Work Text:
“Need anything?” Octavia poked her face in the passenger side window, and Clarke bent her head to the left to preserve her personal space.
“We just stopped, like, 45 minutes ago,” said Bellamy from the driver’s seat. His features were stark and blue in the bright gas-station light. “I still have half my Pringles. Let’s go.”
“Clarke?”
Clarke lifted her bag of M&Ms, still mostly full, and gave a flip of the hand that said hurry up. Octavia turned and strode toward the gas station, murmuring to herself about coffee and not-my-fault.
Quiet fell inside the car, and Clarke felt it more fully after eight hours in the car with Octavia’s endless effervescence.
From the corner of her eye, she looked over to Bellamy. He gazed down at the map on his phone, and his curls fell darkly over his forehead.
Clarke took a deep, silent breath, and turned her eyes to his hands. They were strong, brown, so solid, and how many times had she longed to touch them?
What would happen, she thought, if she did? If she lifted her hand from her lap right now, reached with just a finger and traced the span of his wrist? Felt his skin, warm and alive?
What would happen if instead of just imagining, she reached up and tugged on one of his curls? Would he jerk away? Tell her to stop, that they were friends and that was all?
Or would he turn to her and smile? Reach his own hand toward her, touch her face, her lips?
The car suddenly shook with Octavia’s returning door-slam.
“OK, dorks, let’s go. What are you doing in here?”
Clarke sighed as Bellamy started the car.
“I was dreaming,” she said.