Work Text:
Bellamy’s with Miller and Monroe when he sees her.
She’s turned away, leaning against the bar, and the low back of her dress makes his mouth go dry. He swallows as his eyes trace the way the gold dress hugs her curves. She looks beautiful in a way that takes his breath away.
Miller shoots him a concerned look when Bellamy excuses himself but he ignores his friend, stuffing his nervous hands into his pockets as he walks over to the bar.
Her shoulders tighten at the sound of his voice, and the reaction, so small and seemingly insignificant, stings.
But then she turns to face him and he loses the air in his lungs.
…
“I never expected to like you, Bellamy Blake,” her voice, quiet and low, reaches Bellamy from behind.
He turns to find Clarke standing in the kitchen doorway, considering him with steady eyes.
The music thumps through the wall, the party Bellamy decided to throw to celebrate the start of his last year of high school still going strong.
Octavia had only promised not to mention the party to their mom—who was away for the weekend with her boyfriend—if she could invite some of her own friends. Bellamy didn’t think his mom would really care that he was throwing a party in the first place—she was a pretty hands-off parent—but he also didn’t mind if Octavia invited some people. A lot of her friends were his friends, too. Case in point: Clarke Griffin.
“Is that so?” he chuckles.
Clarke sways when she nods, more than a little tipsy, her fingers still loosely grasping a can of beer.
Bellamy steps forward, ready in case he has to catch her. He grins when she wobbles again.
Clarke pauses, her eyes fixed on his mouth. Her hand comes up to touch his smile. Her thumb presses lightly into the corner of his lips, her fingers cool against his jaw. His breath jumps and heat creeps up his neck. The smile slides off his lips, but she doesn’t move her hand away.
“Clarke…” his voice is unsteady.
“You have dimples when you smile, I never noticed that before,” she says quietly.
She stares at him for another beat of silence. Then, abruptly, she lets go and steps back. Gone before Bellamy can collect himself.
He takes a deep breath and tells himself he’s had too much drink. That he’s not thinking straight.
(How else could you explain that he just wanted to kiss Clarke Griffin?)
…
It’s been months since she visited, years since she lived nearby, and God, does he miss her.
He misses her voice, her smile, the way she throws her head back when she laughs and the way she can never seem to drive anywhere until she finds the perfect song.
He misses her terrible puns and getting to see her sleepy and rumpled in the morning before she’s had her coffee.
He misses their inside jokes and how she’s the only person in the world who’s ever understood him completely.
But he can’t say all that, so instead he just says, “I’ve missed you,” and quickly chases those words with others so she doesn’t know how pathetically wrecked he is over her. Or how much the distance between them hurts.
Luckily, what he says seems to be enough and she finally, finally looks at him.
Her eyes are sky blue mid-July skies. He’s almost too distracted to notice the brittle sheen of her smile. But he knows her and he can tell she’s lying. She makes up some excuse about jet-lag that doesn’t fool him for a second.
Hurt hardens into frustration.
“I don’t believe you, Clarke. We haven’t spoken in months. The only way I knew you were alive is because you were still keeping in touch with everyone else.”
Everyone, but me, he doesn’t say.
He almost regrets his words when Clarke looks down and away from him. But he can’t and won’t pretend he’s fine with how things are.
“We’ve talked.”
“Twice. In 8 months. Clarke, I don’t understand. Is this because of what I said? Before you left?” The words slip out in a rush before he can catch them.
The memory feels like a weight on his chest, making it harder to breathe. It’s haunted him since she left.
It was the first and only time he’s ever told someone he loves them. And she left anyway.
Three years ago he poured his heart out in a bout of liquid bravery and it hadn’t changed anything. He’d told her how he felt in a mistake of drunken judgment and she’d still moved away.
He clenches his teeth to stop himself from cursing when they’re interrupted before she can answer his question.
…
Gas station lights. Exhaust pipes. The sun sinking low on the horizon bathing the world in orange.
Clarke’s worn chuck taylors rest on the dash as she fiddles with the radio, trying to find a song she likes. Her brows pucker in concentration as she searches for the perfect melody with the kind of fierce determination that pervades everything she does.
Bellamy’s leaning against his truck, waiting for the tank to fill. The windows are down, letting the warm air filter through the cab. Clarke huffs in frustration before changing the station yet again.
“Nothing’s good enough for you, Princess.”
She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t answer.
Bellamy glances over to the convenience store where Miller’s stocking up on supplies. Or, in other words, candy and snacks. (Cherry coke for Clarke, barbeque chips for Miller, and Junior Mints for Bellamy. “Grandpa,” Clarke had muttered when Bellamy told Miller what he wanted.)
A soft breeze stirs the summer air as Clarke finds a station and music crackles out of the old radio in his truck. Clarke looks over to grin at Bellamy.
His gaze lingers a few beats too long on her lips. Clarke’s mouth quirks and she tilts her head.
“You okay, Bell?”
He shakes himself, cocky smile sliding back into place.
“Feel like dancing, Princess?”
She laughs and turns the volume up before sliding across the bench and hopping down out of the cab.
Music fills the quiet in the near empty gas station. Bellamy twirls Clarke around, making her laugh when he dips her.
He’s just as uncoordinated as the first time they danced, over two years ago, but the press of Clarke’s smile against his shoulder makes everything worth it.
He almost tells her then. Almost says those three little words that could change everything.
But before he can, the door to the convenience door slams and Miller’s walking back over to them. Clarke steps away and Bellamy turns to pull the nozzle out of his truck, ignoring the way his hands shake.
(He can’t help feeling like his life is a medley of missed moments. Of ‘almost, but not quite’s.)
…
It’s so much the same yet so different when Bellamy pulls Clarke into him on the dance floor. He’s steadier now, moving in time with the rhythm of the song, no longer worried he’ll step on her toes.
A sense of ease washes over him when her body curls into his, fitting just right. She smells like flowers and falling.
She lays her head on his shoulder, her nose grazing his neck and he has to force himself not to react.
Too soon, the song winds down. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he grabs her hand and leads her from the room.
Outside it’s cold, quiet, and he wishes he’d, at least, grabbed his suit jacket before pulling Clarke away from the party.
They’re swathed in shadows. Even in the dark, Clarke won’t meet his eyes. His fingers twitch as he stops himself from reaching out for her again. He misses the warmth of her pressed against him.
He grits his teeth; he has to fix this.
“Clarke, I don’t know what I did, but I can’t take this. I can’t take not talking to you, not seeing you. God, I’ve missed you like hell these past few months and you won’t even look at me.”
“I—You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Her acquiescence surprises him, but he pushes forward, desperate to mend whatever’s broken between them.
“What did I do, Clarke?” He forces himself to drag up the painful shard of memory again, “This is about what I said before you left, isn’t it? Because—”
“No!” she cuts him off, “It’s not that. You haven’t done anything, Bell.”
The words feel like a punch in the gut.
“Then, fuck, Clarke. What is it?”
“I’m in love with you,” she whispers.
The world stops.
She rushes on, “And it’s not your fault, I just, I need time, okay? To get over you. It’s just—it’s too hard right now, and it’s not fair to either of us—”
The next few moments are a blur. But he’s pretty sure he tells her he loves and he’s definitely sure that kissing Clarke Griffin is the best feeling he’s ever had in his life.
It’s a while before they surface for air, a smile breaking across his face. Clarke’s nose is red from the cold and her curls are messy from where he's run his fingers through them. She’s never looked more beautiful.
He kisses her again. (He wants to spend the rest of his life kissing her.)
As he moves his hand to grasp the back of her neck his fingers brush against something hard. Clarke hisses and when he pulls away he sees that it’s a necklace and that the chain is tangled in her hair. He smiles and carefully unknots the necklace from her hair, her breath is hot and distracting against his neck. White mist in the chilled air.
He manages to disentangle the chain. The necklace is the only piece of silver against the swath of gold she’s wearing. He pulls the chain from underneath her dress and freezes, speechless, his eyes glued to the silver ring resting against her heart.
When he finds his voice, it's unsteady, “You kept this?”
It’s the ring he gave her for her 21st birthday. He’d sent it in the mail since he’d still been overseas and couldn’t give it to her in person.
It was real silver but simply adorned, branches carved into the metal in black. He’d found it in a little shop not too far from his base. It was all he could afford at the time. She’d thanked him for the gift over skype, but he’d forgotten about it after all this time.
He’d given it to her seven years ago.
Clarke nods, “I don’t go anywhere without it,” she whispers.
He kisses her again, deep and dirty. His tongue parts her lips and he licks into her mouth, desperate to taste every edge of her. She moans against his lips.
He presses Clarke against the wall, pinning her with his hips, feeling the way the soft lines of her body give to the hard lines of his.
“I’m so fucking in love with you,” he whispers against her hot mouth.
Her breath escapes in ragged gasps. Bellamy sucks a mark against her neck and groans when her teeth slide against his earlobe.
He comes back up to catch her mouth with his lips, kissing her until she has to pull away to catch her breath.
She leans her head back to rest against the cold brick wall.
“We should probably go back inside,” she sighs.
“Probably,” he whispers, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he continues to press biting kisses down her neck.
Clarke laughs, the sound spreading warmth through his chest, “Bell, seriously. One of our friends is going to come looking for us eventually.”
He’s not ready to pull away, achingly aware of how long he’s waited for this and how little time they have.
He groans into her neck, “I wish California weren’t so far away.”
She stills against him. Her voice sounds odd when she speaks.
“Actually, about that,” her pulse flutters against his fingers, “I finish my last year as a resident in July. And I’ve been thinking… that maybe San Francisco just isn’t for me.”
“Really?” he pulls back and cocks an eyebrow, but the effect is lost, his smile is too sincere to be a smirk.
A grin peeks at the corner of her lips, “Yeah, it turns out I left something pretty important behind in New York.”
“Yeah?”
She nods and his smile widens. A matching grin hangs on Clarke’s lips.
He gives in first, pulling her into a deep kiss. He speaks against her lips.
“Thank god. I really didn’t want to have to move to San Francisco.”
She laughs, breathless and happy, and he can’t help his answering grin as he swallows her smile in another kiss.