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Can I speak to a Mr. Clarke Griffin, please?
The voice on the phone is curt and awake, abruptly pulling Clarke from her dream of dark curls and freckles.
She hasn’t slept much in the last few days. There’s a new gallery opening in Arkadia and she’s been working on a new painting to add to her portfolio in the hopes of landing an exhibition. Exhaustion laces every bone in her body and she’s slow to respond.
She blinks the sleep from her eyes and tries to focus. “Uh, what?”
She pulls the phone back from her face to glance at the time. 3:14 AM. What the fuck? The voice continues speaking and Clarke puts the phone back to her ear.
--need to speak with a Mr. Clarke Griffin. Is he there?
“Um, no, I’m Clarke Griffin. Who is this?”
Oh. There’s shuffling on the other end of the line. Well, Ms. Griffin. This is Ark County General, and we have a Mr. Bellamy Blake that was brought in to the ER tonight. You were listed as his emergency contact in his phone.
Clarke is already out of bed and looking for pants. She’s stumbling through her messy bedroom, tripping over piles of clothes and last night’s dishes. Bellamy was always nagging her to pick up.
“What’s wrong with him? Is he alright?” Her voice is edging toward panic. She slips on shorts but doesn’t bother changing out of her sleep shirt. Where the fuck are her shoes?
I can’t give you any more information over the phone, ma’am. You’ll have to speak with a doctor when you get in.
“I’m on my way.” She finally manages to find a pair of flip flops and grabs her keys and wallet off the kitchen counter. She’s out the door within seconds of hanging up the phone.
The first thing Bellamy sees when he opens his eyes are the lights. Flashing red and blue lights. But that doesn’t make sense. He attempts to lift his head and get a better look of where he is, but he can’t move. Is that gas he smells? That can’t be right.
There’s a man leaning above him, and his mouth is moving, but Bellamy can’t make out what he’s saying. He tries to open his mouth to ask the man to repeat himself but his mouth won’t cooperate. Bellamy has never been this tired in his life. This is a bone-deep exhaustion, too strong to fight. He closes his eyes, and the darkness welcomes him back.
Clarke’s heart is pounding as she drives too fast to the hospital. Her mind is clouded with terror, but luckily, it’s late, and there’s barely anyone on the roads. She can’t stop imagining the worst, her best friend, her best something, lying in a hospital bed, not breathing, covered in blood. She shakes her head to get rid of the image, and tries to tell herself there’s no use panicking just yet. Not when she doesn’t even know what happened. It doesn’t work. The image is burned into her brain.
He won’t die, she thinks ferociously. He can’t die. He doesn’t even know—
She stops herself there, not daring to go any farther, even in her thoughts. Now is not the time to try and sort through her complicated feelings for Bellamy.
Her tires squeal when she pulls into the hospital parking lot. She pulls into the first open spot she sees and bolts from the car and through the ER doors. Panting, she skids to a halt at the desk and a bored receptionist looks up at her.
“I’m Clarke Griffin, I got a phone call about Bellamy Blake being brought in. Is he okay? Can I see him?” The words are rushing out of her mouth as she’s still struggling for breath.
The nurse types a few words into her computer at what feels like a glacial pace. Clarke anxiously taps her foot while waiting for an answer.
“Miss, if you’ll have a seat, the doctor will be out with you to discuss this as soon as they can.” The nurse - Simone, her name tag reads - gestures to the waiting room. She’s gone back to the file on her desk, clearly finished with this discussion. Clarke wants to argue, to demand they let her see Bellamy now, but she knows it won’t get her anywhere. She spent enough time in hospitals when her father was sick to know there’s little she can do about it.
Clarke stomps over to the waiting room and sits in one of the ugly green chairs. It’s stiff and scratchy and Clarke is immediately uncomfortable, but she settles in to wait for news. If she doesn’t hear within the hour, she decides she’ll bother Simone again. She taps her foot.
She pulls out her phone and dials Octavia. No answer. She hangs up and dials again. Still no answer. She’s probably sleeping. Clarke tries Lincoln and he picks up on the fourth ring.
Hello? His voice is clouded with sleep. Just like hers was 15 minutes ago.
“Lincoln?”
Clarke?
“Lincoln, it’s Bellamy.”
What’s wrong? He sounds much more alert now.
“I don’t know. I’m at the hospital. They won’t tell me anything. But I have a bad feeling, Lincoln. I think he had a late shift at the bar last night, he must have been driving home, but I don’t know.” Clarke can hear Lincoln trying to wake Octavia on the other end of the line.
Okay. Okay, sit tight. We’ll leave as soon as we can. Call if there’s news.
It’s an eight-hour drive from Washington DC to Arkadia. A very long time to “sit tight.” But there’s nothing else she can do, so she hangs up as the panic claws at her throat. Her foot is still tapping. Jesus, Clarke, breathe. She takes deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm down.
She leans her head back against the wall and tries not to worry.
It’s at least 3 hours and two very frustrating conversations with the nurse later when a doctor finally comes into the waiting room and calls her name. About fucking time.
It’s late and there’s no one else around, but Clarke still raises her hand to let the doctor know who she is. She pushes up from the chair as the doctor comes closer.
“Ms. Griffin? Hello, my name is Eric Jackson, I’m the doctor in charge of Bellamy’s care.” Clarke shakes his hand and resumes her foot tapping. There’s no time for pleasantries. Get on with it.
“What happened? Is he alright?” There’s that panic again. Breathe, Clarke.
“He was in a car accident. We don’t know exactly what happened, as he’s still unconscious, but he was brought in with several broken ribs, a broken femur, and a pretty severe concussion. It looks like he may have gone through the windshield.” Dr. Jackson’s voice is neutral, professional, but Clarke can sense the disapproval at the assumption that Bellamy wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. It’s not like she can blame him, though.
“But is he okay? He will wake up?”
“Well, there’s no guarantees of course.” Clarke grits her teeth at the mere suggestion Bellamy won’t come back to her. “But we have no reason to believe he won’t. We’ll know more once he wakes up and we can speak with him.” She lets out a breath but the panic is still there.
“Can I see him?” She’s on the verge of tears now.
He leads her through a set of double doors and down a hallway. He stops outside room 323 and Clarke doesn’t hesitate. She’s through the door before Dr. Jackson has it open all the way, but stops when she catches sight of Bellamy on the bed.
It’s so much better and so much worse than the image in her brain. There’s no blood, and he’s breathing on his own. That’s a relief. But there’s bruises covering that beautiful face, masking the constellation of freckles. His head is bandaged, making his naturally unruly hair downright messy. One of his legs looks a lot bulkier under the blanket than the other from the cast she assumes is wrapped around it. One rebellious tear escapes her eye and falls down her cheek.
She unfreezes and rushes forward, hands fluttering over him, trying to find a spot to lay her hand that’s not covered in bandages or bruises. She settles for grabbing his hand and holding on tight. Her eyes don’t leave Bellamy’s face, but she hears the door close and she knows they’re alone.
She calls a very frightened Octavia to tell her what the doctor said and twenty minutes later, she rests her head on the edge of Bellamy’s bed, careful not to jostle him, and falls into a fitful sleep.
Bellamy opens his eyes again. There’s no more red and blue flashing lights. There’s no more strange man hovering above him. What there is though, is a loud beeping that could shut the fuck up if it would be so kind. He groans and lifts his hand to his head. Something tugs at the skin of his arm and he looks down to see an IV in the crook of his elbow. What the hell? He blinks confusedly at it. His body seems to be responding to commands now, but his brain feels fuzzy.
He glances around and takes in the very white, very sterile looking hospital room and his confusion grows. There’s something pinning his other hand to the bed and he turns to find a mess of blonde curls attached the hand holding his. He squeezes, and Clarke stirs, blinking groggily at him. His heart does a little flip, even through the haze of drugs he can feel in his system. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
“Hi.” It’s the first word he’s spoken in… Wait, how long has he been here? What day is it? His voice is low and hoarse. Clarke hands him a glass of water and brushes his hair back from his eyes as he takes a sip. His heart gives a small jolt and the heartrate monitor picks up slightly, but Clarke doesn’t seem to notice. He’s thankful.
Tears spring to Clarke’s eyes and he raises their hands to wipe them away.
“You asshole.” She whispers, no bite. “You fucking scared me.”
“Sorry, Princess,” he says automatically. “What happened?”
“I don’t really know. They said you were in a wreck. Went through the windshield.” The tears are really flowing now. Shit. Seeing her cry always tugs at him. “Broken leg, broken ribs, concussion. That’s really all the doctor told me.”
At the mention of the doctor, she seems to remember where they are and pushes the call light for the nurse. They just sit there and stare at each other for a few minutes until a friendly looking nurse knocks and opens the door.
“You called?” And then, noticing Bellamy is awake, “Oh! Well, hello Mr. Blake. Glad to see you’re finally with us.” She pauses to call a doctor before checking his vitals and pain levels. When she’s finished, she heads toward the door and tells them the doctor will be in shortly.
Dr. Jackson walks in less than a minute later looking exhausted. “Hello Mr. Blake. How are we feeling?”
“Like shit.” Bellamy replies. “What happened?”
“Well, it looks like you ran off the road and hit a tree. Went through the windshield. What do you remember?”
Bellamy struggles to recall. He was driving home from bartending. There was a pair of headlights in his lane. Tires squealing. That’s all. Fuck. His Jeep is fucked, isn’t it?
“I was on my way home from work. Someone ran me off the road, I think.”
Dr. Jackson tsks. “Well. We’re going to want to keep an eye on that concussion and you’ll likely need to do some rehab for your leg, but we expect you to be just fine.”
Tell that to his Jeep.
“Any idea how long I’ll be in here?” This is probably going to cost a fortune.
“Probably at least another 48 hours. We want to keep you for observation, make sure there’s nothing to worry about.” Bellamy sighs and glances at Clarke.
Clarke hasn’t let go of his hand this whole time. He squeezes it again and she looks at him.
“Apparently I’m going to survive. Looks like you’re still stuck with me.”
The corner of her mouth picks up. A half-smile.
Over the next two days, Clarke doesn’t leave his side except to go home and change and to bring him food that’s not from the hospital cafeteria. She didn’t even leave when Octavia stormed in, demanding to know what happened.
It’s late, and right now she’s curled up in a chair in the corner, fast asleep, while Octavia is sitting and glaring at him from the chair next to his bed.
“What?” He hisses, trying not to wake Clarke.
“When are you two going to stop being idiots and do something about this?” She looks pointedly at Clarke and then back at Bellamy.
“O, we’ve had this conversation before. She doesn’t… It’s not… Like that,” he finishes lamely. Fuck, that hurts to say out loud.
Octavia shakes her head. “It absolutely is like that. She hasn’t left this room in two fucking days. I don’t know about you, but I don’t sleep in shitty chairs for my platonic friends. Shit, Bell, I’m not even doing that and we’re family.” She’s putting a lot of emphasis on her words, trying to make a point.
“Look, I’m pretty sure she knows how I feel, okay? I’ve been very obvious about it. If she felt anything, she would have done something about it. But she hasn’t, so…”
“That’s the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever said, big brother. She is being obvious right now. Maybe she’s just as blind and dumb as you.” Octavia gives him the look. The one that says he’s an idiot. The one she’s been practicing all her life.
Bellamy takes a deep breath and looks at Clarke. God, he would kill for it to be like that. But he knows Clarke better than he knows himself. If she felt anything for him, he would know.
When they first met, she couldn’t stand him. He couldn’t blame her for that though, he couldn’t even stand himself, and he didn’t make it easy on her. Then Octavia went through that break up and they teamed up to make sure Atom never contacted her again, and they spent so much time together it became easy to be around her. Then they became practically inseparable, each getting the other through their own heartaches, family drama, and self-doubt. If she had feelings for him, she would have said something. Clarke is not one to shy away from feelings.
She doesn’t love him.
Does she? Could she?
Fuck, Octavia is getting in his head.
He looks down at his blanket and picks at a loose thread.
Octavia huffs and crosses her arms, but drops it. He’s thankful for that. He hits the call button for the nurse. He needs more morphine.
Clarke keeps her eyes closed, still pretending to be asleep. She shifts slightly to hide her face, unsure of what he would see if he looked at her. Her mind is racing.
The next morning Bellamy is released with strict instructions to keep off his feet for another two weeks. Clarke demands he stay at her apartment. When he protests, she points out she is the one with a guest room and she’d rather not sleep on his couch.
“You don’t have to babysit me, Princess, I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Bullshit, Bell. You won’t stay off your leg and you’ll wind up right back in the hospital. Plus, my building has a working elevator. How the hell do you think you’re going to get up the stairs in your condition?”
She’s got him there and she knows it. He looks annoyed but finally relents.
“I’m having Octavia pack a bag for you and bring it over. Text her anything you want her to bring.”
He mumbles something under his breath about bossy and I’m fine, but pulls out his cracked, but still functional, phone to text his sister.
They pull up to Clarke’s building and she gets his wheelchair out of the trunk and helps him into it. The elevator ride up to her floor is silent. Clarke is nervous all of the sudden, even though she shouldn’t be. After all, he’s been to her place hundreds of times, even stayed the night on more than one occasion. Why does she feel like opening her apartment door will expose her in ways she’s not ready for?
She knows why.
Clarke deposits him on the couch and makes her way to the kitchen. She needs a drink. Now.
“You hungry?” She asks. Her hands are shaking. Fucking calm down, Clarke, it’s just Bellamy.
“You’re going to cook?” She can hear the trepidation in his voice and for a second, she’s snapped out of her thoughts.
“I can cook, thank you very much.”
“Mac and cheese doesn’t count, Princess.”
“It absolutely does count, Blake. But I was actually thinking of ordering in.”
“Oh, thank god. Mexican, please.”
Clarke walks up behind the couch, grabs a pillow, and hits him with it without thinking.
Bellamy hisses in pain and Clarke immediately rushes around the couch. Just like in the hospital, her hands flutter around him, trying to find a safe spot to land, trying not to cause him more pain. Her hands end up on his cheeks, a feather light touch.
“Oh my god, Bellamy, I’m so sorry.” She pushes the hair out of his face so she can look into his eyes.
“It’s fine, Clarke, my head is just a little sore.”
“Still, I’m sorry.” She leans up and kisses his forehead. “There, all better?”
Clarke hears his intake of breath and her nerves make a comeback. Is he… blushing?
“Uhh... Y-yeah, thanks, Princess.”
She smiles at him and goes back to the kitchen and grabs two beers from the fridge.
“You only get one and then you have to take your meds and go to bed, so enjoy this,” she says, handing him one of the beers.
He takes it and thanks her while she pulls her phone out to order food. Once that’s done, she pulls up the new season of Queer Eye and settles in next to him on the couch, a good six inches between them.
They stay like that through 2 episodes.
He stretches his arm behind her and when she tucks her feet underneath her, she leans into his good side and rests her head on his shoulder.
What? This is normal. They’re always tactile. She can be breezy. This is totally fine.
Leave it to Karamo to screw this up for her.
He comes on the TV, talking about “telling her how you feel” and “be bold and confident.” Fuck. Clarke isn’t paying attention to the show anymore and Bellamy has gone suspiciously still beside her.
Clarke places her hand on his knee and starts tracing patterns, working up the courage to say something.
When her hand starts wandering up higher, Bellamy speaks.
“Clarke.” It’s a warning and a plea all in one.
She looks up at him and his pupils are blown wide, and suddenly, she’s not nervous anymore. This is the simplest thing in the world.
She leans in and captures his lips with hers. She feels more than hears his gasp and then he’s kissing her back. Hard. It’s passionate and messy, and the best fucking kiss she’s ever had in her life.
Clarke knows. There’s no doubt in her mind. This is right.
When Clarke’s lips touch his, Bellamy’s brain short circuits. He freezes for a fraction of a second and sucks in a breath.
He doesn’t know how long this will last, when she will come to her senses, but for now, he’s going to bask in this.
He kisses her back with everything he has. God, it feels right, like everything he’s ever wanted.
They kiss for hours or maybe just seconds. He doesn’t even know. Jesus, he’s so cliché but he doesn’t even care. Eventually though, he pulls back just to look at her. Her eyes are almost black when they meet his, her lips red and swollen. She’s practically panting. And before he can even form words, she speaks and once again, his mind stops working.
“I love you.”
Clarke is nervous again, but just barely. She’s sure he feels the same. Pretty sure.
She smiles gently at him, waiting for him to say something. The silence is long, but comfortable, like it always is with Bellamy. There’s never been any need to fill the quiet with unneeded chatter. They can communicate with a single look, a single touch.
After several moments, he smiles so bright it almost hurts her eyes. His hand goes to the back of her neck and he pulls her in for another kiss. This one is much gentler, but just as passionate, like he’s trying to pour everything he hasn’t said into it. She feels calm again, certain.
He pulls back and stares at her for a moment before drawing her in and whispering softly into her hair.
“I love you, too.”