Work Text:
He can't look away.
That's been a bit of a theme of Bellamy's day, so far, actually. He remembers staring at Clarke earlier, unable to tear his gaze away while they stood around and fretted about all the ways they might die today. He recalls that conversation about big hearts and oxymorons, and the way he couldn't take his eyes off her.
And now he's staring at the door of the lab, willing her to come running in, praying for it harder than he has ever prayed for anything in his life before.
"The radiation's already affecting the avionics. It's now or never." Raven warns him.
He knows that. He knows, but he can't stop looking at the door.
"Bellamy -"
"I know." He bites the words out, still staring. Still waiting for Clarke to come back to him.
He's simply not willing to consider the alternative.
"Can't we give her another minute?" He hears Emori ask the question, hears Raven answer in the negative, but still he can't take his eyes off the door.
There is noise behind him. A scuffle, the scrape of metal on metal. But he doesn't turn around, because he mustn't look away. If he looks away, he's absolutely convinced that will be the end of it. If he looks away, that's the first step towards leaving Clarke for dead.
"Bellamy." He hears Raven's voice, feels her gloved hand tugging at his own. That's silly, he decides. There is no way this slightly-built woman with her disability is going to be able to drag him bodily to the rocket.
"No, Raven. I can't leave her."
Raven sighs. "Think about what she would want, Bellamy. She'd want you to live, wouldn't she? She'd want you to make the smart choice and get us all to space in time to live."
Damn it. Damn Raven, and damn her good sense. Damn her for echoing so closely what Clarke said to him scarcely an hour ago.
He's about to do it. He's about to use his head, and turn away from the door, and leave his heart behind.
Then Clarke bursts through the door and tumbles, uncoordinated, down the steps.
"Clarke!" The cry bursts out of him, half relief, half horror. Why is she moving like that, as if perhaps drunk?
She doesn't reply. She just turns to nod at him, and jogs straight to the oxygen to get started on filling her tank.
That's when he sees it.
Her helmet. It's not just cracked – no, it's thoroughly broken, a gaping hole over her eye, fracture lines spider-webbing the whole of the glass. And beneath that, her face is burnt and raw, angry blisters bubbling across her skin even as he watches.
Frantic, he dashes to her side.
"Your helmet! What happened?"
"I fell. No time." She pants, struggling with the oxygen tank.
"Here, let me." He takes it from her hands, and gets to work on filling it. "Raven! We need to fix her helmet."
"There's no time." Raven says, hands spread in despair. "I'm so sorry, there's no time. We have to leave, now."
"She can't fly without a helmet." Bellamy argues, because arguing distracts him from the fact that Clarke's face is oozing blood.
He can't lose her now, damn it. He can't loose her just when she managed to get back here in the nick of time.
Raven starts ushering them towards the rocket the moment the oxygen tank is filled. "She'll have to fly without a helmet. I'm sorry, Clarke. There's no choice. The rocket has a pressure regulator. If you breathe straight from your oxygen tank you – you might be OK."
"Might be OK?" Bellamy asks, incredulous.
"Should be OK." Raven corrects herself, climbing into the cockpit.
Clarke makes no comment while they argue with her life on the line. She only coughs, wetly, and that worries Bellamy most of all.
He helps her into the rocket, settles her into a seat as quickly as possible. Does up her harness for her, because her hands are shaking and her coughing is growing worse.
He doesn't see how she's going to be able to breathe from an oxygen tank. He doesn't see how she's going to manage that at all. She is holding the mask pressed to her face with clumsy fingers, and he's not sure whether it's the gloves that are hampering her or something more serious.
Something like radiation sickness.
There's nothing to be done about it, he realises, but he hates it all the same. He settles himself at her side, and Raven starts a very abridged countdown, and before he knows it, they are soaring towards the heavens.
"You're OK. You're going to be fine. Just keep breathing." He mutters to Clarke, although he knows Raven will be annoyed at him for wasting his oxygen on speaking. He's pretty sure that panicking about her like this goes firmly against his instructions to keep calm, maintain a low heart rate, and conserve air.
She nods, earnest as ever. That's his Clarke, putting a brave face on it even as she's burning up before his very eyes.
He reaches out to put a hand on her knee. He's not sure whether that's a good idea – she might have radiation burns there, for all he knows, since her suit has been breached. And it's not exactly offering either of them much comfort, with two layers of thick rubber in between them. And apart from anything else, going around putting a hand on her knee isn't something he normally does. It's a bit too transparently love-struck, and normally he tends to try to avoid shoving his feelings in her face.
He's done with that, after today. He has no intention of hiding his love from her ever again if she survives this.
He's growing slightly calmer, as Raven takes them into orbit. Clarke is managing with her oxygen, somehow, and she nods at him every now and then. He thinks her eyes might be growing a little heavier, perhaps starting to glaze over, but that's OK, he tells himself desperately. Luna slept a lot when she was sick, and she healed just fine in the end.
Just as he's almost beginning to believe they've made it, Clarke pulls the oxygen mask away from her face.
"What are you doing?" He asks, dismayed. "You need to -"
She vomits. She throws sticky black blood up all over herself, over half of him, sprays it into the air and onto the floor of the rocket.
"Clarke." He gasps out her name, helpless to do anything else to help her in this moment.
She grimaces a little in his direction, then puts the oxygen mask back to her face.
"You're going to be OK." He tells her, although the words are growing heavier on his tongue, starting to taste like lies. "We're going to be there soon, and then we'll be able to take care of you."
She nods. And then she pulls the mask off, and then she vomits again.
He's trying not to panic. He's trying so damn hard to keep his cool. He won't be any use to her if he loses his mind. She asked him to use his head, so he has to do that, for her.
That's when she passes out.
He can deal with this, he tells himself firmly. He wriggles a little in his harness, reaches out to take the oxygen mask that has started floating in weightlessness since her hand went limp. He presses it over her face with one hand, cradles her neck with the other.
"She's going to be OK." Harper pipes up, supportive as ever. "We're nearly there, Bellamy. She just needs to hold on a couple more minutes."
Raven is a hero. There is no other way to describe it. Amidst all this panic, amidst the mess of black, bloody vomit that streaks the floor and floats in disgusting droplets around them, Raven pilots them home.
They still have plenty of air in the tanks, thank goodness. Clarke got the lights on before take off, and they have made it up here in good time. Raven parks in the hangar bay without a hitch.
Now they just need to get an unconscious patient and one with burnt hands out of here safely.
"Murphy, Emori, you're with me." Raven takes control of the situation. "We'll get the oxygen up and running. Harper, take care of Monty. Echo, help Bellamy with Clarke."
Bellamy still doesn't trust Echo. But he's in no condition to argue, right now, his hands preoccupied with holding the mask over Clarke's face and his mind preoccupied with worrying about her. Where are they to take her, anyway? There is no well-stocked hospital, up here.
"Leave her with me for a minute while you go prep a room for her." Echo suggests.
Bellamy frowns. He doesn't like that idea.
"I'll take care of her, I promise." Echo reads his reaction for what it is. "I owe both of you my life, and that's a debt I want to repay. I'm not about to let her die on us. Now go find her a room. When you get back we can work out how to carry her through the door like this."
He's never run so fast in his life. In fact, he reckons it probably matches the speed Clarke was sprinting when she fell over and smashed her damn helmet. He ought to take more care, he supposes, as he's still on his oxygen tank until Raven gets the machine working. But right now all he can think about is finding a sick bay for Clarke.
He finds some bedrooms down one corridor, walks straight into the first one he comes across. This will do, he decides. There's a bed. He rifles through cupboards and tosses a clean sheet hastily over the mattress. It doesn't much seem to matter if he does a neat job of it – the fresh white cloth will be smeared with black blood before long, based on the events of the last few minutes.
…...
He arrives back at the rocket to the happy – and almost surprising – news that Echo has made good on her promise to take care of Clarke.
"She moved a minute ago, just shifted her head a little. But other than that she's the same." Echo tells him, calling through the door.
"OK. Pass her to me?"
It's awkward, but between the two of them, they manage to get her out of the rocket without depriving her of oxygen. Bellamy insists on carrying her himself, though, once that's done. It's a bit of a struggle, having her draped unconscious against his shoulder while he reaches around her neck to hold the mask in place, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
Echo shakes her head at him as they start to walk. "You're impossible. She's lucky to have you."
He thinks that might have been a compliment. Maybe he might manage to trust the traitor, before these five years are up, if she keeps helping him take care of Clarke.
He's not sure why Echo continues to follow him as they walk down the corridor. He's got this – surely that is obvious? But follow she does, striding along and asking every so often if there's anything she can do to help.
When they arrive at the room he has prepared, Echo at last turns aside.
"I'll see you back here soon. I'm going to go see what I can find."
"What do you mean?"
"Water, medicine? I don't know. There must be something here that will help her."
He nods his thanks, and gets on with settling Clarke on the bed.
He unzips her radiation suit, next. This is not exactly how his dreams of undressing her usually go, and the thought brings the prickle of tears to his eyes.
No. He can't be crying. She's going to be OK, and that's the end of that.
She's wearing leggings and a vest beneath the rubber suit, so he eases it off her without feeling too awkward about the situation. And then he casts the disgusting garment in the corner, noting absently that someone had better clean the bloody vomit off it before they need it again in five years' time.
Underneath the suit, Clarke is a mess. He already knew her face was blistered and bleeding, but her arms and feet and neck are as bad, cracked and oozing black blood. It looks even worse than seeing someone bleed red, somehow, the strangeness of the sight heightening the horror. He notes, too, that blood has soaked through her clothes in some places – presumably she is burnt all over.
He sits, and listens to the sticky sound of her breathing, and waits for his own oxygen to run out. He supposes he ought to move, ought to go seek help, but he can't take his eyes off Clarke.
…...
When Echo returns, she isn't wearing a helmet.
"Oxygen's on." She supplies. "We can unsuit now. I found her some water." She deposits a sealed bottle – one of the rations they brought with them – on the bedside cabinet.
"Thanks." He says, removing Clarke's mask, then easing off his helmet and starting on his own zipper. The sooner he gets these gloves off, the sooner he can take Clarke's hand and tell her it's going to be OK.
"No luck with any medicine so far. I'll keep looking." Echo offers.
"Thanks." He repeats, feeling a little lost.
Echo is still hovering in the doorway, opening and closing her mouth as if there's something she wants to say.
"Yeah?" He prompts, keen to get back to devoting his full attention to keeping vigil over Clarke.
"Thanks for stopping me, earlier. Thanks for getting me on that rocket. And the minute Clarke wakes up, I'm going to thank her for saving my life."
He nods, eyes already on Clarke again by the time he hears Echo leave.
He gets his suit off quickly, and underneath it his own clothes are relatively clean. He's sweated through them in places, his nerves getting the better of him, but all in all, he's doing a damn sight better than Clarke.
He takes a seat on the bed next to her. He's not sure what else to do. And then he reaches hesitant fingers out towards her hand. He can't hold it properly, cannot wrap his own around it, because she's badly burnt and he doesn't want to hurt her.
But he can, at least, rest his fingertips lightly against her palm.
…...
Harper is their next visitor.
"I got her some clean clothes." She offers. "Want to step out while I change her?"
He doesn't want to step out. He doesn't want to take his eyes off her. But he figures she deserves better than staying in her bloodstained undergarments for the foreseeable future.
He therefore nods, and shuffles off the bed.
"Is Monty OK?" He remembers to ask. He cares about Monty, and on any other day his hands would be headline news.
"Yeah. The burns are only on his hands and he feels OK in himself." Harper says, sounding almost calm.
"That's good." He summons up a strained smile, and goes to wait outside while she changes Clarke's clothes.
He's glad Harper has come to do this. Not just because it would feel indecent, somehow, to be stripping the clothes off a friend he has more than friendly feelings towards. But because he's not sure he'd cope with seeing first-hand the extent of her injuries.
"You can come back in again." Harper calls, moments later.
It is worse, when he steps back into the room. He understands why Harper has dressed Clarke in a nightdress that looks uncannily like a hospital gown. He understands that it will be practical, and comfortable against her blistered skin.
But it scares him all the same.
He doesn't want to think of her wearing a hospital gown. Hospital gowns are for sick people, and whilst he knows that Clarke is sick, this really makes it hit home with substantial force.
It's a nightdress, he tells himself desperately. The colour and the shape of it are unfortunate, but it is just a practical nightdress.
Harper may not know the specific reason for his mood, but she evidently gets the gist. "She'll be OK, Bellamy. She's strong, and she's a nightblood. And she's got you here to take care of her."
He nods, stiff, uncomfortable.
"Go on, go sit next to her again. I'm sure she knows you're there. That probably helps, don't you think?"
Another nod.
"I'll go see if there's any medicine up here."
He could stop her, of course. He could point out that Echo is already looking for medicine, and that there's probably none to be found anyway.
But he doesn't. He'd have a whole damn army looking for medicine if it would guarantee Clarke's recovery.
…...
He talks at her a lot, for the next few minutes or hours. Time has lost all meaning, in the everlasting day since they left the bunker. He weaves her a story about Achilles, then one about Perseus. Jumps forward to Theseus, just because.
And she lies there, and breathes heavily, and tries not to die.
He hopes she's trying not to die, anyway. He really hopes she is trying to survive this, and every so often he interrupts his narrative to tell her so. He breaks off, half way through a sentence about heroes, to inform her that she had better live, that he needs her to pull through.
And just once or twice, or three times or four times or five, he allows himself to tell her that he loves her.
…...
Raven shows up some time later.
"Get some rest." She instructs, as she marches through the door. Bellamy doesn't know how she still has the energy or determination to stride about like that, after the day they've had.
"I can't." He says, returning his gaze to Clarke's blistered face. "I can't leave her."
"I didn't say anything about leaving her. You can stay with her. Just lie down and try to get some rest." She recommends, a pleading tone in her voice that Bellamy doesn't usually associate with the strong, no-nonsense mechanic.
"You think I could stay here? You think that would be OK?"
He hears Raven sigh. He can imagine the look on her face, but he doesn't want to tear his eyes away to check he's right.
"Of course it would be OK, Bellamy. You know she trusts you. She'd want you to stay with her, I'm pretty sure."
He nods, not sure whether he's actually persuaded by Raven's argument or is just going along with this because he cannot bear to leave the room.
"Harper found some burn cream." Raven continues, and he hears her place something on the beside cabinet. "I'll leave it here, although she can't use it until – until she's a bit less... bleeding. And here's some more water, and some food."
"Thanks." He doesn't bother looking around to see what she leaves.
"I'll leave you to it. Try to sleep, please?"
He nods, but when she leaves, he doesn't try to sleep. He lies down, sure, but not with any real intention of closing his eyes. He's still not sure what might happen, if he stops watching her.
So it is that he simply lies on his side, gaze still fixed on Clarke, and watches her take laboured breaths.
…...
He must have fallen asleep, in the end. He realises that when he wakes up.
Clarke's moved. That's the first thing he notices when he opens his eyes. She's no longer flat on her back, but has somehow rolled onto her side, facing towards him.
That's a good thing, right? That means she must have been half awake at some point, or at least be sleeping a natural, healthy sleep, and not the unnaturally still sleep of death.
Watching her face carefully, he takes her hand, and starts to speak. "Morning. I hope you're doing a bit better. You've moved – I think that's a good thing. I hope you -"
He stops abruptly as her eyes blink open.
"Clarke?"
She gives the ghost of a nod. "Bellamy." She chokes his name out, a broken whisper from her parched throat.
"Don't try to talk." He orders her immediately, regretting for her sake that he shaped her name as a question. He can't imagine what agony he caused her, by all but asking her to speak while her throat must be bloody and sore.
Her eyes are firm and a little annoyed with him for that, he thinks.
"There's no need to talk." He rephrases it. "Don't hurt yourself. Here, let me get you some water."
It's not easy, helping her to drink. He doesn't know where to put his hands – every inch of her skin is crusted with burns. And she coughs and splutters a bit, but he can't tell whether that's water going down the wrong way or just the state of her throat, at the moment.
"Good?" He asks, then curses himself for asking her a question again, for implicitly demanding a response.
She gives another tiny nod.
"Harper found some burn cream. That's all we can give you, I'm so sorry. But I hope it'll be better than nothing. Could I – would it be OK if I put some on for you?"
She nods again, and he thinks he can read warmth in her eyes.
She's going to be OK. He decides it, in that moment. She still has her old spirit – he can tell as much from her eyes and her nodding, and the fact that she even attempted to say his name. And he's going to be right here at her side, providing her with burn cream and water, watching over her until she heals.
With that decided, he sets to work on her burns.
It's horrific. There is simply no other word for it. She's absolutely covered in burns, and he can scarcely bear to touch her for fear of causing her pain. He spreads the cream about with the faintest touch of his fingertips, desperate to avoid disturbing the fragile scabs, but all the same, he catches her wincing more than once.
"I'm sorry." He whispers, every time. "I'm so sorry, Clarke. Just stay with me. You'll be feeling better soon."
He does her arms, first. Arms are easy, and unthreatening, and he can reach them without bother. And then he does her face, and tries to ignore the way his heart lurches when he takes in her pained but determined small smile. Her legs are next, and that's a bit uncomfortable. He's never touched her legs before – why would he have done? - but right now they don't look like legs anyway, so he soldiers on.
When he's applied the cream to every part of her that isn't covered by her nightdress, he leans back to look up at her face.
"I think we're done." He says, trying for a smile.
She disagrees. He can tell she disagrees, as she reaches down with trembling fingers and starts to pull the hem of her nightdress higher.
"Are you sure?" He asks, frozen with fear. Obviously he's not going to try to take advantage of her right now, but he's less than comfortable with the thought of touching her all over under these circumstances.
She simply nods.
Well, then. He's not about to deny her anything, not after the scare she gave him yesterday.
He pulls her nightdress the rest of the way up, exposing her torso, and is relieved to find that she is at least wearing underwear. It's a strange experience, this, because he doesn't really feel like he's touching Clarke's naked skin. The burns make it feel like that is not the case at all.
He rolls her over, as gently as he can, to reach her back. He explains his purpose to her as he does so, of course, determined as ever to make her feel safe in this space.
When his task is accomplished, he helps her to roll onto her side once more.
"You good?" He asks.
A nod, and a slightly more convincing smile.
"Water?"
Another nod, and another round of trying to help her to drink.
"Get some more rest." He recommends, after that. She's going to need all the rest she can get, he figures, if she is to pull through this.
He is planning on leaving the bed, thinking that perhaps he might find a chair to watch over her for the day so that she can feel more comfortable. But Clarke seems to have other ideas, as she reaches a shaky hand out to brush her fingers gently over his.
It's not quite holding hands, but it's the closest they're going to manage, just now, he decides. He therefore settles himself back on the bed, and decides that maybe a bit more rest wouldn't do him any harm, either.
As his eyes are drifting closed, he hears her hoarse whisper.
"Thank you."
…...
They both manage to stay awake slightly longer, the next time. It's a small step, but it has him feeling more optimistic than he's felt since Clarke set off for that damn tower.
"Hey there." He greets her when her eyes blink open. It's an inane greeting, but it's heartfelt.
"Hey." She croaks out with a small smile. It must hurt her to smile, he figures, so he's honoured that she's choosing to smile at him anyway. Honoured, and a little annoyed with her.
"I thought I said no talking."
"S'OK. I'm feeling better."
"You want water?"
"Yeah."
They go through the water routine again. He thinks they're getting slightly better at it, actually. He's getting more confident, less worried that she's going to break at the slightest touch. And she's already starting to move more easily.
"That went better than last time." He says when they're done.
"Yeah." She agrees. "I'm feeling better. Really."
"Better as in healed, or better as in less horrific?"
She treats him to a rusty laugh. "The second."
"Thought so." He hesitates for a moment. There's something he needs to ask, but he knows it's a silly question. "You going to be OK if I leave you for a minute? I just need to use the bathroom and grab some food but I'll be right back."
It's definitely a silly question. He can tell that from the frown she forces her blistered lips to shape in response. "Of course. You need to get someone to change your bandages, too."
He looks down at his wrists. He doesn't think he does need anyone to change these, actually. Sure, the white cloth is starting to look more grey with grime, but that's nothing compared to what Clarke's going through. The wounds on his wrists feel like they are from a different time, a different world, back when he was angry with her for the door rather than terrified about losing her. He cannot help but feel that these bandages are not really relevant, any more.
As if she can hear his thoughts, she tries again. "I mean it, Bellamy. You'd better come back with fresh dressings on those."
Well, then. That's him told. He would argue with her – he likes arguing with Clarke – but he can't bear to cause her distress, right now.
…...
They don't do much, for the rest of that day. Each of their friends – and Echo – pops by in turn, to check that Clarke's healing OK and to offer food or water or encouragement.
But for the most part, Clarke and Bellamy are left alone. She can speak now, of course, but she's still feeling pretty hoarse, so she doesn't say much. He makes up the difference, telling her tales of Greek heroes and Roman emperors, even reading aloud to her from a book she has chosen, at one point.
It's peaceful, in a way that his life has never been peaceful before. That's a horrible thought, because the woman he loves is literally lying here bleeding and burning up with fever and sporadically vomiting, but it's still a quieter existence than he is used to.
"I'm worried you're still sick." He admits, towards the evening.
"Don't be. Luna was sick for a while. I'll get better." She offers him a slow smile. "Now get back on with telling me about Jason."
The evening lengthens, and Clarke is growing tired. Bellamy is growing tired as well, actually, but he doesn't want to admit that. He wants to watch over her for as long as possible. But once she's fallen asleep, he decides that's probably his cue to lie down at her side, as he did last night, and at least watch over her from a more restful position.
His last thought before sleep claims him is that he doesn't seem to have moved out of Clarke's room today, after all.
…...
Things get easier, the following day. Bellamy has grown more confident in applying the cream to Clarke's burns, now, and between them they've even worked on the logistics of bathroom visits and figured out how to have Clarke drink without slopping stray water all over her chin.
The thing he treasures the most, though, is the good humour with which they manage all this. He can feel them both growing more relaxed, with every minute that stretches out between them and the death wave.
There's a lot of laughter here, for a sick bed.
There's a decent amount of optimism, too. Bellamy is starting to believe that Clarke might really recover, and he might actually get to spend these precious five years living with her in peace.
That is, if she doesn't drive him to an early grave, first.
"I want some supper." She decides, on the next evening.
"Supper?" He asks, incredulous. "You've got radiation sickness. You keep vomiting. I'm not letting you eat supper. Let me make you another bottle of rehydration salts and then we can -"
"Bellamy." She interrupts him firmly. "I haven't thrown up since this morning. I want to try some real food."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"I'll recover quicker if I can keep solid food down."
Damn her. Damn her for playing on his desperate desire to see her back at full strength as soon as possible.
"You sure about this?"
She arches her brown, just a little, beneath the burns. "What's the worst that can happen? I've already thrown up on you five times."
"Six times." He corrects her under his breath, but all the same, he goes in search of some supper.
…...
Bellamy never does move out of Clarke's room – he supposes that makes it his room, too, but it's a little harder to let himself look at it like that.
He does try to move out, just once. Seven days in, when Clarke's burns are well on the way to healed and her face is a patchwork of peeling scabs.
He still thinks she looks beautiful. Not the fact that she's been burnt to within an inch of her life, of course, but her beauty shines through all the same. That's why he knows that it's time for him to leave, before he ends up taking advantage of the situation and sharing her bed for the rest of his life.
"Do you want me to move out now?" He asks, while they sit around the room doing nothing in particular. He's got a book open on his lap, but this conversation is too important for him to actually be reading it.
"Do you want to?" She throws the question back at him.
"I feel like I should. You don't need a full-time nurse any more." He tries for a lighthearted tone, and fails miserably.
"That's not what I asked. Do you want to move out?" She narrows her eyes at him, that critical stare of hers he loves so much.
He can't quite bring himself to answer that in words. He looks her right in the eyes, and gives the slightest shake of his head.
"Looks like you're staying, then."
She turns to pick up a sketch book, and the subject is never discussed again.
…...
Clarke continues to heal, day by day, week by week, until she doesn't need nursing at all, never mind a full-time live-in carer. She starts to venture out of the room more, too, and Bellamy goes with her. They hang out with their friends in the evenings, and contribute a little to the chores about the place by day. She makes an effort to smile when she's in company, but he can't help but notice she seems to have developed a sudden preference for long-sleeved, high-necked tops.
Nothing else much changes, though. Nothing changes between the two of them, certainly. Every night without fail they fall asleep in exactly the same positions they have adopted every night after that first one, facing towards each other, hands clasped.
Never closer, never further away.
It's driving Bellamy slightly mad, actually. He remembers making that resolution, when he was waiting for her at the rocket, that he would never hide his love from her again. And he hasn't been hiding it. He admitted he wanted to keep living with her, and he's made no secret of his obsession with looking after her.
But he doesn't go around telling her about his love, either.
He hasn't said the words out loud to her, apart from when she was unconscious at the very beginning. He's not sure why. Maybe it's because they have five years of safety, now, so there doesn't seem to be any rush. Maybe it's because he's worried that she doesn't feel the same, that they're just platonic bed-sharing buddies, or that she's only spending so much time in his company because she doesn't have a lot of options, up here.
He thinks it's something like that, actually. He nearly lost her, that day the death wave hit. And he couldn't bear it if he lost her now, over something as stupid as her not loving him back.
…...
They've found a rhythm, in the few weeks they've been up here, shaped a routine that has more substance than simply eight little people rattling around in a vast space station. Mostly, Bellamy's routine consists of following Clarke around. Of course it does – she nearly died on him, not so long ago, and it makes sense that he's still struggling to let her out of his sight.
Today, then, is unusual. Clarke wants to pick Monty's brain about medicinal plants, and Bellamy finds himself fetching and carrying for Raven. It becomes clear, very early on, that the fetching and carrying is a ruse. Raven does have some boxes to shift, sure. But mostly it turns out that she has a point to make.
"Have you told her yet?" She asks, faffing with something that looks technical.
"Told who what?" Bellamy pretends to be oblivious as he reaches for the next box.
"You know exactly what I mean."
He sighs, and sets down the box. This is not a conversation to have with an armful of electronics.
"I haven't said anything. I don't know how to. I guess – I've been trying to show her, if that makes sense?"
Raven nods. "You should say it anyway. I know you know that. But just – remember death wave day? Remember how you felt when you thought she might not make it?"
"I don't want to feel that way ever again." He completes Raven's thought, knowing exactly what she is getting at.
"Just tell her." Raven recommends for good measure. "I'm sure she already knows. Just like you know she feels the same about you. But it needs to be said."
Bellamy doesn't know she feels the same about him, actually. He always sort of presumed he wouldn't get that lucky. But the way Raven drops it into the conversation, so casually confident, has him almost believing it might be the truth.
He needs to tell Clarke he loves her, and soon. She deserves to know, just in case the world ever burns again.
…...
They still go to sleep facing each other, of course, that polite gap in between them, joined only at the hands.
Spurred on by Raven's words, Bellamy decides to try a little experiment tonight. Nothing drastic, nothing that could make Clarke feel uncomfortable. He just shuffles towards her slightly, allows his hand to slide over the scarred skin of her arm and closer to her shoulder. He likes the fact that she doesn't wear long sleeves around him. It's a silly thing, but it makes him feel like he might be special to her, like she doesn't feel the need to hide anything from him.
His experiment is a resounding success. Clarke draws closer to him, in turn, and starts tracing lines over his bicep with her fingertips.
He grows a little braver, and tries again. Closes the gap until he can feel her breath on his cheek, until he can pick out every detail of her eyelashes in the half-darkness.
She's the one who finishes the job. Of course she is – she's Clarke Griffin, decisive even in peacetime in a tin can in the sky.
She presses her lips against his, warm and curious, soft yet somehow confident all at once. And he kisses her back, hard as he dares, but wanting to take good care of her after her recent scare.
It doesn't take long for things to escalate. Her hand traces along his arm and up to his neck, leaving his flesh burning up in her wake. His fingers tangle into her hair, careful not to tug too hard, just in case she's somehow still sore even after the weeks that have passed.
It isn't until her hand slips up his shirt that he decides he had better pull away.
"We shouldn't." He says, difficult though it is to force the words past his lips.
"We should." She argues back, brow slanted.
"I don't want to hurt you."
She lets out a long sigh, tinged with exasperated laughter. "You're not going to hurt me. I'm better, OK? I'm fine. Now will you stop being so damn patient?" She spits the word like a curse.
"Patient?"
"It's infuriating!" She exclaims, rolling onto her back to vent at the ceiling. He misses the warmth of her in his arms, but this is both entertaining and enlightening. "Five years in space practically alone together. Only you would spend the first three weeks of that refusing to touch me because you think I might break, or something. I should have known this would be the one time in your entire life you were going to refuse to act on your impulse and -"
He cuts her off with a kiss, surging towards her, propping himself up on one elbow as he presses his mouth to hers. She kisses him back, satisfied at last with his loss of control, moaning into his mouth as he nibbles a little on her lower lip.
He's still gentle with her, as they shed their clothes and he hovers his hips over hers. He takes great care, when he presses inside of her and kisses away her gasp. There will be other nights, he resolves, for setting her world on fire, but for tonight he just wants to look after her, and show her she is loved.
And make sure she's not hurt, of course.
He watches her while he makes love to her. He thinks that's perhaps a little odd – it's certainly nothing he's ever felt the need to do whilst sleeping with any other woman, and he's never heard of anyone having a desperate desire to keep their eyes open during sex. But he just cannot convince himself to look away, frightened that if he moves his gaze from her for so much as a heartbeat, this will all melt away into some dream or fantasy.
Watching her helps him believe it's real. This is her, his Clarke, alive and well and with him for the next five years. Sure, she's a little more worn around the edges than she was a month ago, but she's beautiful all the same.
He tells her that, and watches her cheeks flush at the compliment.
He's still watching when she grows breathless with desire, still watching when her skin starts to heat with oncoming orgasm. And he can't take his eyes off her, when she throws her head back and comes apart with his name on her lips.
He lowers his head to kiss her, then, hot and hard – but not too hard, of course. And she's still urging him on, somehow, her hands cradling his butt against her hips even though she's already reached fulfilment.
He spills inside of her, soon, and collapses back onto her chest to bury his face in her neck.
"Should be a good five years." She jokes, combing her fingers through his hair.
"Looks that way." He agrees, rolling off so as not to squash her with his weight.
She comes with him, which he wasn't expecting. She keeps hold of him and ends up lying sprawled half across his shoulders. It's not exactly a dignified state of affairs, but he's not complaining.
It's just the right kind of moment to tell her something important, he decides. Just the right kind of atmosphere, soft with relaxed intimacy, for a confession that's weeks or perhaps months overdue.
"I love you." He whispers the words into the crown of her head.
"I love you too." She replies without missing a beat.
"Yeah?" He has to double check, even as a smile is splitting his cheeks.
"Yeah. Did trading your life for fifty spaces in Arkadia not give it away?" She asks, somewhere between teasing and regretful, nuzzling against his heated skin.
"I can see it now. I guess you realised when I lost my mind over you being late and sick when you got back to the rocket?"
"It gave me a clue." She concedes. "But I wasn't ready to believe it until I heard you say it. I'm not used to happiness."
"It's a good job we've got five years to practise it together."