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90 seconds of kissing and roaming hands.
Reset the clock.
Count to 150 as his fingers work in and out, circling just the right spot with his thumb. Stars. Stars and space again and oblivion.
Reset the clock.
Buttons undone, lift, legs wrapped around his waist and down, foreheads pressed together and when her eyes aren’t closed she sees his looking so concentrated. And then again, stars and oblivion and heavy breathing, and clenching muscles. Four minutes total.
Reset the clock.
Two, maybe three days.
90 seconds.
Reset the clock.
Count to 150.
Reset the clock.
Four minutes.
Reset the clock.
……
Clarke once remembered her mother talking a newlywed through something like this.
“There’s not much leisure time, I’m sure, in factory station. I know with the projects you’ve been working on, I know the days are becoming long. But you know, the nice thing about being married, having the connection, the sex can create the intimacy without much work. And if it’s not a special occasion or a lazy Saturday morning, you’ll get to know each other’s bodies’, you’ll figure out how to make it very quick and you’ll both be satisfied. It’s good for your mental health, too.”
“Did you just tell that patient that sex was good for morale?” Clarke asked after the woman had gone.
“We need people to be efficient. We need them to not make mistakes. Emotional bonds can help that. But sometimes the physical release does just as well. Keeps the relationship strong and keeps the people feeling happy. If both parties are consenting, sex can help people relax and unwind and even make better decisions. Cuts down on the number of anti depressants we have to prescribe, too.”
When you were raised with a doctor, sex was just sex, just another anti depressant. No shame.
Clarke hadn’t sold it to Bellamy this way. She didn’t even remember how it started. But it was keeping them efficient, it was keeping them focused, and it was something Clarke needed to just give herself: eight minutes of not worrying, not thinking, just focusing on the counting, the breathing, the oblivion. No thoughts of supplies. No thoughts of kids running amuck, not thoughts of Grounders or strategies, of her mother glaring at her because she continued to disagree with all their decisions, no thoughts of the numbers they’d lost, the numbers they’d killed, the people who had let them down.
She knew Bellamy needed it, too. Maybe not the same way she needed it, they’d never discussed it. But he’d come find her, he’d whisper “meet me in five.” And she’d just nod. Every couple of days, but always after a huge fight with the Ark leadership, or after a near miss on either of their lives, or really anyone of their people’s lives, or they’d lost someone, or they’d been cooped up too long behind the electrified fences and just needed to not think. And always against a tree, near the perimeter, or one wedged in between some pieces of the Ark that had fallen right around, it made a room with three walls and since they were always quiet, they were never found out.
Well, that and it only took eight minutes. Clarke didn’t have the capacity to even comprehend what that might mean. The words of her mother from long ago ringing in her ears, Bellamy was good at what he did and they were both so tightly wound that it didn’t take hardly anything for them to tumble over the edge. Just eight minutes. It didn’t, couldn’t mean anything other than that.
It was perfunctory. It was methodical. And it was sweet, sweet relief and respite.
90 seconds of lips and tongues and wandering, gripping hands.
Reset the clock.
Clarke counted to 150 while unraveling in his arms.
Reset the clock.
A little jump into his arms, tree bark against her back, but she never noticed. Leveraging herself between him and the tree and meeting the strokes, and then both coming down in the best kind of crash and burn.
Bellamy put her down gently and turned away from her. Wiping his hands on his pants before buttoning up, fixing his shirt. As he did this, she was doing the same, but today she was feeling a little a light headed. Nothing crazy, probably sleep deprivation. Her mother had been dragging her into medical constantly, but she was slower to put herself back together and he noticed. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her with concern on his brow.
“Just working too hard.” She shrugged and gave his arm a shove.
“Okay,” he said before turning to walk back. But she stumbled a little and he caught her. “Are you sure? Maybe you caught a bug working in medical? I know there was something nasty going around for a minute, while we were out last week.”
“I’m fine. Stop smothering me,” she said sharply, pulling away. Bellamy put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“You should stay here while I take the group out for more water this afternoon. It’s not like we can get into much trouble and you can keep helping your mom so maybe she’ll stop glaring at me.”
Clarke didn’t even argue. It was a small errand and barely worthy of even Bellamy going, but that’s what they’d been relegated to these days. Often busy work that the Ark leadership tossed them, but something else was off. “My mom?”
“Maybe you’re screaming my name in your sleep, Princess,” he joked and she rolled her eyes.
“Only because I’m lecturing you for being an idiot, even in my dreams.” He smiled. “Don’t take Nicky, last time he had a panic attack. He didn’t want you to know. Always trying to be brave, bunch of morons. They just don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Or you,” Bellamy added but Clarke brushed it off.
…..
Nothing happened. All day. It was so boring. Clarke got some food and felt perfectly fine. The water field trip was uneventful and the group came back wholly intact. There wasn’t even anything interesting in medical to keep her occupied. She sorted and organized and recorded the level of supplies. It started raining around dinnertime so people weren’t milling about in all the usual spots. They were tucked safely in their tents or shacks built onto the old ark frame.
Lying on her bed, she listened to the rain. Clarke remembered some saying about idle hands and groaned. It was true. She had time to think and it was horrible. She made lists and she thought up new ways to avoid her mother who was becoming stifling. She named all the bones in the body, she catalogued her scars, tried to remember each body they’d buried, and then thought of other’s scars. How many times had she stitched up this kid and that? Hours passed, the rain stopped, but Clarke hadn’t slept. She pretended to when her mother came in earlier, but it was hours before light and still no rest. It was irritating and then the worst thing happened. The thing she’d been circling around all night, she thought about Bellamy.
A mental picture of all the scars on his body, the ones she’d stitched herself, as if he’d let anyone else, the ones that healed wrong because she hadn’t been with him in time to fix them. The way he seemed to know exactly what she needed and when she needed it. And then the dreaded thoughts: his hands on her, his lips, his breath on her skin, his heartbeat near hers, the heat of him, the strength.
It was suffocating her.
Clarke slipped out her bed as quietly as she could, boots on loosely, and out of the tent, across the camp to his tent. She wasn’t even sure what she was doing. Deep breath, and another, she gathered her courage and opened the flap. He was snoring. Bellamy was snoring. Watching him for a half a second, she turned to go, it was a stupid idea anyway. “Clarke?” his voice was rough and low and she tried to ignore it.
“Go back to sleep,” she threw over her shoulder as she kept walking. But faster than she thought he could move, he had her arm. She turned to face him but he was so close. He was shirtless and her eyes met those scars she’d been listing in her head earlier and she flushed. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” Again she tried to go but he hadn’t let go of her arm. He just stood staring at her.
“Something was wrong earlier, you were…weird,” Bellamy said. “Just, stay, you’re not getting enough sleep, so…” He gestured to his bed. She bit the inside of her cheek and he knew she was agreeing to it because he let go of her arm and went back to his spot on his bed. Leaving room for her, he had already closed his eyes again by the time she toed off her boots and found her way next to him. Clarke didn’t want to get too close. But it was warm, he was warm, and she couldn’t help scooting just a little closer, still not touching, just closer.
“It was really dull this afternoon,” she whispered, if he was already back to sleep she didn’t want to wake him. She felt him laugh quietly.
“You can’t sleep because nothing exciting happened today? Man, to have those problems,” he teased, eyes still closed. Clarke turned on her side and punched at his arm but he caught her hand and held it to his chest. It was a tender gesture and she was starting to feel that suffocation again.
“Is it Saturday?” she asked, he shrugged in response.
“I have no idea. Why?”
“Lazy Saturday mornings,” she said quietly to herself.
“We don’t exactly have lazy days, but I guess since yesterday was so boring, sure, call it a lazy Saturday morning. Not that I understand why you feel the need to label the day.” He finally opened his eyes and looked at her, he seemed to be fighting off a smile. It was definitely getting harder to breathe.
“Thank you.”
“For what?” The smile that was almost on his face disappeared and he looked concerned.
“Eight minutes of silence, every couple of days, my brain shuts off and I can just count the seconds and,” she sputtered. Bellamy knew what she was talking about, she knew because he looked up at the ceiling. But he still held her hand. Even a little tighter, but she might have imagined that.
“You just count, you’re counting?” he asked, his voice strained. “God, Clarke, I thought…”
“I count because it’s the only blissfully peaceful time I get.” Bellamy turned to her with a skeptical look, maybe even hurt. She wasn’t sure. But his face was so close and she really wanted to be closer, but she didn’t move.
“You’re counting and you’re not thinking about anything?”
“What are you thinking about?” she asked surprised.
“You.”
It was so simple the way he said it. Still it hit her like a ton of bricks and the feeling of suffocation was pushing down again. They just stared at one another for a few seconds until she started to feel lightheaded again. He knew because he let go of her hand and was leaning on his elbow and reaching for her back. “Breathe, Clarke, you’re not breathing.” His fingers were rubbing a circle on the nape of her neck and he looked worried, not yet panicked. She sucked in as much air through her nose as she could get and that seemed to kick start her. “Now who’s having a panic attack?” He was trying to be funny, but she knew he was only using the humor to cover the worry.
“Should have known, it’s gone on way longer than I thought it would,” Bellamy said as her breathing evened out. Clarke closed her eyes for a second and nodded. When she opened her eyes, all the affection that had been present in his face a few minutes before seemed gone. He didn’t look angry, but he certainly didn’t look very inviting, despite the soft touches she felt on her skin as he continued to calm her down.
“No,” was all she could manage. Another deep breath. “I said everything wrong.” His brows rose a little. “I didn’t mean to be so detached. I was just afraid to even say what it might be. So it was just…just release. Just stress reducing. Like my mom had told all the factory workers.”
Now Bellamy looked really confused. She took a minute to explain the experience, years before with her mom and the newlywed. “It makes us more efficient, but god, I can’t even think about the fact that it’s so easy. It’s eight minutes of ease and rest and…” she paused a moment, afraid to finish, but she couldn’t possibly make it worse so she went on, “Intimacy. Closeness.”
His hand moved from her neck to hold her face. His thumb stroking her jaw line, she closed her eyes and leaned into the touch savoring the moment.
“What do you know? I’m pretty sure it’s Saturday morning,” he said before capturing her lips. Clarke sighed content against him, glad he finally understood. “Is it really always eight minutes?” he asked as he moved to her neck to trail kisses. She nodded and he laughed against her skin. “I’m a machine.”
“More like a smug bastard,” Clarke said before rolling on top of him, straddling his hips. She smiled mischievously at the way he groaned. They were almost silent usually, but this morning she was going to enjoy all the noise. She’d make some and she’d pull it from him.
“Jesus, your mom is going to hate me even more now.”
….