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Clarke stands in the middle of South Station, a buzz of traffic as people try to get back home, or argue about their missed train, or rush to the Starbucks on her right, but all Clarke can think about is how she hasn’t seen her best friend in a year and a half.
She always kind of thought the whole missing someone like a limb thing was a little bit over the top, and then Bellamy left for Greece over a year ago and there’s no other way she knows how to describe it.
They’ve texted, and called, and she’s seen his sleepy, pixelated face over FaceTime more times than she can count, talked and talked and talked until one of them fell asleep right there on the phone. She could detail all the ways his hair rumples when he sleeps, or the constellation of freckles on his right arm when he throws it over his face when he’s tired, or the gravel in his voice when he’s fighting sleep to talk to her.
She can perhaps do all these things more reverently than she could have two years ago, but it’ll never be the same as having him home. Some days — the kind where it’s been rough at work and she has a tense call with her mother and she burns her hand trying to make food, the days that are just all wrong — all she wants to do is barge into his apartment and let him give her one of those famous Bellamy hugs and never leave.
But she hasn’t been able to do those things, and she’s missed him like hell, more than she can ever remember missing anyone that she knew would come back eventually.
It was unsettling, at first, that painful ache in her chest when she’d think of him in those first couple months. Clarke’s not the best at feelings, she likes to keep herself levelheaded and everything inside her telling her that even though he’s got the opportunity of a lifetime and he’s doing what he truly loves, she still just wants him back, none of that is logical to her.
She didn’t cry when Raven’s job took her to Houston. She didn’t cry when Miller and his boyfriend moved west to live on a quaint little farm in the middle of nowhere. She didn’t even cry when Madi went to college in California.
She didn’t cry because, just like with Bellamy, these were all good things, they were all things that she could support them with. Raven sent her weird selfies with half-finished robot looking creations and texted her about her definitely-not-boyfriend Shaw that Clarke could call out from even a thousand miles away. Miller sent her videos of the son they adopted this year trying to play with the ducks on the farm. Madi texted her photos of when she visited Disney and told her to stop worrying whenever she offhandedly mentioned going to a party.
Bellamy sent her photos of all the sites he saw, a video of two drunk guys fighting over how to pronounce gyro, stupid history jokes and puns almost constantly, she could even see his stupid adorable face smiling tiredly at her from his new bedroom a couple times a week.
So really, it wasn’t any different than any of the other times she had said goodbye to one of her friends going off to do what they love and to live their life. Or it shouldn’t have been.
She felt so stupid, the first time. He told her when he’d be calling earlier, as per usual so she could make sure her time worked with his, given the reality of stupid timezones. And she did, it was even a rare free day for her, so she didn’t have to worry about too much. Maybe that was why it hit so hard, no work that day meant she was thinking about it more, which meant when ten minutes passed, then thirty, then an hour, and no sign from Bellamy, she couldn’t help but wallow.
It was just a mistake, of course. His day had been more hectic than usual and he passed out before he ever got the chance to call her. She’d brushed it off when he texted her after, and then again during their next call. It took her a month until she even told him, that she curled up on her bed, petting that little stuffed octopus he got her at the aquarium and ignoring the moisture in her eyes.
She thinks she’ll never forget the look that crossed his face when she told him that over FaceTime. A mixture of guilt and pain. If there’s one thing to know about Bellamy, it’s that he carries the world on his shoulders, and in his eyes the worst thing he could do is to hurt the people he cares about, intentionally or not.
Somehow, though, that night changed things. He tells her he misses her when he hangs up at night. He tells her about a mural he saw on the way to work that reminded him of her. He tells her about the things she would like if she were there. She tells him that she misses his cooking, and his stories, and even his nagging about her overworking herself, but most of all she just misses her best friend. She tells him about the things he’s missing. She tells him she went to the museum and it almost felt like she was there with him.
It’s made her realize that she’s allowed to feel these things. It’s made her realize that she can support him and miss him at the same time, that this combination of feelings doesn’t make her a bad person, or a bad friend, it just means she cares about him.
It’s strengthened their already strong bond, made them something more in a way she really doesn’t know how to describe. In some ways, it’s maybe even strengthened her, made her realize that it’s okay to reach out, that it’s okay to show him the messy parts of her, that he still cares for her all the same. As someone with a bruised and battered heart, it’s not always easy, but she thinks in a way it’s what she needed.
She just would’ve liked to figure that out without having him so far away for so long, which is why when she hears the familiar sound of a train approaching one minute before his ETA, her heart nearly jumps out of her chest with nerves.
Clarke knows equating waiting to spot him in a crowd of people to torture is extremely over dramatic, but she also doesn’t trust herself to run through the crowd without causing an accident right now, so all she can do is wait as all the passengers file out, twiddling her thumbs anxiously and bouncing on her toes every once in a while to try and get a glimpse of him.
And then suddenly, after almost all of the train has disembarked, there he is, a heap of dark curls and thick-framed glasses and the plaid shirt he’s been wearing since college, and suddenly Bellamy’s home and there are tears building behind her eyes and she just can’t help herself, the energy she’s been feeling all day, all week even, comes bursting out.
“Bellamy!” She calls loudly, her voice heard even over the hustle and bustle of a busy Metropolis train station, a couple heads turning toward her that she doesn’t even see because his eyes meet hers at the exact moment she takes off at a run, her body dodging a couple of unaware people until she throws herself at him with zero shame or embarrassment, nearly knocking them both over in the process.
He manages to catch her, his big, strong arms wrapping around her on instinct and she nearly cries right there. She’s barely had a look at him, her face stuffed right into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, and she’s so overwhelmed that she’s in his arms that for a second she doesn’t even realize he’s spinning them around like they’re in some early 2000’s rom-com.
When she pulls back enough to get a look at him, it’s only for a second, just long enough to see the most gorgeous smile she’s ever seen in her life, and then her world is moving and dark and that smile is suddenly pressing against her mouth and for one terrifying moment she thinks it was her, thinks all the emotion bursting to come out took over, but then she feels his hand against her face and she realizes Bellamy is kissing her.
And there they are, in the middle of South Station, her legs wrapped around his hips and her hands in his hair and she’s kissing him, and it’s perhaps the most cliched and happiest moment of her life.
And when he kisses her, he feels like every good and precious moment she’s ever had, he feels like warmth and sunshine and joy, he feels like home.
Though just like all happy and precious moments, it too has to end, but when she pulls back, she gives herself the time to really look at him. His hair is all messy, probably less from her hands in it and more of him ruffling it all day like he does when he’s restless. His freckles are more pronounced than she remembered them. His glasses are a little crooked, and that one probably is on her, so she reaches to fix them, watching the cloudy gaze in his eyes morph as they widen just a fraction, and suddenly she realizes the kiss was just as sudden and unexpected for him as it was for her.
“Shit—” He starts, panic creeping into his voice even in the single word, and she can see the beginnings of a spiral right in front of her, knows all the tells even after all this time. “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I—” His eyes are hastily searching her face for something, and she can almost see his inner dialogue written out across his own. “I’m so sorry.”
And here’s the thing: She doesn’t know how she would’ve felt, if he had done that two years ago. She doesn’t know if she would’ve panicked. She doesn’t know if she would’ve ran. She doesn’t know how this would’ve played out two years ago. But it’s not two years ago. And right here, right now, Clarke knows exactly how she feels, she knows exactly what she wants, who she wants.
“You should probably put me down,” she says softly. And he looks so heartbroken as he loosens his hold on her and lets her down so her feet can find the ground, that she can’t help but press a hand over his heart and reach up to kiss him this time.
This kiss is different from the first, it isn’t filled with excitement and relief, it’s timid and uncertain. When he kissed her, he threw his whole self into it, his arms pressing her close and kissing her in a way that she felt it in every inch of her body. This time, he’s soft and searching, a mixture of doubt and hope as he follows her.
They part, and despite the uncertainty in his expression, she thinks any of her own lingering doubts about what they would be like when he got home have been squashed by their reunion. He wants her, she’s sure of it. He wants her in all the ways she wants him.
“To take you home,” she continues her previous sentiment. She runs her hands up his chest, can feel the warmth of him even with his shirt between them. She stops when her hands reach his collar, her fingers playing with the curls at the back of his neck, can’t help the crook of her lips when she feels him shiver, his eyes watching her intently behind his glasses. “We can only make out in front of a bunch of strangers for so long. They’re bound to kick us out eventually.” She teases, raising an eyebrow up at him.
And frankly she’d like to give him the kind of kiss that’s frowned upon taking place in public.
(What? It’s been over a year, no one could possibly blame her.)
“Oh,” he says, quiet, something funny in his tone, and she realizes now it’s time to tell him the one thing she didn’t tell him over the phone, the one thing a part of her was waiting for this moment to say.
“Bellamy.”
“Yeah, sure.” He says, his voice distant as he leans down to pick up the bag he dropped when she bombarded him. His eyes have moved from hers, his once steady and intense gaze now flickering around, and he’s clearly stalling, as he pats his bag with the excuse of making sure he has everything. “You didn’t even have to come, the station’s almost as bad as the airport, I could’ve just—”
“Bellamy,” she repeats, stern this time, in a way she knows he won’t ignore.
“What?” He responds, a hint of insecurity in his voice he can’t manage to hide from her, still not quite looking.
She huffs, tugging at his arm, gently but with enough intent to get his attention, waiting until he looks at her again to speak. “I have missed you so much,” she says, wide blue eyes boring into his to make sure he understands, to show him that she’s speaking from the heart. A silent moment passes and then he blows out a breath, smiling down at her even though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes entirely. He opens his mouth, probably to tell her the same, but she beats him to it, and the words finally come out. “And I love you.”
The beat of silence that passes then is much more tense, the air so thick around them she feels her skin prickle, but she doesn’t tear her gaze away, and she certainly doesn’t take it back.
And then—
“Yeah?” He asks incredulously, his husky voice honeyed by a disbelieving hope that she finds both alluring and heartwarming.
“Yeah,” Clarke answers, a gentle smile softening her serious features.
“Thank God,” he breathes, and this time when he kisses her it’s like she’s the answer to every question he’s ever had, and he makes her feel like the goddesses from all his stories.
When they part this time, they’re both beaming, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of that beautiful smile or the way he looks at her right then.
“C’mon,” she says as she fits herself into his side, wrapping an arm around his waist and rubbing a hand over his stomach, because she just can’t seem to stop touching him now that he’s here, but he doesn’t seem to mind, pressing his lips against her hair. “Let’s go home.”
It’s not until later that he tells her that his home was wherever she was in that moment, but she thinks even then, they both knew.
Home is where your heart is, after all, and Bellamy has always been her heart.