Chapter Text
Sticking her key in the lock, Clarke realized yet again how she must be ten kinds of stupid to be doing this. Her housemates would no doubt tell her the same in the morning. The guy—Bellamy, he had said, voice low and defeated—shifted behind her, clearly still uncomfortable as well.
“I’d be fine in a motel. Really.”
The key slid in, she threw him an exasperated look over her shoulder, and then walked into her house. She heard him sigh before treading in, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. Her mother had always sworn to put new flooring in, but as the head of Mt. Weather’s cardiac department, she was always just busy enough to never quite get around to it. Clarke didn’t mind though. The groaning creaks reminded her of days past: her father sweeping in through the door after work, Wells bounding out as he jovially threatened to leave her late-ass behind for school (he never did, but it had come close more often than not).
And now he—Bellamy, she reminded herself—stood just inside the door instead, the late-hour darkness deepening the tired shadows under his eyes and worry lines etched across his face. Underneath all that, she could make out his unease and lingering reluctance too.
Clarke sighed, flinging her keys onto the entryway table and toeing off her sneakers. “I just came off a thirty-six hour shift, and if I have to drive you to a motel, that’s going to be another hour of sleep I lose. Just come inside.”
Bellamy ducked his head in acquiescence, closing the door behind him. As she retreated to the closet to get some things for him to sleep on, she heard him take off his shoes too, and then pad over to the living room.
“It’s more comfortable than it looks,” she offered, tossing the blankets and pillow she found stuffed on the top shelf over the sagging but well-loved gray couch.
“It’s great.”
He shot her a tired smile, dropping his duffle to the floor. Without changing, he sank down onto the couch, face in hands, rubbing them through his hair before turning around to face her again.
“Thanks,” Bellamy whispered, and the moonlight shone brightly on his front, making the black sutures running across his forehead even more noticeable.
She nodded, and he turned away from her again, forearms braced on his knees as he let out a sigh. After one last careful glance at the back of his head, Clarke jogged up the stairs, more than ready for bed. As she undressed, letting her scrubs fall to the floor, she thought again of the weary set to his shoulders and the way he had tried to brush off her offer back in the ER. For reasons too murky for her tangle out at two in the morning, she was extremely glad her stubbornness had won out over his.
She was probably still out of her mind to bring home the injured, possibly concussed patient with nowhere to stay the night, but as she crawled into bed, replaying the genuine, relieved thanks he had repaid her with, she thought maybe she was only nine kinds of stupid.
Clarke stared over the rim of her coffee cup at her roommate, who stared right back at her from her perch on the kitchen counter.
“So, you brought someone home,” Raven finally said.
“He needed a place to stay.”
“On our couch.”
Clarke shrugged, ignoring her friend’s dubious expression. “He had a serious head injury and was planning on sleeping in his car.”
“Our couch is not that comfortable,” Raven argued.
“Our couch is great, and much better than a car seat.”
“Let me rephrase: our couch is definitely not as comfortable as your bed.”
Clarke choked on her sip of coffee, now glaring at Raven. “Head injury. He has a head injury.”
“Didn’t look that bad to me,” Raven taunted.
“He’s a patient!” Clarke hissed, glancing warily over her shoulder towards the living room. “I am not going to sleep with a patient.”
“If he’s a patient, why isn’t he staying at the hospital, instead of on our debatably comfortable couch?”
Sighing, Clarke set down her mug. “I was just trying to be helpful. Don’t turn this into a thing.”
“I’m not turning this into a thing. I’m just saying, you finally bring an insanely hot guy home after a serious sex drought and it’s only because you were beinghelpful. Sure, okay.”
Raven smirked, and Clarke threw her an exasperated look. Before she could respond, though, Bellamy let out a soft snore, reminding her how easily sound carried in the house. It used to be her favorite thing about it, because she could always hear her dad laughing and her mother talking, any time of day, even all the way up in her bedroom. It was different now, filled with the voices of her friends instead. Sometimes she still ached for how it used to be–with her family whole and around her–but the noise she had now was certainly better than the lonely silence that had pervaded the house when she had first moved back to Portland last year.
At the moment, though, she didn’t appreciate the way Raven’s voice was filling up the space, the conversation too private for a stranger to have the chance to overhear.
“You done?” Clarke grumbled.
“Just being nice,” Raven mocked one last time before slurping down a last, large gulp of her coffee.
With a withering look, Clarke handed her her own empty mug, and Raven deposited both in the sink before she swept out of the room.
“Since you might actually want to enjoy one of your days off, condoms are in the top box on my nightstand shelf,” she taunted as she walked backwards down the hall, slinging on her messenger bag. “Because I know you haven’t bothered to replace your own.”
Clarke swore at her in farewell, and not even the sound of the front door shutting could drown out her roommate’s laughter. Craning her neck around, she sighed in relief, seeing Bellamy still asleep. He needed it after the night he had had. As she debated retreating to her room to leave him in peace, her stomach rumbled rebelliously, so she decided to risk staying down here, near him, in order to satisfy her hunger.
She was halfway through an enormous bowl of Frosted Flakes–sue her, just because she was a doctor didn’t mean she made the best self-health decisions–and an article about the latest snag in the healthcare reform bill when the wooden floor creaked. When she looked up, Bellamy stood in the archway between the living room and kitchen, bleary-eyed and running a hand slowly through his messy, ruffled curls.
“Morning,” he said, his already low voice even rougher from sleep.
“Coffee is in the pot, but it’s probably cold by now,” Clarke offered, watching him stare at her dazedly.
He didn’t move, just looked at her, and then down at his feet, hand cupping the back of his neck. Finally, after a pause that bordered on awkward, she asked, “You’re not one of those weird people who don’t drink coffee, are you?”
“I drink coffee,” he reassured her, glancing up with more awareness in his eyes now.
“Then help yourself. Seriously.” She gave him a half-smile, because he seemed to need convincing.
With one last glance in her direction, he shuffled forward, stifling a yawn, pausing to stare at the pot on the coffee maker. Then he reached for the cupboard above, as if doing it by rote, only pausing when opening it revealed an extremely disorganized collection of tupperware.
“Sorry, mugs are in that one,” she corrected, pointing three doors down and wincing at how high-pitched her voice sounded. She wasn’t nervous, or excited, but something about him made her words tumble out faster than usual.
He shot her an embarrassed hint of a smile, reaching now much more hesitantly for the mug. He emptied the remaining brew from the pot into it, then continued staring at the machine.
“Uh, we don’t have cream, and sugar is in the canisters by the toaster,” she offered.
He was still back-to when he replied, “I drink it black, even though my sister”–he paused, shoulder blades shifting uncomfortably, mirroring the tension in his voice–“insists it takes like battery acid plain.”
“She’s not wrong,” Clarke teased softly.
Bellamy let out a huff of a laugh. “Just tell me where you keep your stock so I can make more.”
“Oh! I can do that.” She hopped off her stool, ready to hurry over but he twisted around, stopping her with a firm, sheepish gaze.
“Clarke,” he rasped, the sound of her name on his lips doing something funny to her insides. “You let a virtual stranger stay in your house after he drunkenly injured himself and threw up on you in the ER while you patched him up. The least I can do is make you more coffee.”
“I told you, everybody gets nauseous when they get stitches,” she murmured, clutching the granite kitchen countertop tightly. “And really, I don’t need any more caffeine today.”
As he considered her, he took a sip of his own drink, the line of his shoulders relaxing as he did so. “Too addicted?”
“Monty thinks so,” she replied, then clarified. “My roommate.”
“The one who was here earlier?”
“No. That was Raven. Sorry, did we wake you?” Clarke bit her lip, hoping he hadn’t actually heard their conversation.
“Nah,” he said, looking down at his mug. Then he downed the rest of his drink in three large gulps, set the mug on the counter, and caught her gaze again, unwaveringly. “Thanks, for everything really, but I should get going.”
He was already in the living room folding up the blanket he had used before she collected her thoughts. “You left your car at the hospital, and I can tell you, it is definitely too far to walk to.”
His hands stopped, clutching the edges of the tattered plaid flannel. “Oh. Right.”
“I’ll drive you,” she stated firmly, heading for the hallway.
Sighing, he finished folding the blanket and then stacked it neatly on top of the pillow as he said, “I’m sure you have better things to do today. I don’t mind walking.”
“Keys are already in my hand,” she said, grabbing them and her purse from the side-table where she’d left them the night before. “You’re not going to win this fight.”
His lips flexed upwards in exasperation, a reaction that seemed far too familiar for less than a day of knowing him. She just smiled back, dangling the keys from her fingers.
“I’m fine, you know,” Bellamy reassured her, folding his arms stubbornly. “Not even all that sore.”
“Just get in the car,” she complained, heading for the front door without looking back.
He did follow, like Clarke knew he would. By the time he threw his duffle in her backseat, she already had the finicky engine of her beat-up Jeep running. It still stuttered when she put it into reverse, though, resisting gearing up in the chilly morning air. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she frowned, both at him and the car.
“You should get that looked at,” he suggested, though it sounded more like an order.
“Trust me, Raven has tried everything. She’s just temperamental,” Clarke argued.
“She?”
Not liking his skeptical tone, she replied testily, “Yes, she.”
“Don’t tell me your car has a name.”
“Jeanine is a perfectly good car,” she shot back, jiggling the stick shift until the ugly whining stopped and the car finally backed out of the driveway.
Bellamy seemed to mutter a disagreement under his breath, which Clarke chose to ignore. Jeanine had seen her through a lot: college, medical school, and the first year of her residency. She hadn’t given up on Clarke, and there was no way Clarke was going to give up on her, no matter how much Raven criticized ‘that stupid hunk of wheeled metal that is a sorry excuse for a car.’ She was just pissed that there was finally something mechanical that she couldn’t fix, and to be honest, Clarke liked Jeanine even more for that reason.
Despite his initial protests, Bellamy remained silent for the rest of the drive, staring out the window a little too pointedly to be unintentional. Clarke, however, kept glancing over at him, more frequently than was probably safe, instead of keeping her focus on the road. The morning light made his skin take on a golden tone, the spattering of freckles across his face much more pronounced than they had been last night under the fluorescent lights of the ER, or the shadows of her dark living room. He carried his head less tenderly, so she assumed the pain from his cut was better this morning, but the tension in his shoulders was the same. She had a feeling that had nothing to do with his injury, but something else, something that slashed much deeper than a superficial head wound.
“We’re here,” she announced softly when she parked in front of the hospital lot.
He startled, gaze pulled away from the shopping plaza across the way. “Thanks,” he murmured, flashing her a tight smile before grabbing his bag and climbing out.
“Bellamy,” Clarke called out right before he slammed the door shut.
He bent down, looking at her expectantly. “Yeah?”
Her words caught in her throat for a few seconds too long before she was able to say, “Take care of yourself.”
Not even the swash of messy hair falling over his eyes could hide the warmth and gratitude in them. “Will do.”
The door clicked shut, and she watched Bellamy walk away, shoulders hunched and hands jammed into his pockets, as if he was carrying more weight than just the small duffle hitched over one shoulder. He’s just a patient, Clarke repeated to herself, knowing she had done as much as she could for him–more than enough, her friends might say.
So after one last look, she slammed on the gas, racing out of the lot before she could roll down the window and yell at him to get back in the car.
Clarke did a surprisingly good job at keeping thoughts of Bellamy far from her mind until that evening when Raven came home, flopping down on the couch between her and Monty.
“Here you go,” she said, then flicked some things at her. “And what the hell are we watching?”
“Miller’s choice,” Maya said, not even bothering to hide her satisfaction with that answer.
“ANTM is a good show, okay,” her fourth roommate said through his teeth.
“Raven!” Clarke finally choked, hurriedly gathering the condom packets now sprinkled over her lap.
“What?” Raven said with a smug grin. “Now you won’t have an excuse to not sleep with him the next time you bring him home.”
“Who’s him?” Monty asked curiously.
“Nobody,” Clarke said through gritted teeth, glaring at Raven.
Unfortunately, her friend ignored her. “Hot patient guy that Clarke took home for a night as a stray and stupidly decided to not get laid by. He slept on the couch, for god’s sake.”
“Seriously? I thought we said no more of that after Jasper squatted here for three months,” Miller complained.
“Yeah, but nobody wanted to sleep with Jasper,” Raven shot back.
“I didn’t want to sleep with Bellamy!” Clarke exclaimed.
Miller snorted, Monty looked down at his feet, and Maya sent her a sympathetic, almost pitying smile.
Clarke felt her lips twist down sourly, because apparently all of her roommates were ganging up on her. “I sent him on his way, so you can take these back.”
Raven ignored her again, staring at the TV and starting to mock the competition, which had Miller fired up in no time. As Clarke listened to them argue, she stacked the packets into a nice pile, running her fingers over the sharp edges, making no real effort to actually return them. When she knew everyone’s focus was on the TV, she slipped them into the pocket of her sweatpants.
She probably wouldn’t see Bellamy again, that she was almost sure of, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to keep what Raven had given her, just in case.
They didn’t do her much good when she ran into him less than a week later, though, as she wasn’t wearing her sweatpants, but dirty scrubs, and after another grueling shift, she certainly wasn’t in the mood to be sexy. Actually, she was concerned and more than a little bit pissed off.
With her usual post-late shift cup of lukewarm decaf coffee in hand, she stared disbelievingly through Bellamy’s frost-covered car window, watching him sleep curled up in his backseat. His car was parked behind the coffee shop she frequented, and her eyes narrowed on the familiar apron slung across him as a blanket.
Blood pressure rising, she banged against the window, the side of her hand leaving wet marks on the glass. Bellamy swore loudly, thrashing as he sat up. When he finally focused on her, his cheeks flushed red–not from the cold–and he glared at her.
“Follow me home, idiot,” Clarke barked, not missing the stitches now absent from his forehead.
She knew that he had taken them out himself, because there had been no record of him returning to the hospital (of course she had checked, and of course she hadn’t been surprised when he hadn’t returned–though she had been unexpectedly disappointed). Of all the moronic things, she fumed as she stomped back to her car.
Clarke sat idling for a good ten minutes before she heard the low rumble of his engine start up, and the whole way home she kept glancing in her rearview, making sure his headlights didn’t disappear.
When they pulled up, Bellamy exited his car without a word, sulking as he trudged behind her up to the front door.
“You’re incredibly stupid, you know, sleeping in your car when it’s going to drop below forty at night,” she hissed, too frustrated to get the keys into the lock on the first try.
“Not all of us have our own house, bought and paid for,” he growled back as he finally followed her inside.
Clarke pressed her lips together, biting back a harsh retort, because he was right. She was lucky to have a house, even one full of ghosts and melancholy memories.
Even so, his tone grated on her, so she bit out, “You know where the blankets and pillows are. Use them.”
Tossing her keys onto the counter, she made for the stairs, not even bothering to take her shoes off.
“Clarke.”
She stopped halfway up the stairs, her pulse racing as she turned to look at Bellamy.
War raged across his shadowed face: lips pursed stubbornly, brow softening in gratitude, jaw ticking with frustration, eyes pleading apology.
“Thanks. Again.” He shifted, arms unfolding to hang helplessly by his side. As always, his shoulders were hunched, and Clarke flexed her hands, resisting the itch she had to find a way to take the tension from them.
“Anytime. And I mean it,” she whispered finally, shooting him a ghost of a smile before retreating upstairs.
Whether it was the coffee or the unsettling feeling that washed over her when she thought of the way Bellamy shivered in his sleep, Clarke remained wide awake, despite her exhaustion. Instead, she turned an idea over and over in her head, thinking of solid reasons to win Miller over, legitimate arguments to stave off Raven’s innuendoes, and how much work it would take to finish clearing out the attic space upstairs.
Those things were manageable, though, so all she really had left to do was convince him to stay.
She snorted, staring blankly at her ceiling as she pictured just how kindly Bellamy would receive her offer. Not well at all, that much she was certain of, even if she agreed to have him pay rent. He was too proud; she would probably be just the same way, so she didn’t blame him at all.
Still, she wouldn’t go down without a fight, because somehow, Clarke just knew that he was worth fighting for.