, taking a swig of her drink for effect.
“Maybe,” Bellamy agrees, and his eyes crinkle at the corners behind his glasses. “Someone’s gotta take care of you, princess.”
She blushes.
Raven was right. This is some high school shit.
“Rough day?” she asks, just to distract him from the full-bodied flush that’s washing over her. When he looks a little surprised, Clarke points out, “You’re wearing glasses.”
“You know me too well,” he says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Kind of, but honestly, it’s better now.” He smiles fondly at her, and she kind of melts. It’s ridiculous, the effect that he has on her, now more than ever.
“Wanna talk about it?” she offers, but just as he’s about to open his mouth, Octavia starts shouting for him across the room, beckoning for him to come say hi.
They turn in unison towards the group, and he looks at Clarke with a sheepish smile. “I will. Later.”
She’s a little drunk, but she’s aware enough to sense depth behind those words.
They settle at the end of the table after Bellamy greets Octavia and she smacks a drunken kiss to his cheek, and Clarke picks up on an intimacy that she’s only found with Bellamy when they’re alone with each other. Even as he’s drawn into a conversation with Miller about the Bruins, his arm drapes around her shoulders and she finds herself tucked into his side. She bites at her lip, trying to keep the grin off her face, and mostly failing.
Raven gives her a pointed look.
“Would you just fucking tell him already?” she hisses into Clarke’s ear, slurring a little. “You’re killing me with the suspense here, Griffin.”
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Sorry to inconvenience you.”
But she can’t say anything. Not while he’s frustratingly sober and Clarke is on the path to sobering up. Not like this, not here.
She focuses on sipping her water, and the warmth of Bellamy’s arm wrapped around her shoulder, but she catches a snippet of his conversation with Octavia that’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
“—told you that it would happen,” Octavia says, a hint of pride lacing her tone.
Bellamy shrugs. “Yeah, well.”
“Seriously, Bell. I’m so proud of you,” she says, and at that, Clarke turns to him, curious.
“Wait, what’s going on?”
Octavia beams. “He got tenure,” she says, reaching across the table to ruffle Bellamy’s hair affectionately, which he pretends to scoff at. “See, all that moping and whining for nothing, dumbass! I knew you could do it.”
Clarke gapes at him, her heart swelling with pride. “Shit, really?” she breathes, and Bellamy looks down at her with a warm gaze. “Bellamy Blake, are you kidding me?! Why didn’t you say anything?” She smacks his forearm, and he reaches up to rub it, scowling a little.
“I was going to,” he says, then looks at Octavia. “But someone beat me to the punch.”
“I can’t contain my pride,” she says.
Clarke curls an arm around his waist, unthinking, and presses a kiss to his cheek. And maybe she gets a little distracted, and maybe her lips linger a little too long on his skin, because when she pulls away, there’s an unmistakable flush in his cheeks and Octavia and Miller and Raven and Wells and probably everyone else is staring at her. And he’s staring at her, kind of awed, and it’s doing something to her insides.
So much for subtlety.
“Um, I think—I think that you getting tenure calls for a drink,” she says, to diffuse the tension. “You wanna, um, help me out?”
Bellamy’s eyebrows lift, and then he nods. “Yeah, sure.”
As soon as they’re out of earshot, and tucked into a dark corner of the bar where their friends can’t see them, Clarke touches his wrist. “So, fill me in. You said you had a rough day?”
He shrugs. “Kind of. I don’t know.”
“Okay, but I’m not seeing how getting tenure has anything to do with that.”
Bellamy lets out a short laugh. “I didn’t say that it did.”
Clarke frowns. “I’m confused.”
A beat. Then, Bellamy drops his gaze. “That makes two of us.”
She’s officially confused now. “Bell, come on.” He keeps his eyes fixed anywhere but on her—the countertop, the ground. “You’re making me nervous.”
He sighs, and his shoulders fall. “It’s nothing. You know me, I just—I overthink things, and I ruin them, and I really don’t want to do that right now.”
It’s cryptic. Clarke squints at him, and she doesn’t know if it’s just because of the alcohol in her system or if he’s deliberately keeping something from her, but she just isn’t following.
“I don’t want to do that to you,” he amends, and his voice is softer, gentler.
“Bell…”
“Did I do something?” he asks, and it’s so abrupt that it steals her breath away. “The other night, when I blacked out. I didn’t, um. I didn’t do anything to upset you, did I?”
Clarke absorbs this, stunned. “What?” she exhales, and Bellamy scrubs a hand over his face.
“You ran out,” he says. “You ran out, and I didn’t hear from you until today, and I thought—I just thought, maybe…” He trails off, and the look on his face cuts her deep. “I don’t know. Something’s off, and I didn’t know if I—did something. Hurt you, in some way.” He looks worried. “You’d tell me if I did, right?”
She stares at him for a moment in silence before a laugh works its way out of her chest. Bellamy looks startled, but the relief is so sweet that she can’t help herself. “Oh, my god, Bell,” she manages, stepping forward into him so she can hide her face in the crook of his neck. “You kissed me. We drunk-kissed.”
His breath catches. “We—what?”
“We kissed, and you forgot about it, and I didn’t know how to tell you,” she tells him. It’s easier to say it when he’s not looking at her, when she doesn’t have to read the expression on his face. “Raven said I should just say something already, but I don’t want you to think that I—expect anything out of it, okay? I don’t—”
The pressure of his fingers under her chin is insistent, and he tips her head up so that he can get a good look at her. She stares up at him, the words she was about to say dying on her lips when she finds his eyes burning bright.
“Clarke,” he says, voice hoarse, bracketing her face between his hands. “That—that wasn’t a dream?”
She parts her lips, but before she can answer him, he leans in and kisses her. Soft, and reassuring. Clarke winds her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, and she’s completely prepared to never let him go again.
He breaks away first. “If you’d just said something,” he murmurs, leaning his forehead against hers, “we could have avoided this whole mess.”
Clarke closes her eyes. “Yeah, but.” She presses a gentle kiss to his lips, and smiles when he tries to pull her in for another. “Where’s the fun in that?”
+
fin.