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There’s a certain expectation that comes when working at a hospital around Christmas. Mainly it involves nightmarish scheduling, an influx of holiday-themed injuries, and patients thinking that being rude will get them through the ER quicker, but there are some nicer aspects to it, as well.
Like the little boy who drew a picture of her earlier in the evening (sledding accident), yellow curls beneath a halo, because apparently she was “like an angel”. Or the young couple wearing matching Christmas sweaters, one ballooned out over a giant belly, making bets on whether they’d have a Christmas baby on their hands (the pregnant lady’s wife won, with the kid born twenty two minutes before midnight of the day itself, Harper told her). And then there’s always Maya, who brings in homemade baked goods for the break room and keeps up a stock of candy canes at the nurses’ station for whenever people need a little energy hit.
“You’re a godsend,” Clarke tells her, unwrapping the red, white and green sweet and letting out a contented sigh at the first taste. It’s been a long shift — fifteen hours of non-stop work with one more to go — and an even longer week, and at this moment the candy cane feels like the only thing keeping her going. “Happy Christmas, by the way,” she adds before she forgets, eyeing the clock. It’s a quarter past twelve, which isn’t actually too late, but having worked five of the last seven days, Clarke’s pretty sure she’ll be sleeping through most of Christmas. It’s not like she has big plans, anyway.
“Is my present all these forms you’re dropping off?” Maya asks, smile teasing as Clarke hands over the paperwork of the guy she just patched up (snow fight incident; five stitches).
“I’d love to say no, but yes,” she replies, mouth twitching up into a smile at Maya’s dramatic eye roll. “Now direct me to the next person who will passive aggressively tell me how long they’ve been waiting.”
“Well, you’re off the hook for that one,” Maya tells her. “Monty just called in with another motor collision. He’s ten minutes out.”
Clarke frowns. “Is it bad that I’m slightly relieved about that?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so.”
“Apparently the guy was knocked off his motorbike.”
“Fuck,” Clarke curses lowly. It’s late; dark and wet and generally awful conditions for anyone to be travelling, let alone on a motorbike. With the cold weather, she’s hoping they were at least smart enough to be wearing good protective gear. “Any word on how they are?”
“Conscious, but hit his head. Most likely broken bones.”
Clarke nods, already mentally preparing for the coming patient, her fatigue moving to the back of her mind. She bins her candy cane, regretful, and stretches out her neck. “I’ll get people ready. Thanks, Maya.”
Maya nods in response and Clarke turns back to the emergency room, gathering a team of people so they’re ready for a swift response. It’s critical to work quickly and efficiently in the event of major trauma, and thankfully she trusts that they can do just that; even the interns currently doing their rounds in the emergency department are doing pretty well. From what Maya said, the person’s injuries don’t seem very severe, but you can never be too sure.
It’s a short wait for the patient to arrive once Clarke gets herself organised. She stands out at the emergency entrance for all of three minutes before the ambulance comes to a stop in front of her, Jasper jumping out of the driver’s seat and rounding to the back to open the rear door. Clarke’s right behind him, watching as the patient is pulled out on a gurney, and getting ready to take action, just like she’s done countless times over the years.
But instead of grabbing ahold of the stretcher railing to help wheel the patient inside, asking Monty what happened, what his initial evaluations found, she falters in her step, feels the air get knocked from her all at once. Because she recognises that boy, warm brown skin sprinkled with freckles, unruly inky curls and a jawline so sharp it could cut glass. She recognises him despite the ten years that have passed and the bruises and cuts scattered across the skin free from his clothes. She recognises him and it makes her world stop.
“Bellamy,” Clarke breathes out, eyes wide as she takes him in. Boy is definitely the wrong word to use; he is most certainly a man now.
“Clarke?” Bellamy chokes out, eyes fluttering in that way they used to, so incredibly familiar. His brows draw up in confusion, and that’s familiar too. “What’re you—”
Monty cuts in before he can finish his question, calling her name sharp enough that it breaks Clarke from her reverie. She blinks, and a second passes before she finally snaps back into action, helping move Bellamy — Bellamy — into the hospital and asking Monty the usual questions.
He was hit by a car reversing from a driveway, she quickly learns, and while neither were going particularly fast, it was enough for him to be knocked off his bike and hit his head on the road. It could be a lot worse, Clarke knows, but her heart still thrums a hard and fast beat against her chest, and her stomach still knots up in worry.
“Clarke,” Monty says quietly as they reach a trauma room, interrupting her from where she’s scanning her eyes over Bellamy’s form, trying to identify any severe wounds. “You know it’s against policy to treat patients you know. I’ll get Harper, instead.”
“No,” she says, surprised at how firm and steady her answer comes out. Monty’s right; it is against policy, but — this is Bellamy. There’s no way she’s leaving him. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she continues. “Monty, I’ll be fine. I would never put his life at risk because I was too busy freaking out.”
He gives her a searching look, face drawn as though he might protest, but she can see the moment he relents in the way he deflates. Grateful, Clarke shoots him a tight smile, before calling out for the small team of people she organised earlier to help transfer Bellamy onto the hospital bed.
It’s like a well-oiled machine, the way everyone works together, quick and coordinated in their response. Clarke’s able to remain professional despite her earlier falter, treating Bellamy as if he were any other patient, taking his medical history and performing each of the examinations methodically, but there’s no denying the larger than usual wave of relief that comes when their primary survey finds no life-threatening injuries. A moderate concussion, some cuts and bruises, and what looks like a few cracked ribs and a broken arm, but no internal bleeding or severe head injury. For being knocked off his bike in the middle of the night, he’s incredibly lucky.
With that outcome, Clarke’s able to tell the others that she can finish off a more detailed secondary assessment by herself.
“If that’s okay?” She asks, once everyone else has left the room. Maybe it’s presumptuous to assume Bellamy would want her treating him, after all this time. But —
“You’ve already seen me naked, princess,” he says, mouth pulling up into a familiar smirk, one she remembers kissing off of him many times before, her brain supplies unhelpfully. “I think I can handle it.”
Clarke huffs, rolling her eyes. “Shut up,” she mutters, feeling a flush rise on her cheeks. She tells herself it’s just the adrenaline.
The secondary assessment leaves Clarke with the same conclusion as the primary one did: a concussion from hitting his head, what looks like a fractured arm from an attempt to break his fall, and a few cracked ribs from the impact to the ground. She orders some scans to confirm the broken bones, and an hour later is telling him he has a radial fracture and three cracked ribs.
“We have to wait for the swelling to go down before putting on a cast,” she explains, positioning his arm so she can work on it. “But for now, you need to wear a splint.”
Technically, her shift ended a while ago, but it’s not like Clarke could’ve just left. Bellamy’s going to be okay, she knows that, but it feels more like luck than anything else, and she’s just — she’s not ready to leave him yet, after everything. Plus, his emergency contact — Nathan Miller, Clarke noted, not Octavia — didn’t answer the hospital’s call. He’d be alone if she left, and she doesn’t want that.
So she applies the splint herself, rather than calling someone else in to do it, before double checking her work on the few cuts that needed patching up and talking Bellamy through what to expect in the coming days. He says he’s not in a lot of pain, just generally sore, with a headache and a slightly uncomfortable pressure on his arm and chest, so she doesn’t prescribe any painkillers, instead recommending some anti-inflammatory drugs and aspirin.
“So. When’s Octavia going to get here?” She asks as she finishes off the lasts few notes on his discharge form, pointed. He hasn’t called her; she knows that, and he knows that she knows that.
“Not until after New Year’s,” he responds, casual in an extremely frustrating way. He takes the forms she offers, signing them quickly before settling his gaze on her. Neither of them speak for a good ten seconds, but finally Bellamy relents. “She doesn’t actually live in Boston. Usually she comes over for Christmas, but this year she’s spending it with her boyfriend. It’s our first one apart, but I, uh — I don’t want her to come back here because of me. She’d probably think it was all part of some master plan.”
Clarke softens, taking in that look on his face he’s never been able to hide well; the one that says he’s hurting, but doesn’t think he has any right to be.
“Bellamy,” she says, reaching out to sweep his hair from his forehead. It’s a much too intimate gesture for the time between them, but she can’t help it; she hates seeing him like this. “Octavia would never think that. And you know she’ll be pissed if you don’t tell her straight away.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice rough but final. Clarke recognises it well enough that she doesn’t push any further.
“What about a friend? I know Nathan didn’t answer, but is there someone else?”
“I don’t want to bother them. Especially at two in the morning on Christmas day. It’s fine, Clarke. I’m sure I can grab an uber.”
“But you need someone to stay with you tonight,” she reminds him. “Do you have a roommate, or a, um — a partner?”
His mouth ticks up into an amused smirk, and Clarke can’t even find herself to be annoyed about it with the way it makes his face drain of tension. “No roommate or partner.”
She debates with herself for all of ten seconds before making up her mind, nodding once decisively. “Fine. I’m coming home with you, then.”
Bellamy’s shaking his head before she even finishes her sentence. “Fuck, Clarke. No. You don’t have to do that.”
Clarke huffs, frustrated. “Look. With a concussion, you need someone to check up on you every few hours. So unless I see you calling someone else to pick you up and stay with you for the night, you’re stuck with me.”
He regards her for a few moments, eyes narrowing as through he’s trying to figure her out. “You know you don’t owe me anything.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know.”
“And you don’t have plans for tomorrow?”
“Only those that involve sleeping and eating leftovers.”
Bellamy blanches, screwing up his nose. “That’s just sad,” he says, and she knows it’s his way of accepting her offer. She bites back a pleased smile.
“You know, I forgot that you’re kind of a judgmental asshole,” she says, instead.
“Only kind of? I was going for extreme. I’m losing my touch.”
“Don’t worry,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads out of the room, saccharine sweet. “It’s just your old age.”
Maya offers her another candy cane when she reaches the nurse’s station, in exchange for Bellamy’s forms, which is why Maya’s the best.
“How’d it all go?” she asks Clarke, eyeing Bellamy where he settles a few steps behind her curiously.
“Well, he’s being discharged,” Clarke reasons, looking over her shoulder to shoot him a smile. Maya raises an eyebrow, obviously realising she’s missing something. “Maya, this is my high school boyfriend, Bellamy Blake,” Clarke explains. “Bellamy, this is Maya Vie.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bellamy offers, warm.
“You too,” Maya agrees, smile shifting from sweet to downright mischievous as she looks back to Clarke. “Have a great Christmas, Clarke. I hope Santa brings you something nice.”
Behind her, a laugh is very poorly disguised as a cough, and Clarke has to remind herself not to elbow Bellamy, seeing as he was just in an accident and now has three cracked ribs. Instead, she sticks her tongue at her friend, and grabs ahold of Bellamy’s good hand, dragging him out of the emergency department.
“She seems nice,” he muses as they head back into the hospital lobby. There’s a definite hint of sly amusement in his voice, and Clarke feels herself blush.
“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “Real nice.”
She navigates them towards the locker room up on the third floor, making Bellamy wait outside for the minute it takes to grab her stuff and shrug on a jumper. It’s hard to know what the next few hours are going to entail — she hasn’t seen Bellamy since she was eighteen and still in love with him — but there’s an undeniable part of Clarke that’s excited to find out. Nervous, of course, but still excited.
Bellamy calls Octavia once they’re in the car, Clarke heading towards his place after he tells her to get onto the freeway. It probably goes as well as can be expected, meaning that Octavia yells at him for not contacting her sooner, then tells him she’s booking a flight home, only to be talked down when he says he’s got company for the night.
“No, I didn’t know she was in Boston, O,” he’s saying a good five minutes later, shooting Clarke an eye roll as if to say can you believe her? “Okay, I’ll let her know. Yes. Okay. Goodnight, O. I’ll call you in the morning. Merry Christmas.” He hangs up with a long sigh Clarke sees right through, before glancing over to her. “Octavia says hi.”
“I’d say hi back, but.” Clarke gestures towards his phone, now in his hand. “How much further?”
“In two exits,” Bellamy says, leaning forward to turn on the radio. He switches to a station playing some acoustic versions of classic Christmas carols, filling the car with a nice, soft melody.
He directs her the rest of the way, and Clarke pulls into an apartment complex ten minutes later. It’s in a better part of town than he grew up in back home, and the place itself is a lot nicer, at least from the outside. It makes her smile, to see this glimpse of where he’s at now.
“You’re sure you want to stay over?” Bellamy asks, once she’s navigated her way into his usual spot. She’s impressed it’s only the first time he’s asked this whole ride over.
“Yep,” Clarke assures readily, leaning over to the backseat to grab her bag and emergency first aid kit, before hopping out of the car.
The silence between them as they make their way up to his is apartment is companionable, somehow. Despite the decade’s worth of distance between the, he just doesn’t feel like a stranger. He feels like Bellamy, and she thinks she could recognise that anytime and anywhere.
It helps that his apartment is completely him, too; a mismatch of furniture, all worn in and homey, with books absolutely everywhere, stacked in book shelves and littered on random surfaces. There are photos hung up on his wall, mostly of Octavia and some of others she doesn’t recognise, and a Christmas tree tucked in the corner of his living room, decorated with tinsel and baubles in every colour out there.
She can’t help it, the surge of fondness she feels at the sight prompting her to reach out for his hand, give it a gentle squeeze.
“Yeah,” Clarke says, a soft smile playing on her lips. “This is you.”
The smile he sends her way is warm and familiar, and it tugs at her heart, which is beyond ridiculous. “Come on. You can have Miller’s old room.”
“Miller your emergency contact?”
“Yeah, and old roommate. And best friend, probably.”
He shuts the apartment door behind them before leading Clarke through his place, ushering her into the spare room. She drops her stuff onto the bed, thankful that it’s already made, before turning back to Bellamy.
“I’m just across the hall, and the bathroom’s down the end,” he says, running a hand through his fair, a familiar gesture that belies his nerves.
“Thanks, Bell.” She clears her throat, feels awkward for asking, but she kind of has to, unless she wants to be very cold tonight. “Could I borrow some pyjamas? I didn’t exactly bring any.”
“Oh, shit, yeah,” Bellamy says, brows furrowing. “Of course. You can, ah — just wait here a sec.”
He leaves before she can respond, and returns less than a minute later with a pair of long pyjama pants, a large, worn tee, and a couple of towels.
“If you want to take a shower,” he offers, handing them over.
“Thanks, Bell.” They stand like that for a few, semi-awkward beats, both seeming a little lost for words. “Do you need help changing?” Clarke finally blurts out, willing herself not to blush. With a broken arm after a recent accident, it’s not like it’s an outrageous question.
Thankfully he doesn’t take the easy bait, the only indication of his amusement the sly smile that pulls on his lips. “I think I’ll be alright. Thanks.”
“Yeah, of course. I just thought I’d offer. And here,” she says, handing over the packet of aspirin she keeps in her first aid kit. “Take two of these before you go to sleep. I’ll wake you up in a few hours, anyway.”
Bellamy nods, backs out of the room. “Thanks, Clarke. Sleep well.”
“Yeah. You, too, Bellamy.”
She waits until she hears him go to bed before slipping out of her room and into the bathroom.
The first step under the rush of hot water is something like heaven, and Clarke immediately feels herself start to unwind, her muscles humming in content as they relax. It’s been a long day, and the unexpected emotional rush that’s come with it has made her even more exhausted. She doesn’t think twice before using Bellamy’s stuff, washing her hair with his shampoo and conditioner, and lathering herself up with his body wash. It’s nothing she recognises as distinctly Bellamy, but it’s deep and earthy and lovely, and it feels like it fits, anyway.
His clothes are too big for her, the pants running past her feet even when Clarke rolls the waistband over twice, and the top all but dwarfing her frame. Bellamy’s not that much taller than she is, but he’s — well, he’s a lot broader than he was at eighteen, at this top proves it. There’s something comforting about it, too; being wrapped up in his clothes. It’s more than a little surreal, almost like she’s returning to the past, but it’s nice, making her chest warm and her stomach flutter with something like anticipation.
But even those feelings can’t counter the effects of almost twenty hours without sleep. After making sure her phone’s on charge, with an alarm set for three hours away, Clarke finally lets go of the day, exhaustion pulling her to sleep quickly.
+
There’s a few seconds of confusion when Clarke wakes up, much too early and alone in an unfamiliar bed, but it clicks when she registers the alarm going off. She’s at Bellamy’s apartment, and she needs to check up on him.
She’s tired, but it’s a feeling she’s used to being halfway through her residency. So she drags herself out of bed, hopes she doesn’t look like too much of a mess, and creeps into the room she knows is Bellamy’s.
He’s sound asleep, from what she can tell, soft, little snores breaking the room from the early morning quiet. Clarke walks over to his bed, sitting down a little hesitantly. It’s not like he doesn’t know she’s meant to be waking him up, but it still feels like she’s doing something wrong, being here while he’s still asleep.
“Bell,” she calls out quietly, curling a hand around his shoulder and giving it a little nudge. He stirs, but doesn’t wake up, so Clarke repeats her actions, only a little louder and with a little more force. “Bell,” she says again. “Wake up.”
“What is it?” He murmurs, all sleepy and absolutely not adorable. She doesn’t find her high school ex-boyfriend, whom she has not seen for ten years, adorable. That’s where Clarke’s drawing the line.
“Wake up,” she insists, ignoring her ridiculous inner monologue in favour of shaking him some more. He blinks up at her, face crinkled and eyes heavy, and Clarke smiles. “Just checking up on you,” she explains, soft and hopefully reassuring. “Can you tell me your name?”
His mouth ticks up on one side, amused even when still half asleep. “Bellamy Blake.”
“And do you know who I am?”
“Clarke Griffin. Ex-girlfriend. Virginity stealer. Life saver, apparently.”
She feels a flush creep up her cheeks, and Clarke curses herself for having turned on his bedroom lights earlier. There’s no way he isn’t seeing the effects of his words. “I didn’t steal your virginity,” she says hotly. “It was mutually…exchanged.”
There’s a beat before Bellamy lets out a burst of laughter, all deep and rumbly and maybe a little bit painful if the way his hand settles on his ribs is anything to go by. Clarke ducks her head, trying to hide both her blush and her smile.
“Mutually exchanged,” he repeats. “That’s a good one, princess.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, looking back up to him. His eyes are crinkled in a smile. “So you’re okay? Not in too much pain, I mean?”
He actually considers her question, which Clarke appreciates. There was a time when he would’ve brushed off the question, just said he was fine so not to be an inconvenience, or something ridiculous like that.
“I’m tired. And annoyed I can’t move my arm much; changing was harder than I anticipated. But, yeah, I’m okay. Not in too much pain, either.”
Clarke nods, relieved. “Okay, that’s good. Well, I’ll just—” she gestures over her shoulder, in the direction of his door, before standing back up. “I’ll see you again in a few, I guess.”
“Can’t wait. Night, princess.”
“Night, Bell.”
+
Clarke checks up on Bellamy once more before being woken herself, to the sound of Christmas music and someone pottering around in the kitchen. It’s almost eleven, probably earlier than she would’ve gotten up if she was at home by herself, but not early enough that she can justify trying to get back to sleep. She doesn’t want to be rude, holing up in bed all day, with Bellamy just outside.
So she makes herself get up, responding to the expected Christmas messages and sending a few of her own, before slipping into the bathroom to freshen up and change into the clothes she wore to the hospital yesterday morning. She finds Bellamy perched up at the kitchen counter when she makes her way into the living area, mug of coffee in hand and phone held up to his ear. He looks probably as good as can be expected, and apparently managed a shower on his own, hair still damp and face freshened up despite the cuts and bruises. He's still as beautiful as he was at eighteen, Clarke notes, but that's not surprising.
“I wasn’t not going to tell you,” he’s saying, to who Clarke’s guessing is Octavia, over the phone. He looks both fond and frustrated, an expression she remembers well from their teenage years. “I called you two hours after it happened, O. That’s quick.”
Stifling a laugh, Clarke steps into the kitchen properly, not wanting to be caught out eavesdropping. Bellamy shoots her a smile when he sees her, nodding past her to a fresh pot of coffee. The gesture is very appreciated, and Clarke mouthes a thank you before grabbing a mug from the drying rack by the sink and pouring herself a cup.
She shuffles over to the living room to give the siblings some privacy, settling on the couch and picking up the copy of The Hobbit that’s sitting on the coffee table. It’s a nice way to wait out Bellamy’s conversation, and she makes it to Bilbo’s decision to join the party of dwarves on their journey before he joins her.
“Sorry about that,” he says, dropping down on the other end of the couch. “Miller called and I had to explain everything that happened. And then O wanted to yell at me some more.”
Clarke smiles, closing the book. “That sounds like Octavia.”
“She’s as much of a firecracker as she was at fourteen,” Bellamy agrees, wry.
“What’d she yell at you about?”
Bellamy sighs, throws his good arm over his eyes. “First it was for not calling immediately after the accident. Then it was for being out on my bike at night. And finally, it was to wish me a happy Christmas.”
Clarke nods, feels her smile fall, becoming weak and shaky. “You know she’s right,” she says, nudging his leg with her foot. He moves his arm, looks back at her. “You shouldn’t have been out in those conditions.”
“Someone hit me,” he points out, and it doesn’t sound like it’s the first time he’s used the argument. Clarke’s sure Octavia just heard it multiple times. “Not the other way around.”
“I know,” she says, has to swallow past the lump in her throat before she continues. “But you could’ve died last night, Bellamy. Do you get that? Do you understand how lucky you are that you’re home right now, with only a few broken bones?”
Bellamy softens, completely and all at once. “Clarke.”
She shakes her head, feeling ridiculous. It’s not like she has any right to be mad at him; they haven’t seen each other in a decade.
“Just — forget it. It’s fine.”
“Hey,” he says, gentle. His hand finds hers, tugs on it until she’s sitting beside him, and then he wraps her up in his arms, solid and warm even with the splint. “It probably wasn’t the best way to see each other again after ten years,” he jokes weakly. She lets out a tired laugh, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. Then, earnest: “I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“It’s not — it’s fine,” she says. “I’m being stupid. It’s not like we really know each other, anymore.”
It’s surprising how much it hurts Clarke to admit; not knowing this person who was once her entire world.
They dated for two years in high school, a fling of casual hook ups that turned into something more, until one day Clarke realised he was her absolute favourite person to be with. It was big in the way that first loves usually are, and the heartache that came with their break up felt just as huge. It was as amicable as it probably could’ve been; they tried long distance in their first few months of college, but being an eight hour drive away was too much for even them.
Clarke remembers how it felt vividly; like her world was crashing down around her, pushing on her chest and her stomach until she couldn’t breathe. She cried for days, and spent even longer holed up in her dorm room, only leaving to go to classes or eat. But it passed, as heartbreak does. The pain faded, and she started going out more, and she got crushes, and she kissed people at parties, and — Bellamy was still part of her, but she no longer thought of him every day. She no longer checked whether he texted her, or if he joined Facebook and requested her as a friend. And when she did think of him, it didn’t make her chest all tight with sadness.
They’d promised each other a clean break, and that’s what they got. Clarke never expected that the momentum of not talking, of not checking in, would continue throughout their undergrads, but it did. It was one year without contact, and then two, and five, and now — now Clarke’s realising how much she’s missed Bellamy Blake; this boy who was once her favourite person in the entire world.
She doesn’t blame either of them for the distance, but — it does hurt, knowing how much they’ve missed of each other, simply because they broke up when they were eighteen.
Bellamy pulls back from the hug, smile soft and maybe a little sad. “So, let’s start,” he says, and Clarke’s sure she’s not imagining the hopeful glimmer to his voice. “You said you don’t have plans for the day, right?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t get the time off to visit Mum, and most of my friends are out of town.”
“Okay, so let’s spend the day together. Catch up; get to know each other again.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Clarke worries her lip. “And you don’t have plans?”
Bellamy shrugs. “I was meant to go to my Miller’s boyfriend’s family dinner, but it was definitely a pity invite. This will be better.”
Clarke thinks it over for a minute, then nods. “Okay,” she says, feeling a little shy, ridiculously. He invited her to stay; she doesn’t have a reason to be shy. “That would be nice.”
His grin is bright and pleased, and Clarke knows it was the right decision. “Awesome.”
It’s surprising how easy it actually is, catching up and getting to know each other again. They always clicked, Clarke knows, always got each other on some weird fundamental level, and that hasn’t changed, ten years later or in the light of day.
He begins where they left off, tells her about his college years as they eat cereal on the couch. He talks about being away from Octavia, how hard it was only seeing her in the breaks long enough that he could make the five hour drive back home. About his mum’s death, the guilt that came when part of him was just grateful he was able to finish his degree, become financially independent so he could get custody of his sister. He talks about the few years he spent working in construction, the hours long and hard, until Octavia convinced him to go back to school; how that meant moving out here and leaving her again, a decision he only made when they promised to have weekly Skype catch ups. And finally, he talks about being a high school history teacher, voice coloured with both frustration and passion in the stories of his students, the Latin club he’s just started running and the musical he’s been forced into helping put together. He loves it, and it makes Clarke’s heart swell with pride.
In turns she talks about her own experiences at college, from the confusing months navigating her sexuality to the draining year trying to find a balance between a passion for both medicine and art. She talks moving to the east coast for med school, finding her feet in a new city with Wells by her side. About the different heartbreaks she’s faced, with her dad’s death and Finn’s cheating and Lexa’s betrayal, but what she’s gained as well; a stronger heart, a best friend, and a much more certain sense of herself. And then she talks about her residency, the years spent getting to where she is now; how challenging it is to work in the emergency department, both emotionally and mentally, but how rewarding it is, too.
They talk for hours, moving from the couch back into the kitchen when Bellamy suggests an impromptu Christmas dinner. With his general inability to complete simple tasks with a broken arm, Clarke takes charge (much to his annoyance, if his grumbling is anything to go by). She rummages through his fridge and pantry, and decides that a roast is Christmas-y enough, when she sees he has a half-chicken and a good assortment of veggies.
“Should I be trusting your cooking skills?” Bellamy asks, a little doubtful as she pulls out different herbs for the chicken. “From what I remember, your repertoire includes ramen noodles and snickerdoodles.”
“Which I’m still great at making, by the way,” Clarke says, haughty. “But my repertoire has expanded. Wells pretty much bullied me into learning to cook properly. He said I shouldn’t be one of those cliché doctors that wants to take care of everyone else but can’t take care of themselves.”
Bellamy grins. “And what did you say to that?”
“I think I told him to shove it,” she admits, rolling her eyes fondly when Bellamy barks out a laugh. “But, I figured he wasn’t too wrong. I’m not an amazing cook or anything, but I know the basics, and I can follow a recipe pretty well.”
“You? Doing what someone else tells you?” Bellamy gasps theatrically, hand splayed out on his chest in astonishment. “You really have grown up.”
She throws a clove of garlic at him, but can’t bite back her smile. “Shut up.”
The quick back and forth continues easily from there, and they move on from the bigger parts of their lives to the smaller; the stories dotted here and there, between everything. The time Bellamy found himself naked in the middle of campus, having lost a bet to his dorm mate Murphy, or the evening Clarke and Raven spent egging Finn’s house, a bottle of booze shared between them. Bellamy coming second in a shitty bar song-and-dance competition, with a solo performance of Bohemian Rhapsody; Clarke getting soaked in buckets of red and pink paint in an art project gone wrong, staining her hair an awful colour for two weeks straight.
Her belly hurts from laughing so hard, and she can barely concentrate enough to peel the potatoes safely, distracted by Bellamy’s smile, the sound of his voice when he thinks of yet another story, all kiddish excitement.
By the time the food’s ready, it’s dark outside, the lights circling the Christmas tree are glowing a lovely yellow, and Clarke feels so incredibly full with him. They’re not who they were at eighteen, but she still recognises Bellamy, so clearly it makes her heart ache.
“I wish I had’ve gotten in touch before this,” she admits, as they settle themselves onto his couch, their plates full with too much food. He’s closer than he was this morning, and it feels — significant, somehow.
“Yeah, me too,” Bellamy says, knocking his shoulder against hers, affectionate. He picks up their glasses of eggnog — he insisted it was a staple for Christmas dinner — and hands her one, so they can clink them together in a toast. “But better late than never.”
“Better late than never,” Clarke agrees, and they both take a sip. Impulsively, she leans over, presses a kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Bell.”
His smile grows slowly, warm and sweet as he looks at her. “Merry Christmas, Clarke.”
Dinner is pretty great, if Clarke does say so herself, and soon she’s full on good food and a little tipsy from the eggnog. So it doesn’t feel weird, snuggling up into Bellamy’s side, when he flicks on Love, Actually at Netflix’s suggestion.
He’s warm and solid and smells really good, and it’s all incredible cosy and cliché, being curled into her high school boyfriend’s side on Christmas evening. If she opened the blinds, it’d probably be snowing; that’s how holiday-special it all feels.
“Is porno couple still you favourite?” Bellamy asks, as the movie starts up, the familiar tune of Bill Nighy’s revamped song swelling.
“They’re not a porno couple,” Clarke huffs, automatic. It feels almost like muscle memory, having had this debate many times before, when the movie first came out. “But yes, they are and always will be. Does Emma Thompson still make you cry?”
“She’s a phenomenal actress,” Bellamy sniffs, unbothered.
“Yeah,” Clarke says around a smile. “Sounds about right.”
Surprisingly, they make it through most of the movie with only a small amount of bickering. They’ve never been particularly good at watching movies together, always talking over it and each other, usually with bad jokes and occasionally with valid criticism. She’s surprised they make it as far as they do before Bellamy makes a crack, accusing Clarke of dancing like the prime minister.
“I do not dance like Hugh Grant,” Clarke denies, outraged as she shoves him in the shoulder. Softly, because despite his ridiculous claims, she doesn’t want to actually hurt him.
“You do,” he insists, eyes swimming with mirth and barely able to contain his wide grin. Clarke readjusts to face him properly, fully prepared to spend the next hour of her life defending herself. “I remember it well from senior prom.”
Clarke scoffs. “One, if I remember correctly — which I do — we never actually made it to senior prom. And two,” she continues, ignoring Bellamy’s infuriatingly good-looking smirk at the insinuation, “even if I did dance at all like that, it was the mid-2000s. I’m pretty sure half my wardrobe was bedazzled back.”
“Fuck,” Bellamy laughs. “It definitely was.”
“Yeah, don’t get cute,” Clarke mutters, rolling her eyes. “I remember your studded belts. I’m pretty sure you—”
The rest of her sentence is lost with the press of Bellamy’s lips on hers, soft and a little unsure until Clarke melts into him. He draws her into his lap, hands settling on her waist as Clarke kisses him harder, slides her hands into his hair and lets her nails scratch against his scalp. It makes him sigh into her mouth, a familiar response which is followed by the feel of his tongue parting her lips, deepening the kiss. He tastes like eggnog, and he feels just like she remembers — better technique with more experience, she’s sure, but still Bellamy.
It’s the running theme of the day: different, but still Bellamy.
She pulls back after a long minute, drawing in a much needed breath. Her heart is hammering a tattoo against her chest, and a fluttering warmth curls pleasantly in her stomach. It feels both like the comfort of coming home and the excitement of starting something new.
“If you’re not into this, can I blame it on the concussion?” Bellamy asks on a breath, voice soft and tinted with wonder. Clarke laughs, presses her forehead against his, keeping him close.
“How long have you been planning that?”
“It was definitely the mutually exchanged line that got me.”
Clarke groans, drops her head against his shoulder in embarrassment. She can feel Bellamy’s body shake with laughter.
“Shut up.”
“It was cute,” he placates, nosing at her hair until she looks back up at him. His face is soft and open, and the way he’s looking at her is so much, and — and it feels like she isn’t allowed to get this. That she can’t just see him again after all these years, and have everything come together like it has. But apparently she can, because he smiles, leans up to catch her lips again, kiss her soft and slow. “I missed you,” he says, once she’s dazed and a little breathless.
“Yeah,” she says, already ducking back down. “I missed you, too.”
It goes like that for a few minutes, exchanging long, sweet kisses, before Clarke presses into him enough that he groans. Usually the sound would make her smile, press even closer, kiss even harder, but it feels more like a groan from pain than pleasure.
“Ribs,” Bellamy explains, when Clarke pulls back, brows furrowed in concern.
“Shit,” she curses, shifting back to give him some room. His lips are red and swollen, and his hair is more of a mess than it was before, and it’s a definitely good look on him. She can’t blame herself for getting a little carried away, but it’s probably a good idea to stop before it goes any further. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Bellamy chuckles, shaking his head with a happy smile. “It was worth it.”
Clarke ducks her head, hiding her pleased grin, before sliding off of his lap and back into his side. She’s maybe a little disappointed that they can’t keep making out, but considering everything, it’s been a pretty fantastic Christmas.
Bellamy must be thinking the same thing. “Happy Christmas, princess,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair.
And because it’s Christmas, and she’s allowed to be sappy: “Yeah,” she says. “It is.”