Work Text:
Clarke hated Thursdays. Absolutely loathed them.
Most people complained about Mondays or stressed Sunday nights, but Thursdays took the cake. She wasn't particularly busy or rushed, she didn't have to go through heavy traffic or a bad neighborhood or anything reasonable.
It was simple really. It was one thing-- no, one person that ticked her off every week. They had never spoken more than a few words to each other, which was plenty in Clarke's book. Hell, she didn't even know his name.
Almost six months ago, she had moved to Boston and gotten a job at a local art shop where kids and lonely 40 year old women came to painting lessons. Its was good pay and a good time, so almost a week into working, while Clarke walked across town from her apartment, she was having a pretty good day.
Then he happened.
She suddenly slammed into a wall, which just so happened to be the chest of Mr. Ass-hat himself as he sped around the corner. Before she could blink Clarke was on the cold concrete.
While she was still struggling to pull herself up, the wall-man opened an unnaturally attractive mouth. "Watch where the hell you're going, Princess!"
"Wha- Me?! I hadn't even gotten to the corner yet! There's no--"
He cut her off with a grunt and continued walking, pointedly stepping over her bag and the various books and brushes pouring across the sidewalk. Clarke stared after the wild curls as long as she could with a glare forged in fire.
For whatever reason, their schedules overlapped every Thursday morning but so far neither of them had backed down and changed routes. Instead the two glared each other down everyday as they passed like...mature adults.
Without really even knowing him, he just ruined her mojo, her mood for the day took a nose dive every time. The good days were when he was gone, sick or something, and Clarke could put a little bounce in her step.
How bad do things have to be for her day to exceptionally great just because a ten second passing period didn't happen?
The whole thing was stupid, all he had to do was apoligize for running into her and Clarke could go on with her life in peace.
So this Thursday morning as she locked her apartment door, she braced herself for the undeniably long day ahead of her. While Clarke ran over her schedule for the day, ready to turn back at the thought of another herd of sticky children, her phone rang.
Her mother's face popped up on the screen as Clarke pulled it from her bag. Greaaat. This was not what she needed right now. Every phone call-- no, every interaction with her mom ended in an argument, particularly since her parents divorce.
"Yes, Mom? I'm on my way to work right now, I-"
"Clarke."
"Yeah?"
"Would you be able to come to over tonight? I have something important to talk to you about."
Clarke held back a snort. That was not what she needed. "Sorry, I'm busy all day. Can it wait? Or just tell me now."
"I really think we should talk in person."
"I'm almost to work," Sometimes Usually half truths were essensial to their conversations, "I know you hate art and all that but it pays the bills so I gotta go."
"It's your father, honey. There was...a shooting at his council meeting... he-he didn't make it. Clarke? Clarke are you there?"
She heard her mom say something else and eventually the line dropped, but Clarke didn't care. She didn't care as the tears started to fall. Or when fuzzy silence filled her ears, blocking out the world around her.
She didn't notice as her feet continued to carry her down the familiar path, finaly collapsing against the wall.
Every part of her was in denial, every fiber in her being was telling her he couldn't be dead. Wasn't dead. But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of it was a lie, Clarke knew he was gone.
Her mother wouldn't have told her unless it was true. She was about to go on with her day, not even aware such an essential part of her life was gone.
It was like a puzzle piece was missing already. No matter how hard she pushed, the hole couldn't be filled. She'd lost too many pieces already, too many people.
Soon there wouldn't be enough to even build the frame.
Clarke didn't feel anything else than that...empty. Not the hard brick against her back or the shredded skin on her palms and knees from when her legs had given out, taking every semblance of reality with it.
Maybe this was her new reality, with sobs rocking her back and forth instead of her father's comforting arms.
For a moment her pounding heart stopped dead in it's tracks as a strong hand gripped her shoulder. No. It wasn't her Dad, these hands were too rough, yet the touch just as gentle.
"Hey, you alright?"
The voice tore Clarke back to the present, back to that brick wall on the quiet street. Back to familiar brown eyes, for the first time level with hers.
Before she could place where she had seen them before, a mess of brown curls answered her question. When she stayed silent, tears still flowing, he tried again. "Just talk to me. Is there someone I can call? Somewhere you can go?"
Somehow Clarke's mouth croaked out a semi-formed sentence, giving the yet-to-be-named man her address. He got her vertical and practically carried her back, Clarke's have smothered sobs the only sound between them.
As they got to her door, she reached out to her bag and searched aimlessly for her keys before the not-so-stranger took her hands and steadied their shaking. He gave her a questioning look and she just nodded. He found them quickly and let them in the same doors she had locked not even half an hour ago.
Someone's world shouldn't be able to be shattered that quickly.
Once he had guided Clarke to the couch he crouched in front of her, concern still lining his face. "What's your name?"
"C-Clarke."
"Well, Clarke, I'm Bellamy Blake. What-- Clarke you're bleeding."
She looked down and saw that he was right, she had ripped her hands open and torn through the knees of her jeans. If Clarke was being honest she still didn't really feel it, like her pain was still queued.
"I don't...I think I fell against the wall."
"Do you have bandages or something?"
"Yeah, in the-in the bathroom down the hall, under the cabinet."
Soon the man--Bellamy--was back and cleaning up her hands. This gave Clarke a few minutes to pull herself together, though not enough to stop a constant trickle of lonely tears.
"Thank you. Really, thank you, Bellamy."
He nodded in acknowledgment. "Any time...Can you tell me what's wrong? I won't...I don't feel comfortable just leaving you here like this."
Clarke felt her lip start to tremble again as she took a slow breath, despite herself. "My--ah, my mom called on my way to work and..." She sniffed and ducked her head. "She told me that my dad, my dad was k-killed and I just..."
Bellamy grasped her hands gently and traced comforting circles with his thumbs. "Clarke...I'm so sorry. I...I know how it feels to loose a parent. I know your world is probably falling apart."
She looked up at him from under her hair and met his solid gaze. "Mom or dad?"
"My mom."
"I'm sorry."
"Hey, you don't need to worry about anything but yourself right now."
"Speaking of that...why'd you help me today? I know plenty of people that would have kept walking."
"Well than you know a lot of assholes."
She knew Bellamy was trying to distract her, but it was working so she let herself forget for a moment as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"I guess so...You know I thought you hated me."
"Hated You? No. I don't even know you. I mean I wasn't particularly happy with you after slammed into me like that but -"
"Slammed into you? You turned the corner fir-- you know what, I'm not having this argument with you." Clarke caught a small smile flash as he stood up.
"Do you have someone you can call? To come over?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine, you don't have to worry about it."
In fact it was the first time she has thought about anything outside of her apartment in...however long.
She'd have to call Lincoln and tell him she'd be gone from work, which she was sure he had already noticed, and figure it out.
Clarke got up slowly and they walked to the door, as Bellamy turned to leave, she stopped him short and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you. For everything."
When she pulled back he had a sleepish smile on his face. With a two-finger salute, he opened the door. "Anytime."
The click echoed in the silent apartment longer than it should have while Clarke stared at nothing in particular. So Asshats can have hearts after all.
It had been almost two months since Clarke's Dad had died, over a month since his funeral, when she saw those brown eyes again.
To her surprise they weren't Bellamy's, but a young girl's, well mabye not young but younger than Clarke. Mabye early twenties?
She had the same olive skin and face structure, which Clarke recognized the second the woman had walked into the art shop.To her amazement not thirty seconds later the her other half walked in after her, his curls crazed as ever, albeit a little shorter.
When did she take the time to notice that?
The shock in his expression as he looked around the room, eventually seeing her, was something she wanted framed.
In the past two months her schedule had changed and those Thursdays were no longer a constant in her life. And for some reason, it had left a pang in her chest.
Paintbrush still midair, Clarke walked around her easel. "Bellamy?"
He gave a rougish smile in return. "The one and only."
Before she could respond the other girl walked up and looked between the two a few times, suspicion in her eyes. Bellamy cleared his throat and nodded in the girls direction.
"Clarke, this is my little sister Octavia. Octavia this is Clarke an...old friend?"
"Nice to meet you." Clarke and extended a hand, which happened to be covered in blue paint. "What are you doing here, Bellamy?"
The sister, Octavia, shook it and answered for him. "I dragged him here. I thought some arts and crafts would be fun, Bell's too grumpy lately." Clarke smiled, tucking that nickname into the corner of her mind.
"Well I know first hand what it's like to be on the receiving end of your brother's bad mood, so I don't blame you. He's kind of a hardass sometimes."
This merited a cackle from Octavia, followed by an "Ow!" As Bellamy playfully punched her arm.
"Well, Octavia if you would be so kind as to go over to Lincoln over there, he will gladly help you out" She did so gladly, leaving the two semi-strangers alone.
"So...Mr. Blake. Would you like to paint a lovely forest with me?"
Bellamy returned her wicked grin and followed her to the table. "Whatever you say, Princess."