Work Text:
So we're taking the long way home
'Cause I don't wanna be wasting my time alone
I wanna get lost and drive forever with you
Talking about nothing, yeah, whatever, baby
- 'Long Way Home,' 5 Seconds of Summer
*
When Clarke appears at the door of his apartment, the first sunny day in early July, Bellamy’s more surprised than anything else. They’re friendly, sure - if he doesn’t think about those awful first months, when he took offence at anything and everything Clarke said, and she gave as good as she got - but not friendly enough for her to have come for anything important. She’s firmly ingrained in his mind as ‘little sister’s best friend,’ after all, and Bellamy’s done his best to keep the lines separating them from blurring.
The loud knock at the door startles him out of the book he’s reading, and as he ambles to the door he's mentally scoring possible visitors off of a list in his head.
It won't be O; his sister's staying at Lincoln's family's house for the first few weeks of summer, up on the coast. Probably won't be Miller either, given that Bellamy hasn't seen hide nor hair of him since Miller and his boyfriend Monty announced that they were engaged.
"Couples," he mutters disdainfully as he reaches the door.
The heavy wood swings open to reveal Clarke, half-bent over and breathing heavily from the run up to his fifth floor apartment; dressed in paint-splattered denim shorts and a top that’s falling off her shoulder, displaying smooth skin and the dark strap of her bra, and Bellamy wants to--
He tears his gaze away, dragging his eyes up to Clarke’s face, taking in her flushed cheeks and tangled hair.
“O’s not here,” he states flatly, and goes to close the door in her face.
Clarke scoffs, pushing a wayward curl out of her face and up towards the golden mass of her hair, piled on top of her head in a vaguely fancy-looking braid. Bellamy should know; he spent the better part of ten years doing Octavia’s hair in the mornings, before she decided that ‘I can do a ponytail just fine on my own, Bellamy. God.’
“How do you feel about road trips?” Clarke asks abruptly, jamming her foot in the crack between the door and the wall, and Bellamy pauses with his hand on the frame.
“I’m generally unopposed to them. It would depend on the circumstance, I guess.”
Clarke grins, suddenly and blindingly, and Bellamy steps back almost subconsciously. She takes this as invitation to step into the apartment, toeing off her battered sneakers before she takes a step further into the hallway.
“Are you off work right now?” She asks as she passes into the living room, scanning the pictures that line his walls and smiling broadly. “Oh my God, Octavia was such a cute kid.”
Bellamy fights back the burst of pride that explodes in his stomach whenever someone praises Octavia and moves to hover behind Clarke, watching in despair as she settles down on the couch with the ease of someone who’s lived there for years.
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” He asks, and Clarke tips her head back over the couch, displaying the long, graceful arch of her neck. Bellamy swallows.
“Well, they do say that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Were you surprised?” She drawls, and her eyes sparkle cheekily.
“I’ll give you that,” Bellamy allows, fighting back a smile of his own. He moves to sit beside Clarke on the sofa, the ancient leather groaning slightly under the added weight, and holds his breath as Clarke moves inestimably closer.
“And yeah,” he continues, answering her earlier question. “Teachers get summer vacation off too, remember?”
Clarke’s nose wrinkles adorably, and Bellamy finally relinquishes his self-control, grinning like an idiot at the blonde girl beside him.
"I’d forgotten about that. Guess it explains Octavia’s daily texts to ‘make sure Bellamy gets out of the house. Please.'"
Bellamy laughs, mock-offended. "Is this what this visit is for? Making sure I'm not rotting in the bath or anything?"
"Well…"
He laughs again, louder, and to his delight Clarke joins in, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"But seriously," she continues. “Do you like road trips?”
Bellamy pauses, scrubbing his hand over his jaw.
“You aren’t suggesting what I think you are, are you?”
*
"Bellamy, come on!"
“Jeez, Clarke. Hold your horses. The Grand Canyon doesn’t exactly move around.”
Clarke rolls her eyes dramatically, unbuckling her seatbelt and jumping out of her seat. Bellamy watches her through the window as she pulls her sunglasses off of the top of her head and slides them on, leaning back and tilting her face upwards.. He smiles to himself, ridiculously fond.
She’s bathed in orange light, the glow from the setting sun illuminating her skin like some kind of painting, and in Bellamy’s eyes she’s never looked better. This is Clarke at home, where she’s meant to be.
She taps on the glass to beckon him out and Bellamy heaves himself out of his truck, resting a hand against the tired red paint before hissing sharply and pulling his hand away, wincing at the heat of the metal.
“C’mon,” Clarke nudges again, and he moves to stand beside her.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She continues, and damn him if this doesn’t make Bellamy think of every rom-com trope in existence. He drags his eyes across her face and nods softly, unsure if she’s even paying attention.
“My dad always used to say he’d take me here, way back when. It was gonna be our thing, you know? Just us and the road.”
Clarke sighs wistfully, her eyes still glued to the horizon, even though they’re pretty far away.
“If I couldn’t do this with him, I’m glad I can do it with you.”
“Yeah?” Bellamy asks, reliving the past few days. Afternoons spent cruising down the highway with the windows down, Clarke’s hair whipping about her face in the breeze and the radio blasting the top forty; nights when they’ve admitted defeat and pulled into motel parking lots to sleep under the stars; arguing over directions come morning. It’s been a good way to spend time, a way that makes Bellamy wonder, with a strange kind of wistfulness, what life would be like if this was a regular thing.
“Yeah,” Clarke affirms, moving closer and entwining their fingers. “You’re alright, Blake.”
Bellamy laughs quietly, tugging Clarke closer so he can wrap an arm around her shoulder, even if it means dropping her hand. He shields his eyes from the sunset with the other, and takes a minute to savour the quiet stillness of the air. It’s a time to be remembered, he thinks.
“You know, you’re alright too.”