Work Text:
“Bellamy,” she protests, motioning up at her bra as he barges into her tent mid-change.
He waves his hand dismissively as he strolls past her and flops on her cot, letting his hair hang over his eyes to try to hide the way they trace the small curves of her breasts. Bellamy Blake is many things, but subtle isn’t one of them.
And sure, she could cover herself up, but it was nice to know someone could still look at her in that way.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before. Technically less than I’ve seen before.” He looks proud of his argument, his words slightly slurred and his cheeks ablaze. It takes all of five seconds to deduce that he’s drunk off his face. The stoic leader of the wayward youth is loose and brazen in his inebriation and she has to admit it’s a good look. (Not that she would.)
Her bemusement turns to annoyance as his lopsided grin gives way to a frown as his gaze trails down to the the scars that accent her stomach. She shoves on her short with a little more force than necessary and he finally looks away. For some reason that only works to piss her off more.
“What do you want, Bellamy?” Her voice is sharp and cutting, but trust Bellamy not to even blink.
“I thought I could braid your hair.”
The suggestion is so utterly preposterous all she can think to do is stare at him. Flushed Bellamy with eyes so intent you'd think he was defusing a bomb. Maybe in his mind he was. “You want to braid my hair.”
“Yeah,” he says simply. The what’s the worst that can happen is unsaid, but she can hear the challenge in his voice.
“Why?” For a moment he looks a bit unsure of himself and she’s sure that if he still had a drink in his hand he’d be finishing the cup. Good, she hadn’t lost her touch for unnerving men completely.
“Because I heard someone say you never let you hair down. Which yeah, of course you don’t,” he argues, as if offended on her behalf. As if that’s something to be offended by. “You can’t have your hair getting in the way while you work. But then I thought that you always wear a ponytail and maybe you might want a braid for a change.”
“And you know how to braid hair.”
“Sister.” Ah. Point.
The whole thing is ridiculous, but he’s looking at her with what might be hope, patting the spot beside him like an absolute drunken fool and she can’t quite bring herself to let him down. Not when this is the most animated he’s been since they came down from Mount Weather.
Her movements are stiff as she sits down beside him and she envies the easy way he carries himself when no one is looking.
“God, you smell like my mother.”
His eyes dart up to meet her own; staring for a moment too long as if filing that little piece of information away for later.
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk,” he insists. And yes, he really is. “I only had one cup.”
She snorts before she can help herself, because of course he’s drunk on one drink. An absolute lightweight.
“It was a big cup!” His voice is defensive as he crinkles his nose. His words only make her laugh as she reaches out a finger to run down the length of his nose to smooth out the wrinkles. If he’s offended by her mockery it’s hard to tell through the smile that now covers his face.
It’s weird seeing him like this. Playful. Relaxed. Happy, maybe. It’s not bad, but weird. She uses her arms to shift so her back is to him and he gently pulls off her hair tie before sliding it around his wrist. Long slender fingers navigate through her hair, massaging her scalp for a moment before tugging the strands lightly. She makes a sound of appreciation and he tugs a bit harder. “I seem to remember you liking that.”
“Trying to seduce me?”
“I did get you in bed with me.”
She must make a sound when his hand catches a tangle because he’s gone from flirting to apologizing in three seconds flat. “Bellamy, you’re fine. You didn’t hurt me.”
“Good.” She doesn’t need to see his face to know his intent look of concentration as his fingers go to work.
“No one has ever braided my hair before,” she says for no reason, and maybe he tucks that piece of information away, too.
“You have nice hair.”
“Going nearly a week without washing it gives it a really nice shine.”
“Ah, so that’s what that smell is.” Her elbow catches the side of his ribs and he tugs on her hair in retaliation. “Quit moving. I’m working.” She rolls her eyes and wiggles just to spite him. His fingers find her sides, her mouth betraying her as she lets out a shriek. For a moment she freezes and he stills behind her, giving her time to process that it’s Bellamy and she’s safe. She chokes out a laugh as he pulls away so they both know she’s fine. (She’s fine.) A moment passes before he speaks again. “Great, now I have to start all over again.”
She doubts it given how much he has to unravel to do so, but she doesn’t call him out on his lie. She’s always been fond of people playing with her hair, probably because no one ever did.
“How does it look,” she asks when he’s done, shifting herself so that she’s facing him.
“Like a drunk man braided your hair.”
“Cute.”
He’s looking at her now, like a general assessing the situation and planning his next five moves. “You’re ticklish.”
“You’re a dead man if you even think about it.”
“There are worse ways to die.” (They had seen enough to know.)
He gives her a moment to stop him; knows how badly she reacts to unwanted touch. She doesn’t think he’ll actually do it. Okay, yes she does, but she still lets out a startled yelp as his fingers descend upon her sides and tickles her until she’s breathless.
She falls to her back and he hovers above her, careful to give her enough room to push him away. (She’s not very good at being trapped, either.) His breath is sharp with moonshine, but for a moment she’s laughing and he’s laughing and when he smiles down at her her stomach flips like in zero-g.