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After receiving the text, heading to Bellamy’s seemed like a good idea when she was home.
And in the car, and even as she stood on his doorstep.
It seemed like a good idea all the way up until the door opened, Bellamy on the other side in plaid pajama pants, crooked glasses, and not much more. He’s rubbing at his eyes before the door even opens the whole way, squinting at her in confusion. His voice rumbles in his chest as he rasps, “Clarke?”
Unfortunately for her, she’s in the middle of giving him a very unintentional (thank you very much) once over when she realizes.
It’s Sunday.
Bellamy works at the bar on Saturdays.
Which means he’s probably been home for maybe five hours and she definitely, positively, absolutely woke him up.
“Oh shit.”
“Wh’t’re you doin’ here?” Yeah, definitely woke him up. Bellamy’s voice only goes soft and confused like that (a normal, platonic observation) when he’s running on too little sleep. He doesn’t even get mad that she’s woke him up. He just gets confused and pouty enough that she wants to shuffle him back to his room and tuck him back into bed. (Again, completely normal and platonic.)
“Bell,” she breathes, apologies slipping from her tongue in the nickname, biting her lip when he pulls his hand away and his glasses fall hazardously back onto his nose, only partially offering his sleepy gaze any assistance. “You were asleep, I’m sorry, I should’ve realized what I was doing. Don’t worry, just go back to sleep and I’ll—“
She doesn’t get a chance to say, or do, anything else. He grunts, rolling his eyes and grasps her wrist, tugging her inside and shoving the door closed behind her. She’d argue, but he’s already pulling her over to the couch with him. There’s an old throw on the cushions, and a bunch of papers and a mug on the coffee table, but he just plops them down on the worn blanket.
It’s unexpected, but not as unexpected as what he does next, shoving his feet up under him and all but gluing himself to her side, his warm frame tucked up against her, arm slung across her stomach, leaning his head on her shoulder, sleep-mussed hair tickling her skin.
She stills at the contact, the only movement coming from her the deep breaths moving her chest beneath his arm and a traitorous fluttering in her stomach that she refuses to think about but can’t ignore the way it lights up her insides when his nails scratch at her hipbone.
She hesitates a few seconds before letting out a breath, the tension in her body leaving with it, tilting her head so she’s leaning back against him. It’s not new, exactly. They’ve been close like this before, they’ve been on this exact couch, cuddling close as his TV plays.
The thing is it’s always been Clarke doing the cuddling. It’s not that Bellamy’s not physically affectionate in their friendship, he is, it’s just usually not like this. He’ll put his hand on the small of her back when they’re at the bar trying to get drinks. He’ll rub his thumb against the curve of her neck when she’s stressing too much. He’ll hold her hand in crowds so he doesn’t lose her. (Which is both nice and annoying, since he’ll always make a dig about her being shorter than him, as if he’s even that tall! But even then she still holds on, glances at their intertwined fingers for a moment before following him through throngs of people.) He’ll even pull her in for a hug when she gets off a particularly tense phone call with her mom. Not the brief hug either, the one that lasts for ages, where he wraps her up in him and she feels like there’s nowhere in the world that could make her feel as safe.
But Bellamy initiating the cuddling is new. He never seemed to mind before, when it was her tucking into his side. He always just goes with it, waiting until she’s curled up against him to wrap an arm around her back, waiting until her head’s pressed against his shoulder to lean into her. It’s an interesting development, she has to admit. He may not usually be the first one to seek out this kind of affection — and she certainly doesn’t mind it — but maybe, when he’s still sleepy and the world’s just a little easier, maybe he feels safe with her too.
She hopes so.
Against her better judgement, she relents against that little nagging voice in the back of her head that tells her to be careful, the kind of voice that offsets the fluttering in her stomach. She shifts a little, which does absolutely nothing to dislodge him from her side, and drapes her arm around his shoulder like he often does with hers, her fingers tangling through the ends of his hair almost on instinct. It feels almost like deja vu, the way he’d twirl a lock of her hair around his finger like he didn’t know what else to do, tugging on it every now and then to get her attention or signal he needed to get up. But she doesn’t pull on his soft, inky curls when she breaks the calm silence with a soft “Bell.”
“Hm,” is his acknowledgement from the crook of her neck, and her heart absolutely doesn’t increase in speed when she feels it more than hears it, nor does it when his thumb rubs against her hip, seemingly unaware, and he finally gives her a verbal response. “What’d ya want, Princess?”
If she responds to that nickname internally in a slightly embarrassing way, that’s her business. He’s too busy basically laying on top of her to even notice, so really, it doesn’t matter.
“I had a question for you,” she answers, scratching softly at his scalp with her fingernails, which turns out to be a mistake because the moment she does he lets out a rumbling sort of noise and burrows in closer, like he’s planning on making a home there. “Bellamy,” she huffs one more time, getting a grunt in response, “I kind of need you awake for this one.”
He lets out one of his over dramatic sighs, which with how close he is mostly just feels like breathing against her neck. He doesn’t nuzzle in against her shoulder before pulling away, she tells herself as he drags himself into a proper sitting position, tilting his body far enough away that there’s a little space between them now, but she can still feel his warmth, feels it like he’s radiating it around the whole room. “Okay, Princess,” he says as he fixes his glasses onto his nose, his unoccupied arm draping over the back of the couch. “What’s your question?”
He’s definitely more awake, but he’s giving her that lazy, sleepy smile, like she’s the only one in the world he wants to look at, like maybe that’s how he’d look at her if they woke up together, tangled up together in warm cotton sheets as he leans close and—
Clarke clears her throat, pushing herself off the couch to give her some room as she ignores the rise of heat making it’s way up her neck and threatening to color her cheeks. She gets the coffee table in between them before she meets his eyes again, chewing on her bottom lip as she takes him in. He just watches her, lazing against the couch as a slight flicker of interest brightens his soft gaze. “It’s, uh— more of a favor, actually.”
That, at least, seems to catch his interest, his back straightening a little, wetting his lips as she can see the gears starting to turn in his head, wondering where she could be going with this.
“So, you know Josie...”
He immediately narrows his eyes, brown irises hiding behind thick eyelashes, and the instant change in his expression speaks volumes, but he still opens his mouth to answer her anyway.
“You mean your hurricane taken human form of a cousin?” He throws back, a brow lifting behind the thick navy blue frames of his glasses. She bites her lip. Okay, so Josie can be a lot, Clarke’s aware of that. Honestly she’s impressed he can make such quick quips barely out of bed.
“Yeah...” He must be able to sense her stalling, so she heaves a large sigh and stops beating around the bush. “So she’s throwing another holiday party—“
“No way.” Bellamy cuts in, giving her the kind of look she knew he thought meant business, but with his bedhead and still sleep-glazed eyes it read more as a pout than a firm frown.
“Oh c’mon, please!” She’s not proud of the slight whine in her voice, or the big, blue eyes that she knows has a tendency to be persuasive, at least where her best friend is involved. But she does it anyway. “Gabriel will be there! You love Gabe!”
He was still trying to hold up a solid front, the downward curve of his lips, eyes still narrowed at her, picking his arm up from the couch to cross his arms over his chest, a signature intimidating Bellamy stance. But his hair is all ruffled and sticking up, his glasses slipping, and he’s literally wearing the pajama pants she got him, so she just rolls her eyes as she heads to the chair in the corner that he often uses as a coat rack, throwing his grey hoodie at him, biting back a smile as he grunts and fumbles with it.
“I do not,” he grumbles as he stuffs his head in the hoodie, taking a few extra seconds than he normally would to pull the thing over his head and tug the sleeves over his arms. His glasses are a mess when he emerges, his hair even worse. She can’t help but smile at the sight, even as he continues to be a grump. No one can do indignant and cute quite like Bellamy Blake.
“Yes you do,” she insists as she comes back around to the couch, smiling as she sits next to him again, watching him blink at her as she reaches up to settle his glasses to a position where they’ll actually be useful. (He doesn’t usually let people handle his glasses so casually, but over the years the gesture has become instinctive, it almost feels like their hers. Just another way the two of them feel like an extension of each other, she supposes.)
“I don’t love anyone enough to willingly subject myself to another one of Josie’s parties for a whole night.”
She’s moved on to messing with his unruly curls, very much aware that unlike his glasses, this is a fruitless effort and she shouldn’t even bother, but he does this thing where he always leans into it even as he frowns, like a stubborn cat that wants to be pet but still acts standoffish out of pride. “Not even your best friend?” She counters softly, her eyes falling down to his face.
His lashes flutter behind his glasses, the brown of his eyes flickering with something unfamiliar, but it’s gone before she can place it. “Clarke—“
Her lips quirk to one side as his throat works. She knows he loves her. Probably not in the way Raven is always telling her he does, but he loves her in his own way. The quiet way where they can be with each other for hours and not really say anything at all. The loud way where they can argue about absolutely nothing and still end the day with Clarke’s feet in his lap as they bicker over Netflix shows and which Thai takeout to order from. He doesn’t love her in the way where their arguments end in erratic kisses, he doesn’t love her in the way that their nights end in bed together. But she’s never felt as loved by anyone as she has with Bellamy, with acceptance and without conditions, and she wouldn’t change that for the world, no matter how many times her mind might wander.
Maybe that’s what leads her to pulling back. “It’s alright, Bell.” She breaks the lull between them, keeping her expression soft to reassure him. “I’m a big girl, I can go to a party by myself.” Her smile turns warm when she sees a flash of doubt across his face, this emotion at least she can put a name to, reaching over to give his arm a gentle squeeze. “Seriously, Bellamy, it’s no big deal. How about I go make some breakfast, hm? You want coffee?” Another squeeze, this time to his hand, before trying to drag herself off his worn in couch.
His hand doesn’t let go, in fact he squeezes her smaller one right back. When she looks at him, he’s concentrating on the contact, his brows knitted together and his lips curved down in the way they do when he’s thinking. Before she can ask, his hand twitches slightly and he meets her gaze again. “If I say yes can we go back to sleep for a little bit instead?”
“Bell, you don’t—“
She could definitely handle another little hand squeeze, but he tugs gently at her hand and turns the tables on her with a doe-eyed stare of his own, which is just not fair. The stupid fluttering in her stomach comes back.
He blinks. She chews on her lip. He rubs his thumb against her knuckle. She heaves a sigh.
“Fine,” she relents, falling back against him, where he lets go of her hand so he can wrap his arm around her. “But just for a little,” she murmurs quietly as he tugs her down, her head finding the pillow at the end of the couch, grumbling when he drags the blanket out from under her legs, but her sigh is all content when he joins her, draping the throw over them.
It’s silence and stillness for a moment, and she can feel his mind buzzing from behind her, but before she can ask, he slings an arm around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. “This okay?” He asks quietly, and she wonders if the hesitation she hears is her imagination. Which is interesting, considering he’d already dragged her into his apartment to cuddle before he even asked what she wanted. But she just nods, and he sighs, melting further into her. “Cool. Night, princess.”
She really should leave it at that, but— “It’s nine in the morning, Bell.”
She can feel the narrowed eyes glaring at the back of her head, a hidden smile blooming on her lips as— A squeal escapes into the otherwise quiet room, her hips jerking at the stinging at her hip where his hand now ghosts over, rather than the spot over her stomach and the couch cushion. She tries to shuffle around, look at him proper while she nags him for pinching her — Seriously, how old is he? — but he wraps his arm around her again, keeping her pressed close.
She hmphs and he chuckles at her and she can feel his smile against her shoulder blade. “Good night , princess.” He repeats, pointedly this time, pressing a kiss to the edge of her shoulder and finally sinking properly down behind her.
“Night, Bell.” She echoes softly, and despite his teasing, she does settle all the way in this time, resting her arm over his where it rests on her stomach, her eyes closing and the world slowly seeping away until it’s just the two of them.
It’s nice, while it lasts, which is about two minutes until Bellamy pipes up again with a “Clarke?”, his face pulling away from her neck for a moment. She gives a hum of acknowledgement, but makes no sign of moving.
“Don’t we have your mom’s party too?”
A silent moment passes. Then another. Then—
“Mhm.”
Bellamy groans dramatically again.
“You sure I look okay?”
She really wishes he would stop asking her that.
It’s not that Bellamy doesn’t always look good. Of course he does. But if he makes her give him another once over in that fitted maroon button up, the one that is the exact same shade as her dress, she’s going to lose it.
She still doesn’t get why he wanted to coordinate. It’s not like that’s something they do often. Or ever. Last time they went to one of Josie’s holiday parties all he had asked was if “it was one of those ugly sweater parties, ‘cause if it is I’m winning, Clarke”, which, of course, it wasn’t, because this was Josie, so he’d just worn the same thing he always does when he’s expected to dress up.
Honestly, she thinks this might even be a new shirt. Which is weird.
Yes, he looks okay. He looks beautiful, hot, handsome, the works. But it’s still weird.
“I’m sure, Bellamy,” she says dutifully from his side, arm hooked with his as they make their way up to the door. And then, because she can’t help asking— “Who are you trying to impress? Last time we were here you and Ryker got into a drunken fight over how many golden rings are in 12 Days of Christmas.”
It takes her a moment to realize he doesn’t answer, and when she glances up at him he’s already staring down at her, his eyes a little distant and a funny expression on his face. She furrows her brows, nipping slightly at her dark-stained bottom lip. His eyes follow the movement, but it only takes him a second to blink, shaking his head a little, his curls bouncing with the movement. (She’s really glad he didn’t use the hair gel after all.)
“Which I was right about, by the way. I looked it up after.” He adds, that smug, know-it-all grin lighting up his face, any signs of odd behavior disappearing with the curve of his lips and the tiniest crinkle at the corners of his eyes.
He didn’t actually answer her question, but she lets it slide.
“Yeah, yeah. Of course you were.” She encourages in that tone of voice that clearly says she’s humoring him. She pats his bicep gently as they make it to the front steps. “Winning drunken fights about Christmas carols, that’s my guy.”
There’s a shuffle, and then he’s stumbling, nearly tripping over the steps to the doorway, and Clarke narrowly avoids twisting her ankle where the movement jerks her arm, where the two are still connected.
She blinks up at him when she realizes they’re both fine, and there’s a flush rapidly rising to his cheeks that she can see even in the dim lighting illuminated only by the porch lighting outside. “Bell, are you—“
“Ready to get this over with? Absolutely.” He cuts her off, but before she can question it, the dark wooden door swings open and a blast of Christmas music greets them, a man crooning about true love in a white wonderland as Bellamy tugs her inside.
Despite Bellamy’s initial resistance to this party, they actually have attended a Josephine Lightbourne party before, which is why they know exactly where to head first.
The drinks.
By the time Josie finds them, Clarke’s beaming up at Bellamy, her arm wrapped around his back, leaning into him as she listens to the rumble of his voice as he updates her on his two co-workers who have been dancing around each other for two whole years, oblivious to one another.
“Clarke!” She hears as she takes another drink from her cup. She gives Bellamy’s side a little squeeze as she recognizes the voice, turning her head away from him to spot her cousin heading towards her from across the room, a vaguely familiar couple seemingly coming with her.
Well, they made it longer than she thought they would before Josie found them, so at least there’s that.
“There’s my favorite cousin,” she greets as she draws near, the shiny, deep green dress she’s wearing swishing at her calves. It’s not her usual get up, nowhere near the tight, high-waisted black jeans she favors, but just like the rest of Josie’s party-planning, she likes to go all out. Clarke scratches her nails gently against Bellamy’s side before slipping away, letting Josie pull her into a quick hug.
“Look at you, Griffin. That dress is gorgeous. And that Ferrari body looking as good as ever, isn’t that right, Bellamy?” By the end of her greeting, if you can call it that, her voice goes teasing, giving Clarke a little wink that seems entirely suspicious if she knows her cousin.
“Um,” she hears from her side as Bellamy slips back in, whether he wanted to or not, it seems. She risks a glance at him, looking bashful as he shifts from one foot to the other, wetting his lips as he does a quick glance at her side, his eyes flickering down and back up for the shortest of seconds, ducking his head back when he realizes he’s done so.
“Oh my god, lighten up, I’m just teasing.” Josie rolls her eyes in that way she does when someone isn’t rolling with her punches. Which is most of the time.
Clarke slides back into Bellamy’s side, leaning her head against his shoulder, feeling him deflate almost instantly. This is why she likes having him here. Why when Josie told her about this year’s party he was the only person she thought of. (Well that, and Josie mentioned him in the text, so her mind was already there.) He makes it easy. He’s comfortable, familiar, the way they lean on each other, they way they understand each other without having to talk. She wouldn’t have wanted anybody else, anyway.
“Oh, I forgot! Where are my manners?” Josie says suddenly, as Bellamy wraps an arm around her and raises his cup to his mouth, taking a generous sip, but there’s that little suspicious twinkle in her cousin’s eye, Clarke notices, that slight lilt in her voice. “Delilah, Jordan, I don’t think you’ve met them yet. This is my cousin Clarke.” Josie introduces them, and just as Clarke is about to give a nod and a raise of her glass, she adds, “And her boyfriend, Bellamy.”
Bellamy promptly chokes on his drink. Which probably would’ve been kind of amusing, but she’s too busy glaring daggers at her cousin. They probably seem like the world’s oddest couple to the new faces, Clarke attempting to telepathically yell at her cousin while Bellamy coughs in his hand as he tries not to actually choke to death in the middle of introductions. Introductions as Clarke’s boyfriend. She has no idea what’s going on but she’s going to kill her cousin.
The girl, Delilah, seems less suspicious and more amused, eyebrows knitted together but with a warm (yet mildly confused) smile on her glossy lips. “Nice to meet you two, I’ve heard so much.”
Bellamy’s gone from mildly choking to death to now gripping onto her side, although she’s not even sure he’s entirely aware he’s doing so. And the only thing Clarke has managed is glaring profusely at her cousin, who is clearly opting to remain oblivious to the withering stare.
“Aren’t they cute?” Josie comments mildly, feigned innocence dripping from her tone. If Clarke didn’t feel like she was somehow five steps behind in this conversation, there probably would be another infamous Griffin-Lightbourne fight underneath a string of twinkling fairy lights. “Anyway, we’ve got more people to say hello to, come on you two.”
And just like that, they’re gone, Clarke glaring at Josephine’s retreating back.
“What the hell was that?” Clarke growls, swiveling her head to look up at Bellamy, as if he would somehow have an answer.
Instead, he just looks apologetic, his hand loosening when he realizes his grip had grown tight, rubbing a soft apology into her hip before pulling away. Luckily, she’s too keyed up on frustration to get too worked up on the tingling it leaves behind. “Sorry,” he murmurs, face warm, either from shock or guilt, she’s not sure.
She ignores it, waving it off for the more important topic. “Seriously, what the hell—“
“Hey, you made it.”
They both jerk in the direction of the voice, greeting an oblivious Gabriel. He looks just as expected, nice cardigan hanging from his shoulders, a warm tilt of his lips and a brightness in his eyes. Not nearly as suspicious as Josephine, but Clarke is officially on high alert after that conversation.
“Gabe, why is Josie telling people Bellamy’s my boyfriend?”
And just like that of a guilty man, the warm, friendly expression falls slowly from his face. “Oh,” he responds mildly, his gaze shifting quickly between the two. “Huh.”
And she might not know Gabriel’s tells as well as she knows her cousin’s, but he clearly knows something. “ Gabriel .”
“Well,” he draws the word out, clearing his throat and turning his gaze to somewhere just between the two of them, which clearly gives Clarke the indication that this, whatever this even is, was a two person job. “It’s kind of a long story.”
Clarke fixes him with her flattest stare, “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got all night. Now, spill.”
Gabriel heaves a long sigh, and she tries to ignore the knowledge that Gabriel tends to get caught up in Josie’s shenanigans more than the rest of them, by process of proximity, being her boyfriend.
Her actual boyfriend.
God, what the hell.
“Okay, just know I tried to talk her out of it—“
“Talk her out of what?” Bellamy asks, bewildered. Her head turns to him briefly, slightly guilty that while she was equal parts shocked and pissed, she’d kind of forgot he was right by her side, his cheeks a warm color and his brows knitted together in either confusion or hesitance. Probably both.
“Well, okay, we possibly weren’t in the clearest of mindsets at the time,” he confesses, scratching the back of his head and looking a little too coy for how lost and frustrated Clarke is feeling at the moment. But, as able as he is to read a room, he quickly adds, “Which is why I tried to talk her out of it! We were just being stupid and having some fun, and then it just kind of snowballed—“
Clarke thinks she deserves a medal for her patience, honestly.
“Go on,” she presses, completely unsure what her face is doing anymore, but he seems to get the drift, so she’s probably got that icy glare that her and Josie both share that tends to freak everyone out.
“She was going on about how Delilah and Jordan got together, and how it was her that set that whole thing up, and then how her co-worker was proposing and she was helping her with ideas. So then she got to talking about how she should have one of those matchmaking reality shows, you know? Because it’s not even that hard, she could set up anyone, and then I said, ‘Okay, what about—‘“
Considering the way he was starting to ramble, the way he abruptly comes to a stop in the middle of a sentence feels highly suspicious, given the weird circumstances. His eyes snap between the two of them, mouth slightly open almost as if he’s just catching up with his words.
Which still aren’t answering her question yet, by the way.
He clears his throat, crossing his arms in the slightly nervous way she’s noticed, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. “Anyway, then we got on to people we knew who were single. And, well, Josie knew Clarke was, because she’s always bugging you about it.” Despite the trajectory this is headed, Clarke can’t help but snort at that. “And I knew you both were, so—“
“So basically this is your fault.” Bellamy chimes in, Clarke’s head veering toward him again, an almost amused brow lifting at Gabriel. She kind of feels like she’s some cartoon character, her head swiveling between the two, all while steam would’ve probably still been floating from her ears if it were.
“So, what? You guys bet on getting us underneath the mistletoe or something?” Clarke asks, part hesitant and part exasperated. Honestly, she wouldn’t even be shocked at this point.
“Luckily for you, I vetoed the mistletoe after the incident from last year.” Oh yeah, Roan’s girlfriend nearly got into a brawl with Bryan. Probably a good call. And not just for her either.
She feels Bellamy’s eyes flicker to her, a gaze she chooses not to meet at this particular time, instead keeping her gaze on Gabriel so he’ll finally cut to the chase.
“No, actually, she wanted to bet me that you’d freak out about the whole thing.” Gabriel shrugs, like he’s talking about the weather or some fun tidbit from work.
“ What? ” Clarke retorts, perhaps a little too loud, a few eyes catching onto the three of them for a moment.
“Looks like she’s got you there, Princess,” Bellamy muses, sounding not nearly perturbed enough by this conversation, so she huffs and nudges his side. He elbows her back, like a little kid, but quickly gets back to the topic at hand. “So it’s a bet? What’s your side of it?”
There seems to be some kind of silent communication between the two of them for a second that Clarke doesn’t get, suddenly understanding everyone who always tells them their weird telepathy is annoying.
“Honestly? I didn’t think it’d be all that different for you guys.” Gabriel answers with a shrug, and Clarke’s stomach turns in a weird way.
“What?” She questions again, this time at a much calmer level.
“Yeah, I mean, you’re best friends, not strangers. And at the last party you were here for hours and were barely apart. You two always stick together.” Clarke can feel herself flushing a little bit, but she’s distracted by the warmth in her cheeks when Gabriel adds, “Plus, she bet me a hundred dollars, so.”
“Wait, a hundred bucks?” Bellamy cuts in, that little competitive tone in his voice immediately familiar to Clarke.
She’s a little offended that that’s what he’s zeroing in on, but honestly she’s just glad he’s not looking too hard into this bet involving a non-existent romantic relationship between them.
“Well, yeah, what else would we bet?” Gabriel asks, like this is the most prevalent thing they need to be discussing right now. Though, honestly, she’s just glad it’s money and not something weird. The less she knows about Gabriel’s relationship with her cousin, the happier she is.
Maybe Clarke’s a little foolish to think they could let the whole thing blow over, that it could be this funny little anecdote next year where they accidentally ruined Josie’s ridiculous little game.
They know about it, so that probably means it’s not as fun, right?
Wrong, apparently.
“We’ll go along with it if you split the earnings with us.” Bellamy says easily, like they’re making a bet on who’s going to win the next basketball game or something, not at all like they’re going along with some bet where he’s her boyfriend.
“What?” Apparently this is all she knows how to respond to this ridiculous conversation with anymore, swiveling her whole body around so she can get a good look at her best friend, who’s offering to pretend to be her boyfriend for the night.
Seriously, what has her life come to?
“Come on, Clarke,” Bellamy says, pulling her into his side and looking far too eager about whatever the hell is happening. “We can mess with Josie and get some money out of it, those are your two favorite pastimes.”
So that’s how Clarke ends up pulling a long con where she has to keep pretending like she’s not embarrassingly in love with her best friend while acting like she is. All for a lousy hundred bucks and the glory of... winning whatever this is.
And losing her pride, maybe. Her mind, definitely. (And maybe a little bit of her heart, too.)
“It was pretty romantic,” Bellamy’s saying, his hand rubbing — petting, more like — her side as he regales a smiling couple of their beautiful, adorable, romantic, technically fake first date.
The thing is, it’s not completely fake, exactly. Bellamy seems to think sticking as close to the truth as they can is easiest, which means she’s spent the last two and a half hours listening to him tell people about things they’ve actually done together, while adding in all these anecdotes about pining over his best friend and being stupidly in love with her for years.
She tries to tune it out, tries to ignore the way her heart squeezes painfully every time she recognizes the real moments in his stories. But every now and then he’ll rub his stupid big hand against her skin, making her shiver, or press a fleeting kiss to the crown of her head, so soft and gentle it’s like it’s second nature for him, like he really does love her the way he’s saying he does, and all she can do is stay glued to his side and push down the ache in her chest.
This was the worst plan she’s ever agreed to.
“That’s just about the sweetest thing I’ve heard, you’re one lucky girl.” The other woman responds kindly, and Clarke tries to hide the tightness in her smile, hopes it suffices for an answer. He’s been doing most of the talking.
That’s another thing about this whole thing. Bellamy’s good with people, good with finding something to talk about, good at keeping a conversation going. Sure, it’s not always pleasantries, but he knows how to keep interest. When he wants to be, he’s charming, interesting, persuasive, the kind of person that draws people in.
But when he doesn’t want to be, when there’s no room to take control of, no role that needs leading, he’s grumpy and argumentative and stubborn, he’s soft and caring and thoughtful. Watching him command a room can be awing, but it’s no match for the man that she sits on the couch with that tells her about his insecurities, that teases her about her cold feet or her paint-stained hands or her diet of a kindergartner, that wraps his arms around her so she won’t fall off the couch when they nap at nine in the morning.
That Bellamy is the one that takes her breath away. And being able to see him like that, being the one he lets in to see the most genuine form of himself, having that Bellamy should be more than enough. Being his best friend has given her more than she could have ever asked for. But here, tonight, being the one he looks at like she hung the moon, being the one he touches and hugs and kisses, being the one he talks about being in love with, it makes her ache in an entirely new way.
“Nah,” his voice interrupts the thick haze of her thoughts, the easy way in which he speaks indicates he hasn’t noticed the distressing turn her mind has taken. She’s pressed against him, her front to his side and her hand placed gently on his abdomen, where it’s been all night, the picture perfect image of a girlfriend in love, but his own hand comes up to brush at the lock of hair framing her face before resting on her neck, the length of his thumb tilting her head up enough to look at him. She obliges, knots in her stomach at the heartbreakingly fond smile he gives her. “I’m the lucky one.”
And, God, she can’t take this.
She can’t do this.
They can have their bet, keep the money, gloat as much as they want. Hell, she’ll give them the money. But she’s going to combust by the time the night’s over if they keep this up. Her heart can’t take this.
So she does what she does best.
She returns his smile, hopes it’s not as wobbly as it feels. Her nails scratch at his chest for a moment before sliding up, her thumb caressing his jaw gently, ignores how foreign the decidedly intimate gesture feels, ignores the working of his throat and the fluttering of his lashes, ignores all the things that aren’t — that can’t be — real. “We both got lucky.”
His smile goes crooked and she wants to look at it forever, which is why she doesn’t. Why she presses a fleeting kiss to his jaw and uses her hand to pull away from him, the first time she hasn’t been pressed against his side in hours, her stomach flopping at the loss. And when she turns to the couple they’re playing it up for, she decides she doesn’t see the flicker of disappointment in his expression. Just her imagination. “I’ve got to find the bathroom, but he’ll tell you the rest.”
And with one fleeting, friendly smile, she does just that, ducking her head and pulling away completely, letting her feet carry her toward sanctuary. The throngs of happy people and the twinkling fairy lights and the crooning music filled with hope and love make her feel oddly dizzy, and her heart stays in her throat as she passes it all by, slipping through swaying bodies and pretty decorations until she finds what she’s looking for.
The bathroom is still and quiet, a stark contrast to the liveliness of the rest of the house, and when she leans back against the door and closes her eyes, she’s finally able to breathe for the first time in hours.
She can still hear the party of course, but it’s muffled, soft and distant instead of thrumming through her veins. Her body calms, her muscles loosening, the anxious beat of her heart slowing, and she’s alone.
She wishes she could do it, could be as good an actor as him, could play the role with an ease that feels natural. But maybe that’s the difference. It’s a silly little role for him, something easy for him to step in and out of. But Clarke can’t leave, she can’t ease her way around it, she can’t separate herself from it. A role that natural isn’t really a role at all, and another minute longer she’d be tripping into far flung hopes that’ll leave her bruised.
Clarke inhales deeply, lets the ghost feeling of him still pressed against her subside until it’s just her in this small bathroom. A little pathetic, maybe, to be hiding out like this, but it’s what she needs.
She only feels a little guilty, knowing how torn he’d be if he knew what she was doing. The heartbreaking part is he’d have no idea. He’d want to know what was wrong, want to know what he could do. Bellamy’s a bleeding heart, and he always wants to fix what’s hurting her.
Problem is, there’s no fixing this one.
That’s the worst part. He’s the one she wants to go to, the one she wants to distract her from this aching feeling in her chest, the one she just wants to be with.
Maybe it’s just the party. Maybe it’s just the season. Maybe tomorrow will be okay, maybe that ache will soften into something distant and light.
But then she thinks about the way he’s been looking at her tonight, like she’s the only thing he sees, like she’s the answer to all the world’s problems, and she’s not so sure.
Clarke sighs, resting against the door for a few more seconds before pivoting herself away from the surface. She steps up to the sink, the white counter clean and bare aside from a few holiday decor pieces and a candle, no doubt where the faint scent of pine is coming from. Her lips curve slightly as she reaches out, fingers dancing along the little green and red decoration sitting in front of the mirror.
Dad used to love decorating for the holidays, she thinks, that familiar stinging behind her eyes she gets whenever she’s brought back to one of the good memories. This time she remembers his smiling face as he plops a red and green elf hat on her tiny head, relaying to her the tree decorating plan like a commander before battle.
Clarke looks up, finding her reflection in the mirror. She wonders what he would tell her now. Her and Bell had only been friends for a couple years before he passed, but her dad liked him, she knew. Bellamy never really understood it, but she thinks her dad saw that he made her happy, and that was always enough for him.
And he does. He does make her happy. And that should be enough. Having the best person in the world by her side should be more than enough for her, whether or not he returned the feelings that squeezed at her heart.
It’s not like she’s the best at relationships anyway.
Maybe it’s better like this.
Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head as she lets out a long breath. Her hands squeeze at the edge of the counter where they rest, anxious knots in her stomach. When she opens her eyes, sees her reflection staring back at her, she decides it’s time for a plan.
She gets through tonight, and then she figures out what to do tomorrow.
Clarke nods at herself decisively, pulling away from the counter. She washes her hands quickly, drying them on the Ho, Ho, Ho! decorative towel (Seriously, Josie?) and decides to make her reappearance.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t make it a second after opening the door and slipping out before ruining that plan, crashing right into someone before the door even pulls closed.
Hands catch her forearms, and before she even looks up, she knows exactly who it is that she ran in to.
“Clarke,” Bellamy says breathlessly, his brown eyes jumping across her face, searching desperately for something in her features.
“Hey,” she answers, just as soft, stomach still twisting up but she’s able to give a smile that’s mostly genuine this time. “Sorry I took so long, I was just getting back—“
“Are you okay?” He asks, concern written all over his face, thumbs rubbing against her skin where his hands are still wrapped around her wrists.
“Yeah,” she answers after a second, covers her hesitance up with her smile. “Just a little tired.”
He watches her for a moment, the crooning Christmas music swirling around them as they stand there, still right outside the bathroom. “You wanna go home?”
Clarke’s shaking her head before he even finishes his sentence. “No, it’s okay. We can go back.”
“Clarke, c’mon,” his lips pull up to one side, that soft little humorous smile that she knows by second nature now, could paint it with her eyes closed. “You know I’d rather be hanging out on the couch heckling those shitty rom-coms on Netflix with you any day of the week.”
Clarke bites down on her lip, gaze averting from his for a moment as she thinks it over. He’s probably not lying. Parties aren’t really his scene much these days, least of all ones Josie throws. And as easy-going as he’s seemed tonight, as easy as it looked for him to be her perfect plus one, she was the one who asked him here.
“Okay,” she answers quietly, exhaling on the word like she’s been waiting to let it out. She feels just a little bit lighter with it. “If you want to.”
“Okay,” Bellamy echoes, giving her that soft, reassuring smile that makes her chest flutter and soothes her nerves at the same time. His thumbs rub softly at her skin again — or still? — and Clarke’s eyes flicker down, watch the way the pads of his thumbs draw little circles against her forearms. It’s like he doesn’t even know he does it, like he wants to soothe her worries away without even knowing.
Her heart threatens to explode.
“We should go find Josie and Gabe first, tell them—“ She pauses for just a second, just long enough to wet her lips, but it’s long enough that she never does finish her sentence.
“Clarke, I don’t care.”
She furrows her brows as she looks back up at him, lips curving into a frown. Of course he does. “Of course you do, you told Gabriel—“
“Hey, hey,” his voice is rushed, like he’s trying to catch her attention, his hands reaching out to catch her face in his palms. “I don’t care about Gabe, or Josie, or the bet or the people or the party, I came here for you.”
She swallows, and despite everything she told herself minutes ago, despite her vow to not jump back in and drown in those brown eyes and beautiful smile, she can’t look away.
“And now I’m going to take you home, okay?”
She’s not sure what those words do to her, whether they make her pulse race in her ears or stop her traitorous heart altogether.
And with his imploring gaze, all she can do is nod her answer.
It seems to be enough for him at least, he gives a little crook of his lips and his hands slide down so he can squeeze her shoulders gently.
“I’ll go grab our stuff,” Bellamy tells her, reminding her of their coats they’d left in the spare room Josie leaves open for her guests’ belongings. She gives him a faint smile of acknowledgement, but instead of reassurance, he pauses, doesn’t pull away, watching her for one long moment until she realizes he doesn’t want to leave her alone.
“I’ll be right here, promise.” She tells him, reaching up to give his elbows a light squeeze. It seems to do the trick, his lips quirking to one side.
“Okay, okay,” he answers with a soundless chuckle, the dark curls atop his head bouncing just the tiniest bit as he shakes his head. “Be right back,” he pulls his arms away, and there’s the shortest moment where he seems caught between a decision. She figures maybe he’ll just pull her along, but instead he leans over to press a fleeting kiss to her temple before disappearing.
And as she watches him go she realizes she really needs to figure this out. She doesn’t want to over-analyze like this. She doesn’t want to spend the rest of their friendship distant and yearning just because deep down she wants more.
He’s going to notice eventually. He’s already started to, but at some point shrugging off his questions won’t be enough anymore, and she’ll either have to tell him or she’ll have to put some space between them until she can get her head on right when it comes to him, and both of those options seem daunting.
But she has to fix this. Because if there’s anything she knows for sure, it’s that the scariest option is losing him, and she can’t do that. She can’t lose her best friend.
Turns out he didn’t need to worry about her at all, she’s still lost in that thought by the time Bellamy finds her again, pulling her out of her head without realizing the minutes that had passed. His coat’s already on again, and he looks a little warm already, but the smile he gives her is a little different this time.
She raises a brow at him and he clears his throat as he holds up her coat, waiting until she turns around and starts slipping her arms into the sleeves to say, “I ran into Josephine and Gabriel on my way back.”
Clarke lets him tug her coat over her shoulders before turning back around, her expression half curious and half hesitant as her eyes flicker over his face. “Sorry,” she can’t help but answer. Even on a normal night she wouldn’t wish that on him, and tonight has been anything but normal. “What’d she say?”
His eyes shift away as he turns toward the rest of the house, not fully away from her but not looking at her either. “Well, she let me go, so I think we’re good.” His answer is light, but she can tell it’s not the whole truth. She doesn’t push though. Half because if he wanted to tell her, he would, and half because it’s probably better for her sanity not knowing what Josie might have said.
“Anyway,” Bellamy cuts off those thoughts, tilting his head toward her and holding out an arm for her to take. “I got a car for us. It’ll be out front in a few.”
Maybe it’s the warm feeling of him at her side again when she obligingly locks arms with him like they did coming in, maybe it’s the twinkling lights and romantic music as they make their way through the house, maybe it’s the thought that this might be as close to him as she lets herself get for a while, but she chooses not to push down the urge to rest her head against his shoulder as they make their way out.
And call her crazy, but she thinks she feels him relax when she does.
The air is cold when they finally make it outside, nipping at her nose and cheeks. Bellamy checks his phone, lets her know they still have a couple minutes. And maybe the fresh air is what she needed, or maybe she really is tired, because when Bellamy leans his head against hers as they wait, her heart doesn’t squeeze painfully in her chest and the voice in her head telling her she has to slip away isn’t there.
Instead it’s just them, quiet and close and it’s the nicest she’s felt all night.
Of course, it only lasts three minutes. Then his phone is telling him their driver’s arriving, and the car is pulling up, and their nice moment is interrupted as they slip into the backseat.
She thinks that’s probably it, that it’ll just be a nice moment in the middle of a cold winter’s night, that she’ll sit in the back watching the street lights from the window and let the moment fade away.
She thinks that, but Bellamy doesn’t seem to, not a minute after the door’s pulled closed is he slipping his warm hand in hers, fingers threading together and he pulls her hand down so they’re both resting on his knee.
He doesn’t say anything, but when his thumb rubs soothing circles into her skin and her eyelids begin to droop closed, she lets herself marvel at how warm his hands always are, even in the middle of winter. Warm and big and gentle, just like him.
The last thing she registers before her eyes close is his head resting against hers again.
“Princess,” is the next thing she hears, the low rumble of the name breaking through as she registers a soft nudge at her shoulder. It takes her a few seconds, her nose scrunching up and her face nuzzling into something a little scratchy. It’s that, more than anything, that gets her to open her eyes. She tilts her head up, the first thing she sees is Bellamy’s face, his warm eyes and crooked smile, the light from the street softly illuminating the side of his face.
She blames being tired for the way her heart flutters.
“Hey,” he murmurs, oblivious, combing blonde tendrils away from her face. It feels soft, and lazy, and not like they’re in the back of a stranger’s car. “We’re home.” He informs her, pulling her away from the too comfortable thoughts of how he’s looking at her now feels a lot like how he was looking at her under the pretty fairy lights after he’d tell someone how long he had waited to tell her he loved her.
But then he cracks a smile, that goofy, teasing one, and the moment breaks as he adds, “You want me to carry you up or what?”
Clarke huffs, rolling her eyes, only noticing he was still holding her hand when she goes to push herself away. He lets go easily, and she reaches for the door handle, pushing it open with a grunt.
He quietly laughs at her efforts as the driver bids them a goodnight.
“Just like my wife, can’t wait to get home,” he muses, probably kindly, but Clarke feels a rush in her cheeks as she feels the cold air hit her again. “Happy Holidays you two.”
“Oh, we’re not—“
“Night. Happy Holidays.” Bellamy cuts her off as he climbs out, shutting the door behind him. She tilts her head to look up at him, but he doesn’t say anything else, just wraps his arm around her shoulder and starts guiding her back to the building.
It’s a quiet walk, Bellamy opening the door that blasts them with blessedly warm air, Clarke whining when he walks them passed the elevator doors to the stairs. She’s only on the third floor, so it’s not too much of an effort, and she only starts yawning when they make it to her door, so that’s something.
He chuckles when she struggles with her keys, taking them from her and finding the right one easily, sliding it in and unlocking the door as if it’s his own. He opens the door, waits for her to go inside before following her in.
She kicks her shoes off, groaning probably impressively loud at the relief as she lets her heavy coat fall down her shoulders. There’s still a slight draft on her bare skin that gives her a chill, but it’s nothing close to the cold of outside. She probably looks a half-dressed mess, but she figures he’s seen her like this a hundred times, so what’s a hundred and one? Besides, she’s just going to put on her comfiest pajamas as soon as he’s gone.
With that thought, she finally tugs her coat off, turning to him as she hangs it up to find him already looking at her, fond smile like he somehow enjoys her shuffling around and cursing at her heels and her hair probably all flattened on one side from his shoulder. “What?”
His smile grows just a bit more amused, and he pushes himself off the wall to walk into her space, Clarke’s awareness of him thrumming in her veins as he reaches up to mess with her hair again, this time probably actually improving its appearance. “It’s not even midnight,” he muses quietly, reaching back to take the pretty silver clip out of her hair that he knows she always forgets to take out before bed. “What am I going to do with you on New Year’s Eve?”
She feels warm, all of a sudden, his proximity and his fond voice and his brown eyes all warming her down to her toes she forgets all about the freezing weather biting at her skin minutes before.
She swallows thickly as her hair falls around her shoulders. The light in her apartment is a lot brighter than the ones on the street, she can see every freckle on his nose and count each shade of brown staring down at her. “At least it’s just mom’s party.” She says, a little helpless, a little out of control of her own words. “You don’t have to be my boyfriend for that one.”
That last part was probably a little unnecessary, she thinks. A little stupid. She nips at her lip, eyes averting from his own and her head tilting downward.
He’s still wearing his coat, she realizes, as a hefty silence carries over them that she tries not to think about. She was supposed to be avoiding that, putting it behind them so she could work on moving forward, not back.
“What if I was?”
It takes a moment for her to even realize he’s filled the silence, his words not hitting her right away, but when they do her eyes snap back up to him, her lips parting slightly, brows knitting in confusion. “You want my mom to think we’re dating?” She asks, feeling like she’s five steps behind in the conversation. Again.
He lets out a shuttering breath, nostrils flaring just a little like they do when he needs to get something off of his shoulders. He wets his lips, and she can’t help the flicker of her gaze casting downward at the motion. It’s only half a second, eyes quickly looking back up to his, but he lets out this breathy laugh, his grin a little nervous.
“I want her to think we’re dating because we are.”
She blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.
It’s funny, how all night her heart would flutter whenever he’d graze his hand against the skin of her back or brush back a curl of her hair, but when she’s hearing what she thinks she’s hearing, it’s as still as ever. Like even her heart doesn’t believe it.
“You want to date... me?”
Even she can hear the utter confusion in her voice as it comes out, small and quiet, just as much insecure as it is hopeful.
“Clarke.” Her name falls from his lips in a way she’s never heard it before, in a way that causes a shiver to crawl down her spine, in a way that creates a hopeful beat of her heart. She doesn’t think he can get any closer, but he does, his hands cupping the sides of her face, his expression raw when he says, “Clarke, you have to know by now.”
And there it is. The racing of her heart. The sound of her pulse in her ears. There’s a stinging behind her eyes that makes her feel stupid and ridiculous. He hasn’t even said anything. Not anything that makes sense in her head.
“But you don’t—“ She sees a flicker of something in his eyes, something like a cross between confusion and frustration, but even as her mind races she doesn’t know what to think. “You don’t. It wasn’t real. You were just pretending. I don’t—“
Her breath gets caught in her throat, the words she didn’t even know dying as he tilts his head and catches her lips in a kiss that makes everything else fade away in an instant.
Clarke’s never really been surprised by a kiss before. Her relationships were always pretty straight forward. She always knew it was coming at least a little bit. No one’s ever kissed her breath away in the middle of her apartment, made her weak in the knees just by the surprise of it.
His fingers tangle in her hair, the angle shifting, and even though she’s never been kissed by Bellamy Blake, not like this, she somehow is able to recognize the determination in it.
It’s only when the shock subsides and she settles into the sensation of kissing Bellamy Blake does he pull back, the revelation of what that means only hitting her when his nose bumps her cheek and his lips are gone.
“Does that feel like I’m pretending?” He asks, voice hoarse and a little strained.
“Bell,” she breathes, her eyelids fluttering open to find his still closed. He hasn’t pulled away from her, but she can feel the tension in his body underneath her hands on his shoulders.
“Please tell me I didn’t just ruin everything.”
Her heart jumps at that, at the way he won’t look at her, at the way he sounds wrecked at the thought. And it’s the moment that her head starts to clear, that she allows herself to think maybe she wasn’t in this alone, that maybe when she’s tucked into his side he wants her to stay there too, that maybe when he kisses her temple and holds her hand he wonders what would happen if he never stopped.
It had always felt like something big had to happen.
But here he is, kissing her in her living room and asking her the most simple question there is.
There’s no explosions, there’s no imbalance, there’s no big sign from the universe telling them everything’s different now.
There’s just them.
Two people asking each other for the one thing they could only give each other.
Clarke doesn’t answer him, but she slides her hands up to his hair and pulls him back in. And this time, it’s good from the very first moment. This time there’s no question. This time he lets out a groan and wraps her up in his arms, this time it’s not determination but relief.
This time they get it right.
“Clarke,” he murmurs as she blindly walks them back until the backs of her knees hit the couch, his voice so wrecked and beautiful she never wants to hear anything else.
He told her earlier tonight, when he didn’t know what was going on in her head, that he just wanted to take her home.
And maybe later, when she can pull herself away from the promise and relief in his lips, when she can find the words, she’ll tell him that home is more than just the four walls of her apartment.
She’ll tell him that home is with him, too.