Chapter Text
December, 2013. Two years ago, to the day.
“Thanks.” Clarke raises the shot glass to toast the bartender. He nods back, throwing a rag over his shoulder and walking away to serve another customer. It feels a lot like a movie-moment.
There’s tinsel lining half the bar, like someone started decorating but couldn’t be bothered to finish, and multi-coloured Christmas lights hang from the ceiling. It gives off a homey vibe, like no matter who you are or why you’re here, you’re safe and welcome. It’s a nice thing to feel.
She downs the shot in one, slamming it onto the counter of the bar, partly because it’s satisfying and partly to keep in theme with this movie thing she has going on. She tries not to blanch at the burn of tequila but can’t quite help hissing in a sharp breath.
She’s not exactly a tequila girl, but the burn in her throat feels good. It feels better than the burning rage coursing through her body, feeling like it could consume her if she let it.
So she drinks to feel better, because she’s a cliche and that’s what people do in movies.
The bartender strides back to her, resting his forearms on the top of the counter opposite her. She looks up to find him watching her intently, perhaps trying to figure her out.
“Drinking your sorrows away?” He finally asks, not looking judgemental so much as curious.
“I thought the whole bartender-therapist thing was a cliche.”
“Not always,” he shrugs. “I actually have to check your ID. Manager says you look young.”
“Fair enough,” Clarke sighs, searching her purse and handing over her license.
He looks it over, handing it back with a nod and says “Happy Birthday, Clarke Griffin.” He pours another shot and slides it towards her. “On the house.”
“Thanks.” She downs it, not caring whether she blanches this time. “Do I get your name?” She asks once she’s recovered.
“Nathan Miller,” he offers his hand and she shakes it. She’s never really talked to her bartenders before, but she could get used to it. He’s good looking. Like, very good looking. Dark skin and dark eyes, in good shape and wearing the right clothes to show it. Definitely the kind of guy she could use for a night.
“Clarke Griffin,” she introduces herself formally. She looks him up and down appraisingly, wondering how difficult it would be to try to hook up with her bartender. It’s a thing for a reason, right?
Nathan moves down the bar, handing someone a few seats away a pint before serving what looks to be a bachelor party that just came in.
“He’s gay,” the person a few seats down says. She looks up, realising that it’s a man - a man who’s talking to her.
“Sorry?”
“He’s gay,” the man repeats - the very good looking man, she registers. She seems to be attracted to everyone that talks to her tonight, but seriously. Tanned olive skin; dark, curly locks she can picture herself running her hands through; dark eyes, equally mysterious and revealing.
“Oh.” She must’ve been obvious.
He nods before taking a sip of his drink, watching her with a quizzical gaze.
“So are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Drinking your sorrows away?”
“Maybe.” She offers a small smirk, hopes it’s intriguing enough for him to continue the conversation.
Apparently it is, because he returns the smirk with a raised eyebrow, and slides down the bar to the seat next to her own.
“You can tell me about it. If you want,” he grants, tipping his drink towards her.
“Oh, can I?” She grins, feeling a spark that isn’t from the tequila or rage. He grins back, and yeah, she’s got a good feeling about this - he’s definitely the kind of guy she could use for a night. “Tell you what. Buy me a drink and I’ll let you in on it.”
“Okay. Miller,” he calls out, still grinning at her.
“Yes?” Nathan asks as he walks over.
“Another drink for Clarke Griffin.”
“Tequila?”
“Bourbon and coke, thanks,” she says.
He slides one over with a smirk, eyeing her knowingly before giving a nod that Clarke believes means ‘have fun’. Well, it is a turn of events, yes, but not a bad one. Not at all.
“So drinking your sorrows,” the man starts.
“Right.” She takes a sip of her drink before breathing out. “Caught my boyfriend in bed with the ex that apparently isn’t really an ex.”
He whistles. “Happy Birthday to you.”
“Right?” She says, sarcastic. “He was kind of an idiot about it. Like, I’m weirdly insulted he didn’t try harder to hide it. I caught them at his apartment. His apartment!”
The man chuckles. “You seem angrier at his lack of cheating ability than the fact that he cheated.”
“I hide it well,” she says, offering a sly smile. “I’m pretty fucking furious, but. It’s almost like I’m more annoyed? The first thing he did was ask me was why I was there. Like, he’s there with his dick out and asks me that. Fucking idiot.”
“Sounds like it. What did you say?”
“That I wanted to surprise him,” she shrugs. “Then I was like ‘who’s the naked chick?’”
“And she was the ex-not-ex?”
“Exactly. But she had to tell me that because he was just sputtering out excuses. We both dumped him and then I drove her to the train station. It’s been a weird day.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Mmm,” she hums, smiling into her drink before finishing it. She looks back up to him, his interest very clear in the way his eyes flick down to her lips. He licks his own and she can’t help but follow the movement either. “Could get better though.”
He barks out a laugh. “I’ll drink to that,” he smirks, clinking his pint against her empty glass.
Forty minutes and three drinks later he’s pressing her against the door of a bathroom stall, lips trailing up her neck and hand in her underwear, sending her over the edge with his just his fingers.
“Holy fuck,” Clarke breathes into his shoulder once she’s stopped shaking. He moves the hair that’s stuck to her neck with sweat, starts kissing along the damp skin. She pulls a condom out of her back pocket, which yeah. She came to the bar to get laid, whatever. “Fuck. What’s your name again?”
“Bellamy Blake,” he chuckles against her skin, the sound turning into a groan when Clarke palms the hard length in his jeans. He pulls back, his eyes dark and full of lust - it’s a good look.
“Cool. Just thought I should know what to call out this time.” She offers a feral grin before unbuttoning his pants, pulling them and his underwear down eagerly. “Nice dick.”
“Thanks,” he laughs.
She rolls on the condom before pulling him in for a searing kiss - messy and wet and hot and very unlike Finn. He squeezes her ass and she jumps up, letting him press her against the door as he lines himself up. He thrusts into her without warning and her legs wrap around him, keeping his body close.
She moans into his mouth, the way he fills her up making her shiver with delight. He begins thrusting, urged on by the heels of her feet pushing against the flesh of his ass. It’s hard and fast and more fun than she’s had in a long while - the anger that still pulses hot through her veins being channeled in the slap of their bodies together, the way they touch each other with almost bruising force. She lets herself enjoy the feeling of him, all hard muscles pressing against her, his thick dick pounding into her, his teeth nipping into her flesh. It’s enough to get her to the edge quickly.
He brings a hand to her clit, working her further as he bites at her neck. She absently looks forward to seeing the marks tomorrow - a reminder of how good she feels in this moment, how powerful and in control. He whispers into her ear, all sorts of dirty things that go straight to her pussy, and she's glad it's like that; glad he isn't calling her beautiful or muttering 'I love you's like Finn did. He continues working her, letting the way she moans and how her breath hitches guide the angle of his thrusts and the patterns he rubs into her.
She comes again, hard, saying the name he’s just told her - Bellamy - like a prayer, and he follows her a few thrust later, kissing her heatedly and biting her bottom lip.
It might not be healthy, doing what she’s just done - in fact it probably isn’t - but whatever. Eventually she’ll have to actually deal with her situation and the feelings that come with it, but that can start tomorrow. For now she’s got this, and it’s definitely more fun.
He trails a few kisses down her throat as they catch their breaths before pulling out and setting her back on her feet. She kisses him once more before they clean themselves up and start getting their clothes back in order.
“Feel better?” He asks as he tucks himself in.
“I know I’m supposed to say no, but I do. Thanks.”
He laughs, buttoning up his jeans. “No worries. Mutually beneficial. I’m glad you feel better, though.”
“Yeah, same.” She looks him up and down with a predatory gaze before nodding once. She unlocks the door and he follows her back into the bar. Clarke grabs the coat she left on her bar stool, heading towards the door as she checks that she’s got everything in her bag.
“You know,” Bellamy says from behind her, and when she turns there’s smirk playing on his lips. “Seeing as this is just a one-night stand, we could take advantage of the whole night.”
“Oh, could we just?” Her smile is nothing but smug.
“I’m just saying,” he shrugs with feigned nonchalance.
“It is my birthday,” she pretends to think it over, hand trailing lightly across his chest. She leans in to press a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth, before turning around and walking to the door. “Come on, Bellamy Blake,” she calls over her shoulder.
She stifles a laugh at the sound of him catching up to her, and steps out into the cold December night feeling the warmth of him behind her.
Yeah, she’s feeling a whole lot like she’s in a movie right now.
--- --- ---
“Mother fucker,” Clarke curses at the asshole who merged into her lane without indicating. Seriously, what an asshole. She would roll down her window and flip the guy off, but she’s thinking a confrontation might not be the best thing right now. She’s still a little angry about how the day’s going. Just a little.
It’s been a long drive - two hours from the city and an extra three from her mother’s house - and the fact that it’s her birthday is making Clarke all the more bitter. Still, it’s only three in the afternoon, so the day is still salvageable. By salvageable she means she’s still got time to get drunk. Happy twenty-forth to her.
The cabin is the same as it always is when she pulls up fifteen minutes later. She sighs a breath of relief while turning her car off, the familiarity of the house washing a calming warmth through her. It always does - the memories of her childhood holidays spent with family and friends, full of love and laughter pulling a soft smile from her.
She steps out into the chilly winter air, tugging her coat more tightly around herself to ward off the cold quickly seeping into her skin. She picks up the bags in her boot hastily, and then the envelope sitting on the passenger seat gingerly, before making her way up to the front door.
“Fuckity fuck." She fumbles to push the old key into its lock. “It’s too cold for this,” she whines, finally getting it in and rattling it to the side. It unlocks with a click and Clarke pushes her way into the house, breathing in its familiar scent as she leans against the door.
It might not be how she was planning to spend the day, but it’s good to be back.
***
“Money!” Clarke calls out, watching her old friend’s head whip around with the nickname.
“Clarke!” She exclaims, running the short distance between them and pulling the blonde into a tight hug, warm and fond. “What the hell are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you till after Christmas.”
Clarke sighs, pulling back with a rueful expression. “Fight with Mum. Decided to come down early.” She leaves it at that. No need to relive it - she’ll just get herself angry all over again.
“Well fuck,” Monroe chuckles, squeezing Clarke’s hand compassionately. “It works out nicely for me, though.”
Clarke barks out a laugh, shaking her head. “Glad to know my family problems are good for someone.”
“You know me, babe: selfish.”
“That you are.”
Monroe sticks her tongue out, unable to hide the fond grin tugging at her lips. “When are the others coming down?”
“Should be the twenty sixth if the weather cooperates,” Clarke says. She’s really hoping the weather cooperates. She wouldn’t mind getting really fucking drunk with Raven and Octavia.
“Party?”
“Always.”
Monroe offers a wicked grin. “Good.” She checks her phone and tuts. “Shit, babe, I’m meeting Harper in ten, so I gotta go. Do you want to have a drink tonight? A few of us should be at the bar.”
“Sounds good,” Clarke smiles. “Say hi to Harper for me.”
“Will do. We’ll get there around seven, okay? See you tonight.”
“See you tonight, Money.” Clarke smacks a kiss on her old friend’s cheek and watches her run down the supermarket aisle with amusement.
She continues pushing her trolley around, throwing in enough food that’ll allow her to survive until her friends arrive. It’s a relatively small town, so she gets a few nods of recognition from the people that live close by - a few early years living here followed by almost fifteen years of long summers and winter breaks visiting will do that.
It’s close to four when she returns back to the cabin, bags of groceries in hand. She unpacks them with ease, muscle memory of moving around the kitchen coming back to her quickly, and decides that some alcoholic eggnog and Christmas tunes are needed to help her relax.
It’s what she blames not hearing the door open and close on, or the subsequent footsteps - the fact that she’s slightly tipsy, dancing around the open living area and decorating it with Christmas ornaments, singing along loudly to an old CD she remembers from Christmas’ spent with her father.
She’s holding a box of bonbons when she feels tapping on her shoulder. Shrieking in fright, Clarke whips around, raising the box as a weapon and immediately mentally berating herself for such a poor choice of arms before --
“Bellamy,” she screams, shoving him in the chest as she tries to steady her heart rate. What the fuck is he doing here? “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He looks incredibly amused, which just serves to piss her off even more. “Could say the same to you, princess.”
“This is my fucking place.”
He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Classic macho move. “Just because you organised it doesn’t mean the place is yours, Clarke.”
“No,” she grits through her teeth. “But the fact that I own the house means it’s mine.”
He gapes, and she feels a smug sense of satisfaction that she’s taken him by surprise. “O didn’t mention that,” he finally responds.
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Why’d you think you didn’t need to put in any money?”
“I thought we’d work it out up here,” he shrugs, looking more sheepish than he did about scaring the fuck out of her.
“Seriously, Bellamy,” Clarke sighs. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He rakes a hand through his hair nervously. “O told me I could come up early. I think she felt bad for leaving, so,” he shrugs again, and Clarke deflates a little. She knows how guilty Octavia felt for spending the holiday away from her brother for the first time. “She didn’t know you’d be here. Obviously,” he adds unnecessarily, almost as an afterthought.
“Yeah, obviously,” Clarke mutters, a hand going straight to the bridge of her nose.
If you asked any of her friends - any but one - they would tell you that she and Bellamy hated each other from the moment they met. Which was entirely untrue, but it’s not like any of them knew that. They didn’t know that Clarke and Bellamy had met earlier than they let on, so all they had to go on was the first awkward introduction and the following months of cold shoulders and harsh words. It’s different now, but. She’s still not sure how to categorise their relationship. They used to fuck, now they don’t, and she’s having a hard time getting past it.
Clarke sighs a breath too big for her body, an internal battle between herself playing out as she tries to figure out her next move.
“I guess I’ll show you around,” she says finally, deciding that a fight isn’t worth the effort.
“Not going to throw me out?” He jokes.
Clarke scoffs, as if she wasn’t debating just that, and silently turn from him in the hopes that he’ll follow. He does, and she quickly shows him around the ground floor of the house.
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” she says as she ascends the steps. “There are six, so just, you know…chose whichever looks best.”
Bellamy nods, looking into each of the rooms lining the hallway before deciding on the one opposite hers.
“Cool. Well, bathroom’s down the hall or downstairs.” She doesn’t mention the ensuite in her own room. “You’re welcome to have a shower or whatever.”
“Thanks,” Bellamy says, slightly awkward.
Clarke nods, turning around to head back downstairs.
“And Clarke?” She stops but doesn’t turn to face him. “Happy birthday.” He sounds genuine, the words soft, almost like a secret, and it makes her heart hurt. Makes it heavy and full and tight all at once.
“Thanks,” she says quietly, continuing in her steps back to the living room. She lies down on the couch, fishing her phone from her pocket and calling Octavia.
“Happy Birthday, bitch!”
“Thanks for warning me that Bellamy was going to be at the cabin,” she interrupts, dry.
“Shit,” Octavia curses over the phone. “Did he fuck up something with an alarm? I gave him all the codes but you know how he can be.”
Clarke huffs out a laugh despite herself. “No, he just scared the living hell out of me when he walked inside.”
“Wait. Why the hell are you at the cabin already?”
“Mum.”
“Shit. Sorry, Clarke. You can, um - you can kick him out or something. I’m sure he won’t mind the drive back. I just thought that he’d enjoy spending Christmas out of town because I won’t be home, but I should’ve told you. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“O, calm down. It’s fine, really. Just…a surprise is all.”
There’s a pause. “You sure?” Octavia doesn’t sound convinced. “You’re not going to kill each other before we get there, are you? I know you guys kind of hate each other, but he is my brother and I’d prefer him not dead.”
“We’ll be fine,” Clarke replies, trying to convince herself of the words as much as Octavia.
Octavia releases a breath, and Clarke figures the girl is reassured.
“So your mum?” She prompts.
“Yeah,” Clarke sighs, closing her eyes. “Shit went down, I decided to leave, here we are.”
“But on your birthday?” Octavia replies sympathetically. “You won’t have anyone to celebrate with.”
“I’ll be fine, O,” Clarke says, smiling fondly at her friend’s worry. “I’ve got some friends down here. And Bellamy. It’s better than spending it with my mum and Marcus, trust me.” She opens her eyes to find the man in question on the last few steps of the stairs, most likely having caught the tail end of her conversation. “I’ll call you later okay? I have to go.”
“Okay, babe. Try to relax. Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks, O. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“Octavia?” Bellamy asks as he makes his way over to Clarke. He doesn’t take a seat, and Clarke wonders how long it’ll take him to feel comfortable now that he knows the house is hers, and not just something the group is renting out.
“Yep,” Clarke says as she stands, walking to the kitchen. “So I’m meeting some friends at the local bar tonight. Just thought I’d give you a heads up.” She leans against the counter, crossing her arms.
Bellamy nods, rests against the door frame to the kitchen. “Cool.”
They stand there for a few moments, both taking each other in. He looks the same as always, the same as he did the last time they saw each other - not yet three days ago. But still, there’s something. A softness they share when nobody’s watching. One she doesn’t know what to do with, doesn’t really understand. They’re not friends, but. They’re something. When nobody’s paying attention and they allow themselves to let their guards down, they are something. More than acquaintances, maybe even more than friends. It confuses her, too.
Clarke breathes in a deep breath, stepping away from the counter and walking towards the kettle.
“Coffee?” She asks, because she’s not sure she can take another second of the heavy silence weighing on them.
“Irish.”
She flashes a small grin over her shoulder, and his returning one makes her heart stutter, the way his eyes crinkle lighting up her body.
It’s going to be a long five days.
***
“Did you know,” Clarke slurs, gesturing to Anya as she sits at the bar. The scene feels a little familiar, but she’s sure it’s only because she’s thinking about that night two years ago. “That two year ago I fucked someone in a bar?”
Oh, and yeah, she’s pretty fucking drunk.
Anya gives her a look, one that seems to say why the fuck would I know that? and of course I know that in equal measures, so Clarke just shrugs. She didn’t have anywhere to go with the story, it just sort of popped into her head and needed to be said aloud.
“How’re you getting home?”
Clarke shrugs again. “It’s only a ten minute walk.”
“Not in your state,” Anya mutters, looking very done with her life.
“No, Anya. Ayna? Anya. You don’t get it.” Anya levels her with an unimpressed glare. “Two years ago today.”
Anya rolls her eyes, and it’s a gesture that Clarke remembers from when she was ten and the other girl fifteen and Clarke had tried to convince her that blue was, in fact, a flavour.
“I’m calling you a cab.”
Clarke groans, picking up the glass of water Anya insisted she drank. “You don’t have to. Bellamy’s here.” She gestures vaguely to a booth at the other end of the bar, where she knows Bellamy’s sitting and talking to a very pretty girl named Roma. Whatever.
“Are you sure he’ll be going home with you?”
Clarke doesn’t answer, just shrugs again and walks back to where her friends are surrounding a pool table. They cheer when she arrives, which is kind of the best. She could get used to this kind of birthday treatment.
Well, day-after-birthday treatment.
It’s another twenty minutes of lining up and missing shots in an attempt to play pool before Harper slides up next to her. The girl is probably as drunk as Clarke, so the attempted steadying arm she puts around Clarke’s shoulders ends up making them both sway and slightly tip over. They manage to straighten without toppling over completely, but it feels like a close call, and they’re giggling like crazed middle schoolers.
“So, Bellamy,” Harper finally says - once they’ve both taken calming breaths - whispering like the boy is a goddamn conspiracy.
“So, Bellamy,” Clarke parrots, because this much alcohol is making her more like a five year old than anything else.
“Shhh,” Harper slaps a finger against Clarke’s lips to silence her, making Clarke burst into a new round of giggles. “I’m serious,” the girl whispers. “You’re friends. But you don’t,” she flails her arms around dramatically, “come here together. And when he shows up you talk for twenty minutes and then he just fucks off?”
“Mmmm,” Clarke agrees, resting her head on Harper’s shoulder, her eyes getting heavier with each passing second.
“I don’t get it, Clarkey,” Harper whines, very pathetic and confused.
“We’re not like, friend friends, you know?”
“No.”
“Yeah,” Clarke snorts, “me either.”
Harper pats Clarke on the head, in what she thinks is meant to be a consoling way, and they stand together in silence. It’s nice and warm in the bar, music echoing throughout it softly, and between blinks Clarke’s eyes find Bellamy. He's still talking to that girl, a beer in his hand and looking very much at ease. He always does. He catches her gaze, quirking an eyebrow in question, but she just offers a smile and closes her eyes again, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t staring.
“Home time, princess?” Bellamy startles her ten minutes later. She’s back to playing - no, attempting to play - pool, this time her and Maya against Atom and Monroe. She’s like, ninety percent sure they’re losing, but she can't remember if they're solids or stripes, so they could be winning by a landslide.
“Bellamy!” She calls, almost hitting him with her cue. He grabs it easily, an amused expression gracing his face as he puts it away.
“Drunk?”
She scoffs, even though it’s pretty obvious she’s plastered.
“I’ll introduce you to people,” she grabs his hand and walks him approximately one metre before coming to a stop. She doesn't let go of his hand. Everyone’s already looking at her expectantly so she says, “This is Bellamy,” while gesturing wildly to him, like they won’t know who she’s talking about unless she points finger arrows. “He’s Octavia’s older brother and a loser.”
“Gee, thanks,” he mutters.
The group lets out a general greeting and Clarke continues. “This is Money,” she points out the girl with auburn hair. “Monroe, actually. We met when she punched Murphy in the face for stealing my doll. It was in the first grade,” she supplies when Bellamy looks confused. “Murphy was an asshole. Oh, that’s Murphy,” she gestures to the boy that looks sullen and bored. “He’s still an asshole. Harper is Monroe’s girlfriend, but she was my first kiss so I think I win, and Atom there was my first kiss with a boy and the first person who went to second base with me.” She attempts a sultry wink, but in her state she thinks she just blinks aggressively. Both the boy in question and Bellamy snort a laugh, and Clarke grins, very dazed. “Then there’s Maya, Fox, Matt and James. Jasper's in love with Maya,” she whisper-shouts, very obvious.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Bellamy supplies with a charming smile. He’s always charming like that, Clarke thinks. She narrows her eyes and screws up her nose. Why is he always so charming with new people? It’s annoying. She’s the worst at meeting new people. “Do you guys mind if I take her home? I’m not sure she’ll be able to stand pretty soon.”
“I’m fine,” Clarke slurs, but she trips over her own feet and is basically ignored for the rest of the exchange.
She gathers her bag, and after a round of goodbyes and a promise to host a party, is walking towards the exit with one Bellamy Blake.
“Did you know,” she says, leaning into him to help her stay upright. “That we met exactly two years ago?”
He huffs out a laugh. “I remember, princess,” he says, dry.
“Anya,” Clarke suddenly yells, stopping in front of the bar. The woman looks up, raising a questioning eyebrow. “This is the guy,” she whisper-shouts, pointing towards Bellamy discretely. From Anya’s look, it’s not very discrete. “Met him and fucked him right there in the bathroom of the bar.” Anya smiles - smiles - in what Clarke’s pretty sure is utter amusement at her drunkenly embarrassing herself.
“Jesus, Clarke,” Bellamy mutters, tugging her arm.
“What?” She asks, following him. “It’s true.”
“Again,” he sighs. “I remember.”
She walks towards the exit of the bar, and just before leaving turns around to yell "BLUE IS A FLAVOUR," at Anya, and runs out the door. Bellamy follows her out with an awkward walk-run, and Clarke's giggling ridiculously as he steadies her by propping her arm around his shoulder.
It’s a long walk when she's drunk, about twenty three of Bellamy’s sighs worth, and by the time they step inside she’s pretty sure she’ll never feel her toes again. She would be more upset about this development, but she’s still pretty drunk, so it doesn’t seem like much of a loss.
“Come on,” Bellamy says as he helps Clarke up the stairs and to her bedroom. She wants to just pass out on the very inviting, comfy-looking bed, but her clothes are cold and a little wet, so she begins shucking her coat off. He helps with it, pulls off her sweater and boots before finding a pair of pyjamas in the drawers. “Can you get into these by yourself?”
“I’m not a child,” she says, sounding petulant and exactly like a child. Bellamy rolls his eyes and turns to face the door, but doesn’t leave, which yeah, it’s fair. She stumbles out of her clothes and pulls on the fresh pair of PJs, all warm and snuggly, before falling into bed.
Bellamy turns around and tucks the blankets up to her chin, putting a glass of water on her bedside table that seems to have materialised out of nowhere.
“You’re not going to throw up, are you? He asks, tucking some of the hair fanning her face behind her ear.
She shakes her head, looking up at him and feeling very small in this moment.
“Good,” he smiles, removing his hand from where it was almost cradling her face. He straightens and turns around, begins on the door before she calls out -
“I never know how to act around you. You know?” Somewhere in her mind a small voice is screaming at her to shut the fuck up, because she really shouldn’t be drunkenly confessing this shit. But that’s just a small voice, and the rest of her brain doesn’t really care.
“Yeah,” he says, turning back to face her. “I know.” He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep, Clarke.”
She nods, watches him leave the room, and closes her eyes, letting alcohol and exhaustion pull her towards sleep.
***
Clarke wakes up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. Her body aches, like it always does after a big night of drinking, and she stretches in her bed before pulling the covers tighter around her.
It’s past two she realises when checking her phone, which is pretty much the latest she’s slept in in the last year. There’s a glass of water on her bedside table, and she vaguely remembers someone putting it there, but can’t quite pinpoint it. It’s difficult to drink, but she braves it out, popping some aspirin and hoping it’ll stop the persistent throb at her temples.
It’s another twenty minutes before she’s able to get out of bed, and it’s only to make the short distance to her bathroom. She sits down in the shower, her body not quite ready to support itself, and turns the water to a temperature that gets her skin nice and flushed in under a minute. She just sits, nothing on her mind but not feeling empty, and lets the water wash over her, wash away the smell of alcohol and smoke. She lathers herself in a pomegranate scented body gel, one that always makes herself feel refreshed, and rinses her hair through with the purple shampoo that promises to tone it. She’s not sure whether it works or not, but a hair routine feels like something she should have, so she puts it in once a week anyway.
She makes it downstairs by three, wearing a pair of leggings, a thick wooly sweater and UGG boots, and finds it empty. A note in the kitchen says OUT and Clarke’s glad - she has a vague feeling that she should be embarrassed, but isn’t sure why. If she can postpone the inevitable finding-out-why part of her day, she’s happy. There’s some pancake batter made up in the fridge, which shouldn’t surprise Clarke because Bellamy is the king of breakfast, but she finds a soft smile tugging at her lips anyway. There’s a post-it note on the bowl saying HAPPY HANGOVER/POST-BIRTHDAY, NO IRISH COFFEE FOR YOU and her smile widens.
She eats her afternoon-breakfast with only a scrape of butter, because the thought of maple syrup or lemon and sugar kind of makes her want to throw up, and settles on the couch to turn on the TV. She wasn’t actually annoyed about coming to the cabin for a few days by herself, it’s just the why that pissed her off. The envelope is still sitting unopened on the chest of drawers in her room, and Clarke still has a sickening twist of her stomach when she thinks about its contents.
But still, it’s nice to spend some time by herself. Sure, Bellamy’s here, but she’s not sure that counts.
She’s in the middle of Nativity! when she hears the door open and footsteps sounding through the entry of the cabin.
“Hey,” Bellamy says when he walks into the living area, settling down on one of the arm chairs - apparently not uncomfortable at making himself at home anymore.
“Hey,” Clarke says, grunts more like it, because this hangover is making her feel close to death. Why did she drink so much again?
“You’re sounding good.”
“Fuck off.”
Bellamy huffs a laugh before throwing a plastic bag towards her. There’s gatorade and aspirin and some hot chips that look to die for.
“Thanks,” she says, already stuffing a few in her mouth. She moans with it, because if there’s one thing that makes her feel better when hungover, it’s hot chips. She didn’t realise Bellamy knew that. “Where’ve you been?” She asks, because as far as she knows he’s been out for over three hours.
“Exploring,” he offers. She gives him an unimpressed glare, because you can’t really explore in a town this small. There’s a Main Street, and that’s all. “Book shop,” he amends sheepishly.
“Should’ve known,” she says, settling back to watch the rest of the film.
She’s expecting Bellamy to leave - see again, they’re not really friends - but he doesn’t. Just toes off his boots and shrugs off his coat and finds himself a blanket to snuggle into. It’s all very domestic, but she’s trying not to think about that, instead focussing on Martin Freeman being beautiful.
It’s…nice, actually. They laugh throughout the film, the sound echoing in the warm room, and she’s actually able to relax , which. Well, she’s not always able to around him.
“You said you never know how to act around me,” he says when the credits are rolling. They were sitting in almost companionable silence, easy and light, and he startles her with the statement.
“What?” She asks, confused.
She hears Bellamy sigh, but doesn’t raise her head to look at him. She’s too nervous, because she's pretty sure she knows where this is going.
“Last night you told me you don’t know how to act around me,” he clarifies, and Clarke’s breath catches. She doesn’t remember, not really, but it is how she feels, so apparently Drunk Clarke is much more forward with her feelings.
“Oh,” is all her mind can think to say. She really wishes he’d just let her hide under a blanket, because she doesn’t want to have this conversation.
“I just…didn’t realise.”
She worries her lip, embarrassment seeping into her heart and pumping through her veins. She doesn’t respond, not sure what he’s expecting her to say, what he wants from this conversation.
“Are you just going to ignore me?” He asks.
“No,’ she rushes to say, but doesn’t exactly have a follow up. Anything she says will be pathetic, she’s sure. She hates feeling pathetic. “I guess it’s true,” she offers quietly.
She hears him shuffle, and finally looks up to find him shifting in his seat. She sighs, moving to sit up herself. She hugs her legs close to her chest, chin resting on her knees. Apparently this is happening.
“It’s just - everything means something. If I’m nice to you, it means something. If we start joking around, it means something. If I smile, it means something. If we scream at each other, it means something. If we don’t even talk, it means something. I want to find a normal, but I don’t know what it is because-”
“Everything means something,” Bellamy concludes with a sigh.
Clarke nods. “And I wish that I could be the kind of person who doesn’t overthink it, because really, it’d make my life easier.” And less pathetic. “Because it’s been a long fucking time.” She sighs. It’s been a really long fucking time, and she still can’t get past it. Maybe that’s the point.
They’re silent for a few minutes, chancing glances at each other and occasionally catching them. She’s desperate for him to say something, because she really doesn’t want to come off as the girl who'll never get over him, but. Maybe that’s what she is. Maybe that’s what she’ll always be, even just a little bit.
“Truce?” He says finally.
“What?”
Bellamy sighs, standing up and sitting next to Clarke on the couch.
“I know what you mean - I’m never sure how to act around you, either. And nobody knows, so it’s more difficult; everything seems to hold more weight. So, truce,” he repeats. “We can just be, you know, nice to each other. Friends, maybe? That can be our new normal. If you want.”
If you want. Just like when they met, it's up to her to accept the offer.
She shifts her head, looks up to find him already watching her. He looks - hopeful, almost, like maybe he’s as sick of whatever they’ve been doing as she is.
“That’d be nice,” she says with a smile. “Truce.”
He nods once before putting on another movie, settling a blanket on top of both of their laps.
A truce it is.