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Clarke shows up at Bellamy’s apartment at exactly two minutes to midnight on a Thursday.
She hammers on the door so loudly it wakes Bellamy up, and doesn’t look all that sorry when he drags himself to the door and opens it, saying, “Where’s’fire?”
“In Raven’s pants,” Clarke replies, short, and pushes past him into the hallway. She’s carrying an overnight bag, which should be his first clue, and looks like she just rolled out of bed, which should be his second, her hair pulled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck.
Bellamy drags his eyes away from an escaping curl of hair to say, “What?”
Clarke doesn’t answer immediately, just heads into the living room, where she throws her bag down on the sofa and sits down. It never ceases to amaze him, how easily Clarke can make herself at home.
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he locks the door again and follows her into the living room, stopping in the doorway to lean one shoulder against the frame.
“Raven’s got Wick over,” Clarke explains, rooting around in her bag for something.
“Ah,” he replies. A second later his sleep-muddled mind catches up. “Wait, what? Raven and Wick are dating?”
The look Clarke gives him is truly pitying, somewhat at odds with the soft lilac pyjamas she’s now holding in her hands. “As happy as I am that they’ve finally worked their stuff out, I’d rather not spend my evening listening to the two of them going at it,” she says. “Can I get changed in your bathroom?”
“Uh, sure,” Bellamy replies, and Clarke’s brushed past him and slipped into the bathroom before he realises he’s somehow agreed to her staying over without actually agreeing.
“Are they really that loud?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard in the bathroom.
There’s a pause, in which he imagines Clarke sending him one of those unimpressed stares she so likes, and then a rather brusque, “Yes.”
Go Raven.
Yawning into his fist, Bellamy pushes himself away from the doorframe and heads down the hall to the cupboard where he keeps the spare blankets.
When Clarke emerges from the bathroom again, now wearing the lilac pyjamas, he’s got a blanket thrown over the sofa and two pillows already set up for her. On the nearby side table he’s left a towel. “For the morning,” he explains, when Clarke raises an eyebrow at him in silent question.
“Thanks,” she replies, a little awkward, a little stilted. They’re not in the habit of thanking each other.
Bellamy shrugs, and pushes his hands into the pockets of the soft jogging bottoms he wears to bed. Clarke’s lucky he thought to grab a hoodie before answering the door; he's not sure she would have approved of him topless. “You’re welcome, Princess.”
Her eyes narrow slightly at the nickname, and the odd feeling dissipates.
“So why’d you come to me, anyway?” Bellamy asks. He can’t imagine that he’s Clarke’s first port of call, in a situation like this.
Clarke stills for a moment where she’s rearranging the blankets and pillows into something vaguely resembling a bed. When her hands move again, she’s not looking at him as she says, “Well, right now, I don’t feel like being around anyone I actually like. Also, Wells didn’t answer his phone.”
Ah. Bellamy takes a breath and nods; he’s been there.
Apparently satisfied with her make-shift bed, Clarke climbs back onto the sofa like she wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball and go to sleep. It’s strange, seeing this side of her. He’s used to the efficient and no-nonsense paramedic he’d first met when she was laying into his captain, Kane, about moving a patient with a potential back injury.
When Bellamy had helpfully pointed out that the man had been in the middle of a burning building when they’d moved him, he’d been rewarded with the death glare to end all death glares.
“I’ll be gone in the morning, I’ve got a shift at six,” Clarke says, curling up under the blanket. “I’ll try not to make too much noise.”
Somehow he resists saying God forbid she wake him up when he’s fast asleep.
“Throw the towel in the laundry basket in the bathroom when you go,” he says. “There’s coffee in the kitchen, and some bread if you want toast.”
Muffling another yawn in his fist, he heads out of the room and hits the light switch with an elbow, plunging the room into darkness. In the doorway he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder, and says, “Night, Clarke.”
There’s the rustle of covers and then: “Night, Bellamy.”
* * *
The next morning, Bellamy wakes up and for a bleary few seconds thinks that it was all a dream, or a hallucination brought on by far too little sleep.
When he ventures out into the living room, he finds the blanket and pillows neatly folded up on the sofa, and realises that it all actually happened.
The shower smells of vanilla when he gets in it, a scent he’s not used to. It confuses his senses, and for one brief, startling moment, makes him think of Clarke being here, under the spray. He shakes his head to get rid of the image and picks up one of the bottles to wash his hair.
His phone is flashing with a new message when he gets out of the shower. He slings the towel around his shoulder and picks his phone up from the side, dragging his thumb across the screen to unlock it.
Message from Clarke: Thanks for letting me crash.
He types out a reply with one hand as he makes coffee: No problem, Princess. A few seconds later, he adds: Though maybe it’s Raven and Wick who should be thanking me?
He gets Clarke’s reply a little later, when he’s settled down in front of the TV, trying to get through the latest assigned chapters from his professor. Ha. Ha. Real funny, Blake.
I live to serve.
They text a little for the rest of the day, mostly just Clarke complaining about various doctors and drunk idiots who should have known better. Her messages are a welcome break from taking notes for his thesis, keeping him occupied whenever he gets restless. His pager stays silent all day; no emergencies at the fire station to call him away.
When he’s getting ready for bed that night, he almost expects a knock at the door, even leaves the bathroom door open when he’s brushing his teeth, so he can hear it if there is.
There isn’t, and he goes to bed as usual, wondering why it feels so strange, when he's so used to being alone.
* * *
A week later he’s woken up at midnight again by thudding on the front door.
With a groan, he rolls over and drags himself to his feet. He grabs his hoodie on the way out of the bedroom and is still tugging it on when he opens the front door saying, “This better be an emer—”
“Wick’s over again,” Clarke says shortly, and ducks under his arm and into the hallway.
She’s carrying an overnight bag again, doesn’t even hesitate before walking into the living room.
Bellamy’s headache protests, he spent four hours the previous day helping to direct traffic away from an accident on a major road. If he never hears a car horn blare at him again, it will be too soon.
“Does Raven not tell you when she’s having Wick over?” he asks, as he goes to the cupboard to get the spare blanket and pillows.
“He wasn’t supposed to be,” Clarke tells him, when he comes back in and hands the blankets over. “He came over earlier to get some sort of screw or wrench or something, I wasn’t really paying attention.” It’s amusing, how little Clarke understands of car mechanics. “Raven didn’t have what he needed, but suggested something else instead, saying it’d work better. Apparently arguing is foreplay for them.”
“Ah,” replies Bellamy. It’s hard not to grin.
Seeing his amusement, Clarke leans over to hit him with one of the pillows. “Stop it. It’s not funny.”
“It is,” Bellamy disagrees. It makes his headache somewhat bearable, at least, knowing that Clarke's annoyed.
This time, Clarke’s already in her pyjamas. When she unbuttons her coat she’s wearing them underneath, a tartan set this time. It’s becoming a little unnerving, the amount he’s seen her in her sleepwear, this past month.
Bellamy’s used to the kind of girls who wear silk and lace, tiny little two-piece sets that are really just there to be taken away. Even Raven, that one time they’d had a brief fling, had been a fan of the little black number. Not Clarke though, apparently. Comfort over style, it seems.
It suits her.
Shaking his head to get rid of the thought, he crosses his arms over his chest and says, “And, what, Wells was busy again?”
“Night shift at the precinct.”
Now she’s settled down, there will be no getting rid of her. He sighs, and tries to think past his pounding headache. “You got another early shift tomorrow?”
“Nope, managed to get on a late. I had been planning on a nice, long lie-in before it.”
“How unfortunate,” Bellamy drawls.
Clarke pauses in the act of tying her hair in a messy bun to give him a look that says she’s taking none of his shit, this late at night. “I would have gone somewhere else, if I could.”
“Right,” he says. “I’ll try not to wake you in the morning, then. I’ve got a lecture in the morning, but the building’s not too far away. I’ll be gone just before eleven, so just pull the door shut behind you when you go.”
Clarke nods. “I promise not to leave it wide open for burglars to get in. Or, you know, Murphy.”
“Funny,” Bellamy says, flat. “You got everything you need? There’s coffee and bread in the kitchen again, if you want anything when you wake up.”
“Do you have any milk this time?”
Bellamy blinks, and wonders if he should be offended. “I take my coffee black?”
Clarke frowns, like this is a totally foreign concept. “What about when you have guests round?”
“I don’t really have guests.”
That sounded a lot better in his head. “I mean, well, I guess people don’t drink coffee when they visit,” he corrects. “Why? Please tell me you’re not one of those people that poisons their cup with cream and sugar.”
“You mean make it bearable. How can you drink it black? It’s so bitter.”
“How can you fill it with sugar?” Bellamy retorts, “It’s so sweet.”
Clarke looks like she would punch him, if she were close enough. “Sweet things can be nice,” she says, in that tone she sometimes gets, when she wants to prove a point. “Like cake, for example. Fresh air. The warm sea. Cuddling.” And then, muttered so low he almost misses it: “Rather than fucking someone so hard they scream.”
Bellamy feels his mouth drop open in surprise.
He doesn’t know what’s more surprising, that Wick and Raven are that energetic in bed - or that Clarke actually likes to cuddle.
When he finds his voice again, what comes out is, “I never took you for a cuddler.”
Clarke looks at him for a long moment, then curls up under the covers. “There are many things you don’t know about me, Bellamy Blake.” Her voice is heavy with sleep, her eyes already drifting shut.
Curled up on his sofa, wearing practical pyjamas and with apparently no one else to call, he has to admit that there are. He never would have imagined she would rely on him for something. She's always seemed so self-sufficient; busy taking care of their shared friends with little thought of herself.
What’s unusual is the feeling that comes after that thought, the desire to know more about Clarke Griffin.
He must be more tired than he realises. Shaking his head, he says heads over to turn off the light and says, “Night, Princess.”
There’s a pause, where he thinks she’s already fast asleep. Then, a soft, “Night, Bellamy.”
* * *
“Are they not bored of each other yet?” Bellamy asks, when Clarke shows up for the second night in a row the following week.
Clarke just gives him a look, one that says she has heard things, terrible things, and will never quite be the same ever again.
She’s just about to walk past him to the living room when she stops, and pauses, and says, “What are those?”
He glances down to where she’s looking, sees the dark scratches on his arms she’s obviously referring to, and shrugs. “Oh nothing. Just from work. I already did basic first aid, I—”
In a second she’s dropped her overnight bag and curled her fingers around his wrists, pulling his arms out to get a closer look. The sharp movement pulls his skin tight around the scratches, and he hisses in an unintentional breath.
“What did you do?” she asks, “Lose a fight with a holly bush?”
He mutters the truth under his breath and then coughs, attempting to pull his arms back out of her grip, but she holds tight and refuses to let go.
“I didn’t quite get that.”
“I, uh, got scratched?”
For that, he gets one of her unimpressed stares.
With a sigh, he elaborates, “By a kitten.”
He expects her to laugh - or at least, some form of mockery - but what he gets instead is a scowl, and a tightening of the grip around his wrists. She practically drags him down the hall and into the kitchen, manhandling him onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar.
“And, what?” she says, “You just ran them under some cold water and hoped for the best?”
Yes. “No?”
“Bellamy.”
“They’re not even that deep, really.”
“I swear to God,” Clarke mutters. Still holding one of his wrists in her grip, she begins rooting in the nearby cupboards for his first aid kit. It's amazing, how quickly she slips into paramedic mode. “Have you got any disinfectant?”
“There should be some peroxide open, I bought it a few months ago.”
“Are you sure you passed your first aid training?”
He bites down on the urge to say something he’ll regret, tries to remind himself that she’s only trying to help. A few seconds later she finds the kit, drops it down onto the breakfast bar and flips open the lid.
When she pulls out the alcohol wipes and some bandages, he tries to pull his arm back out of her grip, but she holds tight. “Don’t try and struggle, Bellamy. I don’t want to have to tie you down.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a shit bedside manner?” he asks.
“Many times,” she replies pleasantly, and presses one of the alcohol wipes to his arm.
He hisses in a sharp breath, but after the initial burn the feeling fades to a soft sting. She wipes the scratches carefully, making sure to get every bit of broken skin, then repeats the process on his other arm with another wipe. She works slowly, methodically, taking her time as she cleans each wound.
When she’s satisfied, she begins to bind his arms with bandages. A lock of hair falls from behind her ear as she works, gaze intent on her task.
It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how much Clarke cares about people. She can appear a little aloof sometimes, isn’t one for grand gestures and constant affection. But whenever her friends are in need she always seems to be there, doing whatever she can.
“I can’t believe you were rescuing a kitten,” she says suddenly, as if she’s been holding back the words for a while.
Bellamy blinks, distracted by the feel of her fingertips brushing across his skin as she tucks the bandage under the edge near his wrist. “Why not?”
“I didn’t think firefighters actually rescued kittens stuck up trees.”
“We rescue cats, too. And kids, sometimes, if they can’t figure out how to climb back down.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Bellamy confirms, feeling his lips start to pull up on one side into what’s almost a smile.
Clarke looks like this is genuinely the most interesting thing she’s ever heard, her hands resting on top of his arms, now fully bandaged. There’s a beat where they just sit like that, touching, then she seems to realise where they are and what she’s doing, and moves her hands away quickly, beginning to tidy up the first aid kit.
“Keep the scratches clean and covered, put antibiotic ointment on them regularly, and tell me if any get red or inflamed or hot to the touch,” she instructs.
“Don’t you think this is a bit serious for a couple of scratches?” he asks.
Clarke puts the first aid kit in the cupboard and shuts the door. “Have you ever heard of cat scratch fever?”
“Murphy was telling the truth?”
“What?” Clarke asks, blinking.
“He said something like that, cat scratch whatever, when I’d given the kitten back to her owner. I didn’t think he was being serious.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” says Clarke, “But you should have listened to Murphy. It’s not going to kill you, or anything, but it can lead to fever and vomiting.”
This is all very dark, for a couple of scratches on his arms. “Thanks,” he says, flat, “I’m definitely going to sleep well now tonight.”
Clarke smiles and pats him on the arm. “You’re welcome.”
Back in the living room she settles down quickly, ties her hair up in a knot and curls up under the blanket. It’s becoming more and more normal to see her there, like his apartment isn't right without her presence.
Her goodnight when she says it is sleepy, this time he misses the Princess off his own, figures it’s only fair when she tended to his ‘wounds’.
Raven and Wick have a lot to answer for, he thinks, and turns the light off by the door.
* * *
It becomes a bit of a routine, whenever Raven has Wick around at the apartment she shares with Clarke. So much so that Bellamy starts to leave the door unlocked on Thursday nights. Clarke knows where to find the spare blankets and pillows now, sets herself up on the sofa without waking him - and in some cases is gone again before he even wakes up, the faint smell of vanilla in the shower the only sign she's been there.
Bellamy finds himself buying milk, when he’s getting his weekly food shopping. He still holds out on the sugar, but Clarke smuggles it in anyway, in little sachets she’s pilfered from the hospital canteen.
He gets the occasional text now too, usually when Clarke’s got some down time at work.
I fucking hate doctors.
Bzz. Papercuts are not something you need to go to hospital for.
Then, like she has a sixth sense for telling when he’s forgotten: stop procrastinating and change your bandages, Blake.
* * *
Six weeks after Clarke first knocked on his door, Miller arrives for their bi-monthly study session, loaded up with textbooks and notepads and two six packs of beer.
He pauses in the doorway to the living room, spotting Clarke’s blanket, pillows and towel by the sofa, but doesn’t comment on it, beyond a look in Bellamy’s direction.
Over the years they’ve hammered out a good routine, splitting their time equally between writing, discussion and breaks. Bellamy always ends up on the floor, his back against the sofa where Miller sprawls on his front, both focused intently on their laptops. The textbooks stay balanced on the arm of the sofa near Miller’s feet, constantly in danger of toppling over but never quite taking the plunge. Occasionally they swap laptops, and leave comments down the side of each other’s work.
Six of the twelve beers are gone when there’s a knock at the door, and Bellamy gets up to answer it first.
“My turn to pay,” he says over his shoulder to Miller, leaving his laptop balanced on the coffee table as he gets his wallet out of his back pocket.
He opens the door with one hand and is just pulling out the necessary money for the food they ordered when Clarke breezes in past him. She unwinds her scarf without hesitation, flings it over the coat hook in the hall along with her hat.
“—longest day,” she’s saying as she unbuttons her coat and heads for the living room, “I couldn’t face the walk back to my place, not in this weather. It’s absolutely freezing. One of the nurses said she heard it’s going to snow—”
Bellamy takes a step after Clarke to stop her when Miller’s voice comes out of the living room, “What’s the delay? Did they forget something?”
Immediately, Clarke halts. “Oh.”
Bellamy, with his arm reached out for her still, tries, “Clarke—”
“Didn’t realise Miller was here,” Clarke says over him, backtracking to her scarf and her hat. Her coat is quickly buttoned back up to the neck. “I’ll go, I—”
“No,” Bellamy says, curling a hand around her elbow to stop her, “You should—”
“I shouldn’t have just assumed,” Clarke’s saying, “I’m sorry, it’s—”
“No, it’s fine, it—”
“What’s taking so lon—oh, hi, Clarke,” Miller greets, appearing in the doorway to the living room. His eyes, when he looks past her to Bellamy, are full of questions.
“Hi, Nathan,” Clarke returns the greeting.
“Miller’s studying with me,” Bellamy tells her. Some part of him is distantly aware that he’s still holding on to Clarke’s elbow, but he doesn’t let go. “We’ve got a deadline coming up for first drafts.”
“I should go,” Clarke replies, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She looks awkward. She’s never awkward.
“Don’t.” He doesn’t intend to say it, until he does. He takes a breath. “We’ve just ordered food. If you hang around, you can have some. Much better than walking home in the cold, right?”
“Right,” says Miller, disingenuous.
Bellamy ignores him.
Clarke looks unsure, like part of her still wants to bolt. Her elbow rests in Bellamy’s grip, she makes no move to pull it away. “Okay,” she says, slow. “But only because you asked so nicely.”
Bellamy almost smiles.
The food shows up a few minutes later, and Clarke does indeed join them. She has a plate of her own but seems more interested in stealing from Bellamy’s, leaning over to filch from his plate when she thinks he’s not looking.
He is; he lets her anyway.
Miller still lies on his front on the sofa, now with his legs cushioned on Clarke’s lap. For the most part she keeps to herself, attention focused on the tv, which she keeps on a low volume, though occasionally she joins in with their discussion, giving a point of view or an argument they haven’t considered.
Bellamy can tell that Miller likes her, sharing anecdotes about Jasper and Monty. She’s a nice break from the serious air that normally falls over their sessions, reminding them both occasionally to lighten up.
At about ten to eleven Clarke yawns, stretching her arms above her head and arching her back. “I should get some sleep.”
“You want to stay over?” Bellamy asks, “I’ve got you the spare blankets and pillows already.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Miller stop typing at the laptop.
“Nah,” Clarke replies, shifting Miller’s legs from her lap so she can stand, “My own will do just fine tonight.”
“Alright,” replies Bellamy, and saves his document before putting the laptop down on the floor. “Want me to walk you to the door?”
Clarke gives him a look for that, wholly unamused. “I know where the door is, Bellamy.”
“Of course you do,” he replies, and gets to his feet anyway, just to see the annoyance flare in her expression.
“I’m pretty sure I can make it to the door to your apartment block without anything bad happening,” she says, but doesn’t try to shoo him away.
In the hallway she winds her scarf around her neck again, buttons her coat up to the top. Her hat comes down to cover her hair, though a few loose strands make their escape.
“You sure you don’t want to stay?” he asks, when she’s checking her pockets for her keys.
“I’m fine, Bellamy,” she says on a sigh, for a brief moment sounding just like Octavia. “Trust me, I can take care of myself.”
She really can; he remembers the time she punched Murphy in the face, back when he’d still been a complete and utter arse. The thought makes him smile, and Clarke gives him a strange look when she sees it.
“I’ll send you a text when I get home,” she offers, grudging.
“Thanks. Get home safe.”
Back in the living room, Miller is still focused on his essay. The TV hums on a low volume in the background, ambient noise. Bellamy stretches out on the floor again, picks up his laptop, and almost drops it on the floor again when Miller says, “Did you get a good night kiss?”
“What the fuck.”
Miller grins, his eyes still focused on his laptop. “Get home safe,” he says, in a not-very-flattering imitation of his voice.
Bellamy narrows his eyes. “I’d say the same thing to anyone, walking home this late at night.”
“You don’t say it to me.”
“I’m sorry, do you want a good night kiss?”
“Not from you,” Miller sniffs, and laughs when Bellamy reaches up to punch him in the side of the ribs. “Ow, man. Uncalled for.”
“Don’t say what you aren’t prepared to defend,” Bellamy replies, and swipes his finger across the trackpad to close his laptop down. “I’m too tired to do more, can we call it a night? I’m pretty sure I’ve made the same argument twice.”
“Yeah, me too,” Miller admits, “I’m not sure what the limit is for how many commas you can use in a sentence, but I think I might well have surpassed it.”
He flips his laptop closed also, leaning over to put it on the floor next to Bellamy’s. Bellamy throws him one of the last two beers, and opens the other.
For a while they just drink in silence, watching the film Clarke left playing on the TV.
“I’m glad you two are getting along now,” Miller offers, after a while. He’s still watching the TV, so it’s hard to gauge his expression. “And, you know, not yelling at each other over every little thing.”
“That was one time,” Bellamy protests, but it’s half-hearted.
“I’m pretty sure you nearly made Jasper cry. Didn’t you start calling her Princess because you thought she was a stuck-up paramedic who, and I quote, needed to get her head out of her—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bellamy cuts him off, “Lets not go dragging up history.”
Miller’s still grinning, but he lets it drop.
Later, when Bellamy’s in bed and just about to fall asleep, his phone buzzes. Got home safe. Sorry I didn’t text earlier, Raven berated me for walking home alone. You two are as bad as each other.
Whatever you say, Princess, he texts back, and turns his phone off, putting it on the bedside table before rolling over and falling asleep.
* * *
A few nights later, he gets a call from Clarke.
“Hey,” she says, “Listen, I’m sorry for the short notice, but I covered an extra shift for Jasper so he could take Maya out, and I just missed the last bus. Is there any chance I can crash at yours?”
He meets her at the door with blankets and pillows already set up on the sofa.
“I brought gifts,” she says, holding out a bottle of wine and some chocolate.
“How romantic,” Bellamy drawls, and gets a flat glare in response.
He steps back to let her in and she heads straight for the kitchen, shedding her scarf and coat on the way. In the kitchen she curls her hand to twist open the top of the bottle, and swears when her cold fingers don't want to comply.
“Here,” he says, and takes the bottle from her, twisting the cap off. “You get the glasses.”
She's stayed over at his enough times now that she knows where they are, gets two down from the shelf and hands them over. He pours a liberal amount of wine into both, is pleasantly surprised when it turns out to be quite nice.
“So what are we celebrating?” he asks.
Clarke frowns. “We’re not celebrating anything?”
The chocolate she tears open and breaks into pieces, putting on the counter between them. She takes the first two for herself, popping them into her mouth.
“You just felt like treating me with chocolate and wine?” he asks, and takes a piece for himself.
“Yeah,” Clarke says, still frowning. “Well, I’m always here, staying over, and you don’t say no.”
Bellamy shrugs. “You needed somewhere to stay, I'm not going to say no.”
There is a small, awkward pause, where he realises that at one time, she might have expected him to. They’ve come quite a way since then, far enough that he now knows how she likes her coffee, the smell of her vanilla body wash, how she always leaves the crusts of her toast, and the feel of her fingertips on his arms as she looked after him.
“Have you had any calls today?” she asks, looking at his pager on the side. It’s an awkward attempt at changing the conversation, but he lets her have it.
“Are you asking if I rescued any more kittens?”
Clarke’s smile is hidden by her glass as she takes another drink.
“Just a small fire at someone’s house, they’d left their hair straighteners on. Could have been dealt with by the homeowner, but I think they panicked when they saw the flames.” He shrugs. “I handed in my first draft for the PhD today, though.”
“Oh? How’d it go?”
“I’ll find out in another few weeks.” The wine must be relaxing him, because he adds, “I’m more worried about the presentation.”
Clarke frowns, and snaps off another piece of the chocolate. “Why?”
“I don’t like talking in front of people I don’t know.” He’s more of a silent type, just wanting to get on with things. With his friends, he can talk for hours about what he’s been studying, his interests, but with strangers, he’s always second-guessing himself.
“Guess I better learn to like it, though, if I’m going to work up to being a professor,” he says, looking down into his glass.
As he reaches for the bottle to top up their drinks, Clarke says, “You want to be a professor?”
“Yeah. Ancient History. Greeks, mainly. The politics of war.” It feels strange, to be telling her about this. He glances up, and finds her looking back at him curiously. “You sure you want to hear about this?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, and puts her glass down so she can boost herself up to sit on the edge of the breakfast bar, clearly getting comfortable.
This is another fact he now knows about Clarke: she doesn’t like to sit straight. On a sofa, she’ll curl up in a ball. On an armchair she’ll sit cross-legged, or with her knees pulled up to her chest. In the kitchen, she prefers to sit on the breakfast bar, rather than the stools.
Usually, he'd make some sort of comment, anything to get a rise out of her and that little glare, but this time he just leaves her there, her legs swinging as she takes another drink of her wine.
He starts off by telling her about what he’s studying, and when she doesn’t look immediately bored he starts to elaborate, giving more detail, explaining why he was drawn to his field of study in the first place. He doesn't tell a lot of people about his PhD, figuring they're not really that interested, but Clarke doesn't change the conversation, even when he starts telling her a little about his thesis.
Clarke’s a good audience, looking genuinely interested by what he has to say. She asks questions to clarify a few points, even gives her opinion on some of the events he’s studying. By the time he’s finished the wine is all gone, and the clock on the wall is ticking over to 1am.
Bellamy swears when he realises and says, “Sorry, I bet you’re tired. You should have said.”
Clarke shakes her head, even as she muffles a yawn in her hand. She waves her other hand at him, saying, “No, it was interesting. I’m not an academic, but I’d say you’ve got nothing to worry about, when it comes to the presentation.”
He has to try really, really hard not to smile at that, ducks his head and looks away.
Clarke makes a move to jump down from the breakfast bar, but seems to misjudge the distance, the alcohol in her system making her uncoordinated. Bellamy moves instinctively, stepping forwards to catch her, his hands finding her waist as she lands. Clarke stumbles against him, coming closer than she intended.
Up close, he can smell the heady scent of the wine they’ve just shared on her breath, but under it there’s vanilla and something else, sweet like sugar, that clings to the curls of her hair where they’re pressed under his chin.
His grip on her waist tightens for a second, on instinct, then Clarke’s stepping away and apologising, “I did not think the floor was that far down.”
“Yeah,” he replies, not really thinking. He can still feel the warmth of her body against his.
“I should get to bed,” she says, “It’s late. Night, Bellamy.”
“Night, Clarke,” he says absently.
She gives him a small smile, then disappears into the bathroom to get ready.
Left alone in the kitchen with the empty wine bottle, he presses his fingertips together and tries to forget the feel of her.
* * *
In the morning he spends a few moments lying in bed, reminding himself that Clarke is just a friend. The strange moment last night had just felt like more because of how much wine they'd had, and how late it was. He would have caught anyone, stumbling as they jumped down from something.
He heads into the shower, where some of her things are already on the shelf. When he's dried and dressed, he finds Clarke in the kitchen, standing on her tiptoes and trying to reach the top shelf of the cupboard where he keeps the mugs.
“Here,” he says, stepping up behind her.
He reaches up easily to the shelf, curling his fingers over the top of two of the mugs to bring them down. His balance shifts slightly as he moves, he rests a hand on Clarke’s shoulder to steady himself.
Clarke doesn’t move, even when he sets the mugs down on the counter in front of her.
His hand stays on her shoulder, his palm resting on the wing of her shoulder blade. He can feel the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her scrubs. Her chest rises and falls with her breathing.
Realising what he’s doing, he shakes his head, stepping back.
The kettle whistles.
The moment goes, and Clarke makes them both a cup of coffee.
When she goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth, he goes along with her, leans as casually as he can in the doorway and says, “You know, you could just leave a toothbrush and things here. If you’re going to be here quite a bit. Which you are. You know, for convenience. Yeah.”
The words emerge inelegantly, making him wince and duck his head, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. He’s not exactly used to asking people to leave their stuff; he doesn’t really do the whole girlfriend thing.
When he looks up, Clarke is watching him in the mirror, faintly amused. “Smooth.”
Bellamy scowls, and her expression softens.
“I’ll bring extras next time,” she says “It’s a good idea.”
She finishes brushing her teeth and then turns to face him, leaning back on the sink, “Good job you don’t have a roommate though, to get all suspicious whenever he sees them.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, “I’ll just have to remember to hide them whenever I have girls over.”
Clarke frowns slightly - she's never approved of his dating habits - but doesn’t make a comment about it. Instead, she says, “Raven’s staying at Wick’s on Thursday, so I probably won’t be over until the weekend.”
“That’s fine,” he replies, “Just send me a text or something.”
Clarke nods, turning back to the mirror to do her hair, and he leaves her to it, heading into his bedroom to get changed. When he emerges again she’s gone, but she’s left her bodyscrub in the shower.
* * *
Octavia is a force of nature.
Since moving out and going to University, he’s barely seen her. It’s as if she decided that she’s going to have all her teenage rebellions at once, having been bound by house rules and kept under close scrutiny for all of her life.
He gets why their mother had been so overprotective - Octavia had been born premature, with her father nowhere to be seen - but he also doesn’t blame Octavia for wanting to break out.
He’d had a hand in convincing their mother to let Octavia go away to University, when it was clear Aurora Blake’s preference was for her only daughter to stay at home forever.
“Your sister, your responsibility,” his mother was fond of saying, and so he was the one Octavia called, when she’d lost her key and been locked out of her dorms at 4am, when she’d ran out of printing credits the day her essay was due, when she’d had her heart broken for the first time.
When she’d panicked about falling in love with one of the grad students, a man named Lincoln who was closer in age to Bellamy himself.
Bellamy had met him for the first time a year ago, taken in his leather jacket, tattoos and motorcycle and thought about how much his mother would disapprove. But he’d also seen the way Lincoln looked at Octavia, the gentle way he touched her, how even when she was on the other side of the room half his attention was always with her.
He’d told Lincoln to look after her, and Octavia had responded by saying she could look after herself.
She’s still as headstrong and unpredictable as ever, but Lincoln seems to have grounded her, teaching her reason and persistence and strength.
But that still doesn’t stop her turning up at his apartment occasionally, unannounced, letting herself in with the key he gave her years ago, when he told her that he would always be there for her, no matter what.
She finds him in the living area on the sofa, his feet propped up on the coffee table with his laptop balanced on his legs. Surrounding him are several piles of textbooks and pages of highlighted notes, and Clarke’s blanket and pillows are in a neat pile on the floor.
“Yo, bro,” Octavia greets, leaning over the back of the sofa to wrap her arms around him in a hug.
Bellamy smiles and leans back into the embrace, lifting a hand to curl around her arm in return. “Hey.”
“You free to go out for some lunch?” she asks, in a way that implies he’ll most likely be paying.
“Not right now,” he replies, focused on his presentation, “But give me an hour or so?”
“Sounds great,” Octavia replies, jumping the sofa arm to sit down next to him. She reaches over him for the TV control, and flicks it over to one of the music channels. Octavia is a compulsive channel-hopper, constantly flicking from one programme to another, never settling.
Having her sat next to him, pressing buttons on the remote, makes him feel like he’s back at home again.
“Jasper said they’ve opened a new Italian place near the hospital that’s pretty good,” she says, “He took Maya there a couple of weeks back.”
“Sounds good,” Bellamy replies, easy. It’s been a while since he last went out for a meal, and didn’t just reheat whatever he has in the fridge. “Is Lincoln with you?”
“No, he and Nyko are doing some research project, they looked pretty intent when I left them in the labs. Indra gave me a lift over.”
There’s something slightly different in her voice when she says the woman’s name, Bellamy glances up from his laptop. “Indra?”
“My advisor,” Octavia replies, careful not to meet his eyes. Her fingers she twists around each other, nervous. “She thinks I’ve got potential.”
Bellamy grins, and leans over to ruffle her hair. She’s got it in some complicated set of braids, and what looks like an undercut - their mother will kill her when she sees - on one side.
Octavia scowls and ducks away, hitting at his hand. “It’s not that great, she’s a hard advisor. Loads of people ask to get a new one when they get assigned her. But some of her past students have gone on to great things.”
“Sounds like the woman knows what she’s doing,” Bellamy replies, returning to his presentation.
Octavia continues to channel hop, and it’s not long before Clarke walks out of the bathroom, towelling her hair dry over one shoulder. On her way down the hall to the kitchen she passes the living room and pauses, ducking her head in.
“Hey, Octavia,” she greets, with a small smile when she sees her.
“There’s coffee in the cupboard,” Bellamy says, without looking up. “Your mug’s on the second shelf. I left it lower so you’d be able to get it.”
“Did you get milk?” asks Clarke.
“In the fridge.”
Clarke nods - or at least, does the approximation of one, with her head tilted to one side - and disappears into the kitchen.
Bellamy frowns and changes the order of a few of his slides, trying to work out which flows better, when he hears a not-so-discreet cough. He looks up.
Octavia looks across at him, one eyebrow arched. The TV behind her is paused on one channel.
“Do we need to talk?” she asks.
Bellamy frowns. “About what?”
In the kitchen, he can just hear the sound of the kettle boiling.
Octavia looks from the direction of the kitchen back to him and says, “You know, it’s pretty traditional to date someone, before asking them to move in with you.”
“What?” he demands, nearly deleting a slide.
She’s as bad as Miller, she really is.
“That’s not — Raven and Wick are dating,” he explains, “She can’t sleep when Wick’s over at their apartment.”
Octavia looks wholly unconvinced. “Why doesn’t she stay with Wells?”
“That’s what I said,” he protests, “But Wells didn’t answer his phone, and then he was working, and I guess Jasper was always with Maya, and.” He cuts himself off, frowning. “It’s not what you think.”
“Bellamy, I’ve known you from the moment I was born. You’ve never let a girl stay over at your apartment - hell, you’ve never invited me to stay over.”
“She had nowhere else to go!” His gaze flicks in the direction of the kitchen.
“Right,” says Octavia, “And out of the goodness of your heart you just let her?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” he asks.
“Hell, I didn’t even know you were friends,” Octavia says, “This is something I never thought I’d see. How long has she been sleeping over and taking showers and since when did she have her own mug—”
“I don’t know what conclusion you’re jumping to, but it’s definitely the wrong one,” he informs her, snapping his laptop case closed and getting to his feet. “There’s absolutely nothing going on here.”
“Right,” says Octavia, clearly dubious.
“We’re just friends, and she stays over sometimes because Raven’s a screamer,” he says, and, whilst Octavia is staring at him in surprise, sticks his head out into the hall to call, “Clarke?”
A few seconds later she pokes her head out of the kitchen, her hair now beginning to dry, soft and curling, around her face. “Yeah?”
“O and I are going out for some lunch, do you want us to bring anything back?”
“I’m fine, I’ve got some leftovers in the fridge at work,” she replies. “Have a good time.”
When he turns back around in the living room, Octavia is sat up on the sofa, looking over the back of it at him. She quirks an eyebrow.
“Shut up,” Bellamy says. “Lets go.”
* * *
Not two hours after Octavia’s gone, he gets a text from Jasper: i hear u and Clarke hav finally declared yr undying love & she’s moved into yr apartment, congrats! Pls to be letting us no when the housewarming party is.
From Monty: Do I need to bring chips and dips??
Bellamy doesn’t bother to reply.
* * *
He spends the next few days working overtime on his laptop, trying to get his presentation ready. He’s called into the station only once that week, to go along with Kane and Murphy to a fire safety talk at the local school.
Talking to kids is infinitely easier than talking to adults, they’re of an age that they’re amazed just by the fact he’s a fireman, even if it is only part-time. There are constant questions about the fire station and the truck and his uniform, questions that remind him of Clarke, when she’d asked him about actually rescuing kittens.
Murphy looks incredibly uncomfortable the whole time; children, apparently, are not his thing.
Of course, that only makes Bellamy enjoy it all the more.
He tries to conjure up memories of that day when he finally does his presentation, standing at a lectern in a theatre full of academics and students alike.
It doesn’t really work, but it gives him something to focus on besides how much his hands want to shake.
Eventually, the doors are pulled shut by his advisor, who nods to let him know that it’s time. Bellamy takes a breath to steady his nerves, and when he exhales, his eyes catch sight of a familiar head of blonde hair.
She looks out of place - she hasn’t got a laptop or a notepad out like all the others - but seeing her calms his racing pulse. He keeps his eyes on her as he starts to speak, and she doesn’t once look away.
He forgets about his notes halfway through, just goes on instinct and says what he feels.
It ends up being better than the notes he prepared. He still has a few stumbles, a moment when his slide doesn’t match what he’s saying, but in all, it goes much better than he could have ever hoped.
Afterwards, a couple of people stop to talk to him, asking questions and wanting to know more. His advisor smiles and claps him on the back, and leaves him to talk to the others. During one conversation, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
He doesn’t get a chance to open the text until he’s in the library, back to working on his thesis now his presentation is done.
He has two messages, both from Clarke. The first says: Not bad, Blake, not bad at all. They all seemed pretty interested to me.
The second, sent a few minutes later, adds: But I think I preferred the one in your kitchen.
Bellamy huffs out a laugh, and types up a quick reply: Because it came with wine and chocolate?
Clarke’s reply is quick, she must not yet be back at work. I may have factored that in.
He pauses before replying, typing his next text twice, deleting it, and then rewording, before deciding on a simple Thank you. He thinks Clarke will understand what he means, without him having to explain himself.
Having her there had made things a whole lot easier, made giving a speech to a room full of people he didn’t know less daunting.
Clarke doesn’t reply for a long time and when she does, it’s just a simple Any time.
* * *
The Sunday after his presentation, an emergency call takes him to the outskirts of town. It’s the worst fire that he’s actually seen, almost a whole apartment block going up in smoke. The entire station is present for the rescue, full-timers, part-timers and volunteers alike.
Bellamy misses two lectures, his breakfast, and his lunch, battling to control the fire and helping to get people to safety.
It’s almost three in the morning the next day when he finally drags himself home, and his whole body is nothing but one big ache. Exhausted, he wants nothing more than to just crawl into bed. It takes him three tries to get his key to turn in the lock.
He shrugs out of his coat in the hall, his muscles protesting the movement, and it takes him five tries to get his fingers to cooperate to unlace his boots. There’s movement from the living room as he tries to get his eyes to focus.
“Bellamy?”
Clarke stands in the doorway, wrapped up in a blanket. On the TV behind her he can just see the news, showing clips of the fire he was just helping to put out. In the darkness she’s all softness and shadows, backlit by the warm light of the lamp on the side table, her body wrapped up in the blanket like a cocoon.
“You’re still awake?” he asks, finally managing to kick off his boots.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she replies, edging closer. “Wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
Some sort of feeling stirs in his chest at that, but he’s too tired and too out-of-it to analyse what it means. “Here I am,” he says, “Safe and sound.”
“Lucky me,” Clarke replies, soft.
Her eyes, in the darkness, are still so blue.
“You should sleep,” he says. “You’ve got a long shift tomorrow.”
“I will,” Clarke promises. “You know, now I know you’re alive.”
Bellamy half-smiles, and without thinking, leans across the distance between them kiss the top of her head, wrapped in blankets. “Go to sleep, Princess.”
Gathering strength, he heads down the hall to his bedroom. He’s almost at the door when he hears, “Goodnight, Bellamy.”
* * *
The side-effect of telling Clarke she can leave things at his apartment is that she leaves things absolutely everywhere in his apartment.
His shower shelf becomes filled with all sorts of shampoos and conditioners and body scrubs, taking up so much room there’s barely space for his bottle of all-in-one. A purple toothbrush appears next to his, along with a different type of toothpaste that he occasionally confuses for his own. A hairbrush makes its way into the cabinet with the mirror, and he finds strands of blonde hair curling across everything.
She leaves a spare hoodie in his cupboard incase it gets cold, and leaves her shoes when she’s over right in front of the door, in prime position for him to trip over whenever he’s too tired to be aware of his surroundings.
He gets used to seeing her things in various places, but when he sees her father’s watch on the coffee table, he knows it’s an accident.
He also knows she’ll most likely panic, when she realises she doesn’t have it.
So, he puts the watch in his pocket and heads over to the hospital, where he knows she’s currently on-call.
He’s not quite sure how hospitals work, and so when he gets there he just heads straight for the reception. He realises it’s a bad idea when he gives the girl on the desk - Mel, her name tag says - his name and says that he’s looking for Clarke, because her eyes go a little wide and she says, “Oh.”
“Oh?” he repeats, turning to watch as she gets up from behind the desk and walks around it, “What does ‘oh’ mean?”
But Mel isn’t listening to him, is instead disappearing down the hall. It’s not until he loses sight of her that he wonders if he was supposed to follow, and by then it’s too late to do anything but stand there and wait.
He’s reading some flyers tacked to a noticeboard when he hears his name, “Bellamy.”
Clarke sounds a little breathless, she looks surprised to see him there.
Trailing behind her are Jasper and Monty with Mel. Monty waves when he sees him, Jasper grabs hold of his arm and drags him off to the reception desk.
Bellamy gives half a wave back, confused, and turns to look at Clarke.
“Shouldn’t they be driving an ambulance?” he asks.
“They just brought someone in,” Clarke says. She’s frowning. “What are you doing here?”
It comes out a little short, not what he’s used to. He frowns back at her as he says, “Should I not be?”
He is painfully aware of Jasper, Monty and Mel the receptionist in his peripheral vision, trying subtly to look like they’re not listening in at all.
Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “I assume you’ve got a reason?”
If he’d known she was going to be this off with him, he wouldn’t have come. He almost wants to just tell her to forget it, and leave, but he’s not coming all this way for no reason.
When he pulls her father’s watch out of his pocket, her expression shifts, the hard edges softening. She holds a hand out for him to drop it into, his fingertips just brush her palm.
She closes her fingers around the watch and looks up at him, surprised.
“I knew you’d be worrying about where it is,” he explains, and shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I wasn’t busy, so I thought I’d bring it over.”
“Thanks,” she replies, soft.
“Any time, Princess,” he says with a smile.
Clarke’s answering smile is hesitant, like the dawning sun. There’s an answering feeling in his chest, ignored until now, but seeing Clarke smile at him like that seems to have shifted it, and he thinks he knows what she’s going to say, when she starts, “Bell—”
At that exact moment a stack of patient charts goes toppling off the reception desk, sending papers flying. Jasper goes flailing after them, followed by Mel, whilst Monty just stands there with a hand over his face.
The moment breaks.
“Well,” says Bellamy, “I guess that’s my clue to leave.”
When he glances down at Clarke, by his side, she looks exasperated - but fond. “I should go sort them out, before they hurt themselves.”
“See you Thursday night?”
“Yeah. Thanks again for the watch.”
Bellamy watches as she goes over to help with the chaos, then turns and heads back out of the hospital.
* * *
“Are you going to Harper’s thing tonight?” Bellamy asks, Friday morning when he’s tugging on his boots. He’s required at the fire station today, standard training, and as such actually has to wear his uniform.
Clarke sits cross-legged on the sofa she uses as a bed in her scrubs, her hands curled around the mug he’s come to see as hers.
She’s never actually seen him in full uniform before, her eyes had gone wide when he’d emerged from the bedroom. She still can’t quite look him in the eyes, keeps glancing at his arms and his chest.
“Maybe,” she replies, “It’s at the Dropship, right?”
“Yeah,” Bellamy says, putting his foot down on the floor with one last stamp, and resting the other on the edge of the coffee table so he can tie the laces. “Some sort of happy hour. Drinks are two-for-one, or so I hear.”
“Jasper said he and Monty are going, and Monty mentioned something about Miller?”
“Yeah, he’s not working at the restaurant tonight.”
Both boots tied up and ready to go, Bellamy stands up from the armchair and straightens his shirt. “Maybe I’ll see you there, then?”
Clarke seems fascinated by the badge on the sleeve of shirt, she shakes her head before looking up at him and replying, “Yeah, maybe.”
His shift at the fire station goes quickly. It’s good to spend some time with the full-time firefighters, and Kane’s the current captain on duty.
The thought has crossed his mind before about applying to be taken on full-time, but it would mean dropping his PhD, and if he’s honest with himself, he’ll always prefer research and study.
Still, he likes the time spent working out, pushing his body hard enough that it will be aching tomorrow. It’s good to catch up on procedures, too, and small changes to the regulations and equipment.
Though the best bit, of course, is that he gets a full night off, as they’re never on-call after a training day.
When he gets to the Dropship it’s well into the night; he’s missed happy hour entirely, but not his friends. Miller is just inside the door when he enters, greets him with a cheer that says he definitely took advantage of the two-for-one deals. At his side is Monty, looking flushed, he grins widely when Bellamy greets him.
Across the room Jasper twirls Maya around on the dancefloor. Harper and Monroe are dancing together next to them, though Harper stops when she sees him.
“Bellamy!” she declares.
Bellamy raises his hand in a wave, smiling. Harper and Monroe grin and wave back.
“—missed happy hour, man,” Monty is saying at his side, “Where were you?”
It’s then that Bellamy spots Clarke at the bar, her back to him as she waits to be served. She’s wearing heels for once, and her hair is loose and curled. She’s still in jeans, of course, but the top is a little more fancy than her usual. She looks good.
“Work,” Bellamy replies, clapping Monty on the shoulder, and heads past him and Miller over to the bar.
Clarke doesn’t notice him approaching, her attention focused on a beer mat she stands balanced on one side, her index finger keeping it from toppling. Bellamy steps between two people to stand behind her, resting one arm on the bar at her side.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he greets.
Clarke jumps and lets go of the beer mat, turning to glance over her shoulder. When she realises it’s him, she relaxes, almost but not quite leaning back against him. “I could use more than one.”
He pulls his wallet out. “Let me.”
Clarke tilts her head back to arch an eyebrow up at him.
“Well, you did save my life from cat scratch whatever that time,” he says, “I figure I owe you.”
Clarke’s lips twitch almost into a smile.
It takes a while to get served, but he doesn’t really notice. Clarke’s a warm presence just in front of him, fitting easily into the curve of his arm as he leans one side against the bar. It’s nice to stand with her, he realises, to just talk about normal things, when they aren’t both half-asleep in his apartment.
Clarke surprises him by ordering shots when they finally get served, and for a short girl, she really can hold her drink. She knocks back two shots in quick succession, pausing only to scrunch up her nose, then twists out from the curve of his arm, to carry her drink over to the table where the others sit.
The rest of the night passes in good conversation and cheer, it feels like ages since he last got to spend time with them all. He catches up on things with Raven, shares sympathies with Miller about having to work and study at the same time, listens to Jasper and Monty's latest schemes, and spends most of the night with his leg pressed against Clarke’s under the table.
He even manages to get a dance out of her, but Clarke’s not really the dancing type. He gets a better dance from Harper, though she’s so drunk he’s mostly just holding her up to stop her from falling.
Murphy shows up almost an hour after he does, and is summarily drunk under the table by Clarke and Raven, in a concerted effort that sees them high-fiving afterwards.
Once the night really gets going, Bellamy doesn’t get to spend too much time with Clarke, but he’s always aware of her - more aware of her than he remembers being, in the past. Throughout the night he finds that she’s always just there, at the edge of his consciousness, talking or laughing with the others.
He’s never really noticed her so much before, the way she frowns slightly when she’s thinking, how passionate she can get when she’s arguing a point. She isn’t anywhere near as dressed up as some of the other girls in the bar and yet still she stands out, to him. She’s only small, but there’s something about her that makes her seem so much more.
He doesn’t know how he’s ever not noticed her before.
Late in the night he finds her alone, standing at one of the tall tables. Her attention is focused elsewhere, she doesn’t even notice him stepping up beside her.
Across the room, Raven and Wick are talking by the bar. Raven’s sat on one of the bar stools, resting her leg and looking unimpressed, as Wick leans towards her and says something with a grin that he evidently thinks is very funny.
Raven looks like she’s trying extremely hard not to be charmed - and, in Bellamy’s opinion, is failing miserably.
“They’re kind of cute,” Bellamy says.
Clarke startles, then turns to give him the kind of look that could strip paint.
Bellamy grins back down at her, and after a few seconds, her lips twitch as if she’s going to smile and she looks away, back at Raven and Wick.
“Looks like your place is off-limits for tonight, then,” he points out. “You staying at mine?”
“You don’t mind?” She sounds surprised.
“I never do.”
Clarke gives him a real smile this time, brief and surprised, like the sun rising. The feeling in his chest from the hospital responds, he curls his hand around his beer bottle. It amazes him, how easy it is now to talk to Clarke, to invite her over to his place it just feel normal.
Easier still to find her a little while later, when the night is getting dark and the weather is getting cold, to place a hand on her elbow to get her attention and say, “You ready to go?”
Clarke downs what's left in her drink and says her goodbyes. Bellamy waits for her at the door and holds it open, as she tugs on her coat and her scarf.
Outside, the chill creeps into his skin, he hunches his shoulders in his coat and feels Clarke curl her arm around his.
“Bloody heels,” she explains, when he glances down at her.
She never really has been the type for heels. The only shoes that ever clutter up his hallway are boots and trainers, practical and plain.
As soon as they enter his apartment she kicks off her shoes with a sigh of relief, and heads straight for the kitchen. He turns the lights on in the hall and unfastens his coat, throws it on the hook as he follows her.
She's already poured them both a glass of water, is sat on the breakfast bar with her hands curled around her own. Seeing her there, her legs swinging, her blonde hair long and her eyes the colour of the night sky just before dawn, settled into his apartment like she belongs there, he quite suddenly gets it.
He doesn't pick up his glass of water, instead he takes hers from her hands, and whilst she's still frowning at him in confusion, leans forwards and kisses her.
For a moment, everything is silent.
Clarke's breath falters against his lips, her hands stay in the air between them, as if holding an imaginary glass. Then, just when he thinks he's made a terrible mistake and misjudged the situation entirely, she moves.
Her lips part and then she's kissing him back, her hands curling in the front of his shirt to pull him closer. He'd started out soft, gentle, but Clarke pulls him straight into fierce, consuming. She kisses the same way she argues, passion and fire.
His hands rest on the breakfast side on either side of her hips, to stop him from toppling forwards onto her. It would be easy, to lose himself completely - the way he has been doing, for the past few months, ever since she first knocked on his door and walked into his life.
But still, it doesn't escape him that they've both had quite a bit to drink.
“Wait,” he says, starting to pull back. Clarke keeps a hand curled around the front of his shirt, the other on his waist. “Clarke.”
“What?” She's frowning, and that's never a good sign.
“Shouldn't we - we should talk about this.”
“What's there to talk about?” Her frown deepens, he feels the sudden urge to do anything to get her to smile again.
He forces his thoughts to focus, to think past what his body wants. “Well, this, I mean, do you even...”
“Do I even want to what?” she asks. “Kiss you?” Clarke sighs, and the hand on the front of his shirt relaxes, trailing down so it can mirror the other and come to rest, lightly on his side. “Bellamy Blake, do you think there's any way you could ever make me do something I didn't want to do?”
He knows there isn't; the very idea makes him smile. No one, not even her own mother, could make Clarke Griffin do something if she didn't want to.
“I guess not,” he replies.
“Now are you going to make up for all those nights you've left me alone on the couch, or what?” she asks.
“What?” His voice goes hoarse.
“You might be a pretty decent firefighter and very smart historian, Bellamy, but you are absolutely awful at picking up on hints.”
“You dropped hints?”
“I moved half my stuff into your apartment.”
“I asked you to?”
“I came over, even when Wick wasn't staying with Raven.”
“I...” He pauses, and frowns. "How long have you been trying to drop hints?”
“Does it matter?” She asks. Her hands are wandering again, one finds its way to behind his neck, fingers curling in the soft strands of hair. It makes a shiver run down his spine, he flexes his shoulders back, and she runs her other hand up his chest.
“I guess not,” he replies, and leans in to kiss her again.
* * *
The next morning, he wakes up to an empty bed.
He rolls out of bed and pulls on a pair of soft tracksuit bottoms. On his way to the kitchen, he passes the living room. Clarke's blanket and pillow are by the side of the sofa as usual, unused from the night before.
The strong smell of coffee greets him in the kitchen.
Clarke stands with her back to him, wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxers. Her hair looks like someone spent most of the night running their hands through it, and there's the hint of a lovebite blossoming where her neck meets shoulder.
She turns her head slightly when he comes up behind her, reaching around her for his mug. “Morning.”
“Morning,” he yawns. “What time do you have to be at work?”
“Not for another few hours," she replies, leaning back against him. “Why?”
“Well, if I remember correctly, someone told me she's a cuddler, and so far, I'm seeing no evidence of that.”
Clarke snorts softly. “Are you asking me to come back to bed?”
There's no sense in lying about it. “Yes.”
Clarke rolls her eyes, but it's fond, and when he leans in to kiss her, she smiles against his lips.
It's a while before they finally make it back to the bedroom.
* * *
(Four days later, he stays over at Clarke's for the first time, and wakes up in the morning to find a terse note from Raven on the kitchen counter, to say she's gone to stay at Wick's.
Clarke grins when she sees it, and pins it to the fridge with a magnet.)