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The thing about Bellamy Blake, as Clarke well knows, is that he’s incapable of not caring for things smaller and more defenseless than he is. Not when he could help instead. She knew this when he moved in with her. She knew it from the first time he gave drunk Raven a piggyback the whole way home.
What she didn’t know was how it would affect her life once he becomes her roommate.
It starts innocently enough, with Bellamy hanging a bird feeder on the balcony after he finds a nest built into a crevice there.
“How much research did you do last night?” Clarke asks, amusedly interrupting his verbal pros-and-cons rundown of different models at Home Depot. She’d come along in part because she thinks it’s funny, how worried he is about these birds who can ostensibly take care of themselves.
(She’d also come along because it’s really cute, but that’s neither here nor there.)
“I may have looked at a few comparison charts online,” he admits, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t want to spend good money on something that isn’t going to work the way I want it to.”
“I didn’t know there was a wrong way a bird feeder could work.”
“Hence the research.”
She shakes her head fondly and taps the smallest option. “Just get this one. We’re looking to feed one family, not the whole forest.”
He stares for another moment, then nods and starts putting the rest of the boxes back on the shelf.
“How come you’re never this decisive when we’re picking a restaurant for dinner?”
“My muse is fickle, Bellamy.”
“Uh-huh.”
The bird incident plays out pretty straightforwardly. He keeps the feeder full and occasionally steps out to scare away a squirrel or two, but once the nest has been empty for a few weeks, the whole thing dies down.
Of course, that’s when she comes home one evening and nearly steps in a bowl of milk that’s just sitting out in the middle of the entryway.
She swears and stumbles, frowning in confusion as she bends to pick it up. Bellamy is a notorious neat freak among their friends, and it’s unlike him both to eat his cereal on the floor by the front door, and then to not clean up after himself.
“Is this your passive-aggressive way of telling me I need to do the dishes?” She calls, dumping the milk into the kitchen sink.
“What?” She sets the bowl on the counter and follows the sound of his voice into the living room. Maybe she can convince him to make her dinner, she muses, if she promises to do the dishes right away. It’s been a long day and Bellamy’s cooking is one of the biggest perks of living with him.
“I said--” She stops short in the doorway, blinking in confusion. “There’s a cat in your lap.”
“You said that before you could even see me?” He teases. “Spooky.”
“Where did you get a cat?”
“I’m calling him Hector.”
“Of course you are.” She sits gingerly on the couch next to them, reaching out to stroke its well-groomed fur.
“I think he belongs to the neighbor. I have no idea how he got in, but he was just chilling on the couch when I got home from work,” Bellamy says, scratching underneath the cat’s chin.
“And you decided to feed him, obviously, rather than return him.”
“I knocked,” he says defensively. “No answer. I left a note though.” He pauses. “And yeah, I was afraid he’d get hungry and then start ripping up the furniture. Or yowling. Cats only have so many ways to express their unhappiness, and they’re all annoying.”
Clarke has to smile. “He probably could have gone home the same way he got in here and eaten his own food, but I see your reasoning. Maybe don’t put the bowl right inside the door next time.”
“Sorry.”
“No big deal,” she shrugs, then gives him a smirk. “You can make it up to me with your lemon chicken, though.”
He laughs and sets the cat on the couch next to him so he can get up. It complains very vocally until he reaches down to scratch behind its ears.
“I already fed you," he says placatingly. "It’s Clarke’s turn now.”
(And if, later on, she gets her chance to have his fingers running through her hair, she doesn’t bring up the comparison again.)
* * *
After that, she’s less and less surprised when things like this happen. When Bellamy carefully carries spiders outside instead of killing them, and even does the same for the mouse in their pantry. When he pulls over on the side of the road to carry a turtle safely across, or when he somehow gets roped into pet sitting for a neighbor Clarke has never even met.
“Okay, time to come clean,” Clarke says one afternoon when she catches him setting up a heat lamp for a nearly empty cage. Inside, there are two eggs that she’s pretty sure aren’t for scrambling.
His head snaps up, guilty, as if he’s doing something wrong.
“Come clean about what?” He pushes his hair out of his face, one of his signature nervous habits.
“You’re secretly a Disney Princess, aren’t you? Hence all the animal sidekicks?”
He snorts, relaxing instantly. “I just want a dress for the ball, Clarke.”
Clarke shakes her head, moving closer to peer down into the cage. “Let me guess, the mother chicken was crossing the road and something bad happened?”
“They’re duckling eggs, thanks. I figure they’ll make good class pets because I don’t have to keep them over the summer. Once they get big enough, I can release them into the lake.” He sticks a hand under the lamp as if to make sure it’s warm enough. “Five-year-olds will like ducks, right?”
“You’re more of an authority on what five-year-olds will and won’t like than I am,” she points out. “But I’m pretty sure most kids like animals, yeah. Here’s a question: if they’re class pets, what are they doing in our apartment?”
“I can’t just leave them alone over the weekend,” he says, horrified. “At least, not before they’ve hatched.”
“They’re totally going to imprint on you, aren’t they? You’re going to be their mommy," she teases, bumping her arm against his.
He bumps back, then doesn’t lean away. His skin warm where it rests against hers, his smile warmer. “You’re just jealous.”
“I am, actually,” she admits, letting her head droop to his shoulder, both of them still looking down at the immobile eggs. “I never got to have a pet growing up. My dad was allergic and my mom was too busy, so even after they got divorced, it never worked out.”
“You know, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re an adult with your own place now. You can get a pet if you want one.”
“I don’t know the first thing about taking care of a pet.”
“If only you had a roommate who knew something about animals.”
She nudges him in the side. “If only I had a roommate who is secretly a Disney Princess.”
He laughs, putting his arm around her waist to squeeze once before stepping away to fiddle with something on the cage.
“Seriously,” he says, not looking directly at her. Which means she ought to pay attention, because he’s trying to downplay whatever comes next. “You should get a pet if you want one. I’ll help you keep it alive and happy and everything.”
She bites back a smile. Leave it to Bellamy to not just come right out and say what he wants.
"What kind of pet are we talking about? I'm not really into lizards or snakes or anything like that, but I'm open to most anything else."
He shrugs, pointedly nonchalant when he says, “I’ve always kind of wanted a dog.”
“Yeah?” She takes a moment to consider this.
She likes other people’s dogs, so theoretically, she’d probably like having one of her own. Or one to share with Bellamy.
And really, that’s the clincher. He so rarely expresses things he wants for himself that she’s all in on the plan before she’s even considered the practicality of it. But she’s really good with practical planning. She can make it work.
“I could live with a dog,” she decides. He turns to study her face, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny.
“Just like that?” He asks, dubious. “I thought for sure you’d have to figure out all the details first.”
“My muse is fickle,” she teases, and he makes the same face as the first time she said it. “But yeah, I can start looking into it.”
“Cool.” He ducks his head, but he’s unable to conceal his enthusiasm, and it makes something glow within her. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
It seems like fate that less than a week later, a post pops up on her newsfeed about puppies who need adopting. Clarke sees the photos on the train home from work, and by the time she gets to the apartment, she’s practically bouncing with excitement.
“Bellamy?”
“In here.” His voice floats down the hall. “Come check this out.”
She pauses. “Are you in the bathroom? Because… Gross. No.”
“No, not like that,” he laughs. “It’s the ducklings.”
She pushes the door open and finds him sitting on the floor, two little ducklings sort of wading, sort of floating in the inch or so of standing water he’s got set up in a paint roller tray. The look on his face is one of such pure joy and awe, the animals themselves so adorable, that she can practically feel her heart melting at the sight.
“They’re so tiny,” she breathes, dropping down to sit next to him.
“I know. It’s kind of stressing me out.”
She smiles. “Have your kids seen them yet?”
“Yeah, it happened around lunchtime. Which, as you know, is like ten thirty in the morning for us. We basically didn’t get through any of my lessons for today.”
“Worth it.”
“Totally.”
He reaches in to pluck one of them out, wrapping it in a dry towel before handing it to Clarke and reaching for the other one. His hands look huge next to the ducklings, and Clarke wonders if the flare of attraction that sparks is a normal thing to feel about your best friend.
“They need a lot of warmth when they’re this little," he explains. "So we can’t let them swim too long. Make sure she’s really dry before you put her back in the box.”
“On it.” She smirks. “What ridiculously pretentious names have you given them?”
“They aren’t pretentious at all. And anyway, I let the kids vote on the options I came up with, so they’re the ones--”
“Quit stalling and tell me.”
He rolls his eyes, but a smile is playing at the corners of his mouth. “That one’s Bonnie, this one’s Clyde.”
Clarke grins. “That’s actually pretty cute. But be honest-- how hard were you campaigning for Artemis and Apollo?”
“Not that hard,” he grumbles. “At least this way I can save those names for the dog.”
“I actually have news on that front,” she says, setting Bonnie gingerly back in the box. The duckling makes straight for the heat lamp. “This guy I know has puppies he’s putting up for adoption. I already have a message typed out in my notes, ready to claim one if you want them.”
“For real? What kind of dog?”
“Terrier. Westie, I think.”
“Good build for an apartment this size,” he muses. “And this guy is local?”
“Yep,” she confirms. “I’m planning to ask if we can come over this weekend and meet them, if you want in.”
“I’m in if you are,” he says immediately, and Clarke smiles to herself.
“I’m in,” she says, the part of her that glows when he smiles, brightening. “I’m definitely in.”
* * *
The puppies are every bit as cute as their pictures, and as soon as Clarke catches sight of them she knows she and Bellamy are bringing one home.
“They’re not the brightest dogs,” Jackson admits, as they watch one of the puppies repeatedly butt against Bellamy’s legs until he picks it up. “Or the biggest. But they’ve got a lot of attitude.”
“Just like Clarke,” Bellamy teases, and she makes a face at him.
“You should be thanking me for coming through with the puppy hookup, not making fun of me” she says, stepping in to let the puppy in his arms sniff at her hand. It clambers up on his forearm to get closer to her, and she takes another step toward Bellamy before it strains so far it falls out of his arms.
“What do you think?” He asks, his voice soft. When she looks up, he’s right there. His face is so close, she could lean in and--
She shakes those thoughts away before they lead her somewhere she’s not ready to go.
“I think I might need to cuddle a few more before I choose,” she says, her voice softer than she intends it.
“Fair enough.” He grins and she has to physically step back before she does something stupid or inappropriate. In front of Jackson. “Let’s go play with puppies.”
They settle on the floor, the puppies swarming around them with boundless enthusiasm to investigate the newcomers. Some of them lose interest over time, as Jackson gives them tips on care and feeding and probably many things that experienced pet owners would already know.
In the end, the dog who beelined for them in the first place ends up falling asleep on Clarke’s lap, and that seals the deal for both of them.
“Does she have a name?” Bellamy asks, scooting closer to Clarke so he can run a hand over the puppy’s head and down its back, smoothing its white fur tenderly.
Her instinct is to lean into his side, but now she can’t stop second-guessing herself, questioning whether it’s just how her friendship with Bellamy is, or whether that stems from a place in her that wants something more.
Because part of her does want something more, and that realization has shaken her to her core.
(She can be cool about this. She’s going to be the coolest.)
“No names yet,” says Jackson, oblivious to the circles Clarke’s mind is running. “That’s all you guys.”
“You’re already thinking through your mental list of mythological names, aren’t you?” She asks, aiming for teasing.
“How do you feel about Freya?”
“I feel like you’re the biggest nerd I know,” she says instantly, and his laughter is so sudden it has all the dogs' ears perking up.
“That’s not a no,” he points out, and she shakes her head on a smile.
“No, I guess it’s not. What do you think, Freya?” The puppy picks her head up when Clarke scratches at her belly. “You like that name?”
Bellamy reaches over to scoop the puppy into his arms again, cradling her against his chest. His very broad, very distracting chest.
Freya licks at his fingers and he grins down at the dog, then at Clarke, wide and easy and entirely too much for her to handle. “I’ll take that as a vote in favor. Freya is ours.”
Clarke reaches out to brush the backs of her fingers down Freya’s back, not wanting to be too far from either of them.
“Yep,” she says quietly, smiling to herself. “Ours.”
* * *
Bellamy’s natural caretaker impulses aren’t exactly satisfied after they bring Freya home, but to Clarke’s relief, they aren’t heightened either.
He still keeps an eye out for birds who need feeding, spiders who need liberating. Still brings home the ducklings on the weekend, Freya squirming curiously in Clarke’s arms as they all watch Bonnie and Clyde paddle around in the bathtub.
But if she wasn’t certain before that she’s in love with him, well, she definitely knows now.
For one thing, she spends so much more time with Bellamy. Where before, they would be doing their individual work (or social media perusal) in their rooms, or quietly on separate ends of the couch, now they’re parenting a dog together. Now, they’re playing with Freya, taking her on long walks around their neighborhood, bickering about whose turn it is to clean up after her, working on training her to do things like sit and stay and not bark when Hector wanders by the window.
And as much as she loves that she and Bellamy can be alone together, can be comfortable doing their own things in the same room, she loves this too. The more time she spends with Bellamy, the more time she wants to spend with him.
She’s got it bad, and has no idea what to do about it.
Oddly enough, it’s her mother who moves things forward.
More specifically, a voicemail from her mother.
She plays it as she trudges up the stairs to her apartment after a long day at work, looking forward to sweatpants and takeout and cuddling with her puppy and/or roommate (she's not picky).
"Hi, honey, it's Mom. I'm just checking in. Jackson told me you and your boyfriend adopted one of Rosie's puppies-- Clarke groans, already knowing where this is going --and I'd love for you to swing by the house sometime so I can hear all about the puppy. And the boyfriend, come to think of it. Let me know when you're free. I love you."
She lets her head fall against the door with a soft thump, smiling as she hears the clinking of Freya's tags inside. She really should've known what Jackson would think when he saw her and Bellamy together, what he would tell her mother. She sighs and unlocks the door. She'll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight, she just doesn't have the energy.
"Hey there, pup," she coos, laying down as soon as the door closes behind her so that Freya can climb all over her, slobbering on every inch of Clarke's face that she can reach.
"You okay down there?" Bellamy asks, lowering himself next to her. Clarke pinches the loose fabric of his shirt and tugs until he's lying beside her.
"Fine. Just a long day."
He hums sympathetically. "Want to talk about it?"
"Not a lot to say, honestly." She pauses. "You remember Jackson?"
"The guy with the puppies."
"Yeah." Freya goes over to Bellamy, putting a paw on his arm and staring at him pleadingly until he starts petting her. "Did I tell you he works with my mom?"
"...No, you did not."
Clarke sighs again. "Well, he does. And apparently, he told her we were together."
He's quiet for long enough she itches to look over at him, but she resists, focusing instead on Freya's contented panting.
"Did you tell her he had the wrong idea?" He asks eventually, and she turns her head to face him now, her breath catching when she finds he's already gazing back at her, his eyes unreadable.
"No," she breathes, not entirely sure she remembers the question.
"Why not?"
Her heart is pounding in her chest, because it feels like this is it. It's now, or it's never.
"Because I'm really hoping I can tell her she had the right idea."
His face splits into a smile, and then he's turning on his side, leaning in to press his lips eagerly to hers.
Clarke has never been struck by lightning before, but she imagines this is how it would feel-- her skin buzzing, her nerves alight, anticipation and excitement coursing through her veins. A sudden and irrevocable force of nature that changes everything in an instant. She knows there's no going back from this as his tongue sweeps against the seam of her lips, as she tangles her hand in his hair--
And then there's the dog, lapping at their chins, trying to get in on the action and squirming between them.
Clarke laughs as she breaks away. "Somebody is feeling left out."
"Somebody can wait her turn," Bellamy grumbles, pulling Freya away from their faces and tucking Clarke under his arm so that her head is resting on his shoulder. "That was actually pretty smooth of you, you know."
"I do know. I'm pretty impressed with myself right now," Clarke admits, craning her neck to look up at him.
His expression is so sappy she doesn't have any idea why she was so nervous about telling him. In retrospect, it seems obvious that it would go well. Still, she has to make sure-- "So, when I call my mom, I'm telling her you're my boyfriend. Just... FYI."
His chest rumbles beneath her ear when he laughs. "Tell her whatever you want. I basically imprinted on you. You're keeping me either way."
She lets her eyes drift shut, melting into the warmth of his hand on her spine.
"I can live with that."
***
Releasing Bonnie and Clyde into the small, man-made lake at the park is a bittersweet moment.
They take to the water as naturally and easily as they ever have, seeming right at home as they paddle lazily toward a nearby cluster of waterfowl. Freya stands at attention, every part of her tiny body on alert as she keeps a keen eye on the birds. She only moves away when Clarke tugs at her leash.
Clarke slips her hand into Bellamy's as they start back up the shaded path.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," he says gruffly, twining his fingers with hers. "They'll be fine. I'm not worried."
Clarke snorts softly, squeezing his hand. "Once more, with feeling."
"Shut up." He rolls his eyes, but at least he's smiling now. "I'm thinking butterflies for my class next year. Or earthworms. Something I won't get so attached to."
"You? Distancing yourself emotionally? Good luck with that."
He huffs in exasperation, pausing as the dog finds a tree she likes the looks of. "At least I've still got Freya."
"And you've got me," she points out, swinging their hands through the warm spring air. The sun is shining, their ducks have flown the coop, so to speak, and Clarke is happy. It's how she thinks life is supposed to be.
Bellamy shakes his head, but he can't stop himself from smiling.
"I've still got you," he agrees.
"Aren't you lucky."
He laughs and lifts their linked hands to kiss her fingertips, light and teasing.
"Yeah," he says. "I really, really am."