8x05 committed

rashaka  asked:

bellarke prompt: the "forced confession" trope. someone is forced/maneuvered/compelled to confess ~secret feelings~~. ex: blackmail, drugs, magic curse, hostage, a bet, a test, hypnosis, truth telling. Go nuts with the melodrama!

This was really fun to write! To go all-in with the melodrama, I borrowed a plot idea from one of my favorite Smallville episodes (Committed, 8x05) to get these two crazy kids to admit their feelings for one another. Enjoy :) 

Warning for minor instance of torture. 

When Bellamy woke, he realized two things: one,he was tied to a chair, and two, he was going to kill Clarke Griffin. Groaning quietly, he tried to shake off the drowsiness from whatever drug the psycho—whom he and his partner had been pursuing for the last few weeks—had used to incapacitate him. Stupid, he thought, you were being so stupid. As one of the top FBI agents at his field office, he should’ve known better than to be so careless as to not scouting his surroundings better. The guy had overpowered him walking back to his car behind the coffee shop down the street from their hotel. Caffeine was always Bellamy’s go-to solution for soothing raw nerves, especially when it came to dealing with Clarke. His field partner drove him up the fucking wall with her by-the-rule-book mentality and control freak tendencies. She drove him up the wall in other ways too, with her hair flips and charming laughter, the way her eyes followed him around and her teasing smiles.

Two years ago, Clarke had walked into Bellamy’s office and brashly introduced herself as his new partner (the best he was ever going to get, were her exact words) and since then, his life had been chaos. The first few months of their partnership had consisted of one or the other barging into their boss’s office and demanding a partner reassignment. With a knowing smile, Kane dismissed them each time, saying they would just have to find a way to work it out. After Clarke had ‘accidentally’ backhanded Bellamy with her gun during pursuit of a suspect, they had come to an understanding: they both wanted to be the best, so instead of fighting each other, why not work to put everyone else to shame? Wonder of wonders, it had worked. Coworkers who had once complained about their constant bickering now grumbled enviously about their stellar case closure record. The two of them still fought, and often, but the hostility was gone, replaced by hard-earned respect and professional admiration. Though on his side, admiration had moved way beyond professional months ago.

Currently, as Bellamy struggled against his bindings, admiration wasn’t what he was feeling for Clarke. Irritation, or downright anger, was more accurate. Their suspect had only caught him because he had been so distracted after his fight with Clarke fight earlier that night. Apparently, she had had a problem with his springing their fake engagement cover on her in the field, a sentiment that she had made abundantly clear (via very loud shouting) after returning to the hotel. It’s not like they could’ve just flashed their badges around without spooking the suspect. How else did she suppose they were going to figure out what jewelry store manager was kidnapping couples and killing them?

From the minute he had pulled her into an awkwardly close embrace and called her his fiancée in the first store they had visited, she had pasted that I’m-pretending-I-like-you-but-I-just-really-want-to-punch-you-in-the-nose smile that he was so familiar with from their early days working together. Still, she had grudgingly gone along with it, calling him some hideously saccharine nickname in revenge. He’d almost jumped out of his skin when she had slid her hand up his chest seductively, but he had got her back by toying with loose strands of her hair. Their act had been better at the subsequent stores, even if her continual proximity strained his self-control.

Apparently, someone had bought it though, otherwise he wouldn’t be here, in this decrepit warehouse basement, tied to a chair. Gritting his teeth as he futilely pulled on the rope securing his wrists, Bellamy seethed and thought of the nice, long apology Clarke was going to owe him when he finally escaped, because the plan had worked. They had caught the suspect’s attention, though Bellamy did realize that literally getting caught by the psycho wasn’t the best outcome. Still, the only upside to this situation is that the guy had taken him and not Clarke. His stomach dropped suddenly at the thought, and he tried to block from his mind the disturbing image of her lashed to the chair instead.

Over the soft drip of leaking water and groan of old pipes, Bellamy suddenly heard footsteps tread lightly down the staircase lining the opposite wall. At first, he thought the shadowy figure was their perp and tensed up in anticipation, but then he saw the flash of blonde in the dark shadows. Goddamn it.

“Bellamy?” Clarke called out worriedly, rushing forward with her gun raised, eyes flicking back and forth across the room.

“What are you doing here?” He hissed back, guessing she must have tracked the GPS signal on his phone when he hadn’t returned to the hotel.

Rolling her eyes, she retorted, “Saving your idiotic, kidnapped ass. Really, that cover was such a great plan, Bell.”

“You should sweep the building,” he insisted, ignoring her commentary as she reached down to untie him. “I’ll be fine here. You need to find the suspect. He wouldn’t have gone far.”

“Two pairs of eyes are better than one,” she replied with a small smile.

Before Bellamy could respond, a soft rustling sounded behind them. He turned his head around just in time to see a hand holding a pipe come crashing down onto the side of Clarke’s head. He was able to get out one loud, angry cry of protest before cold metal met his temple and blackness descended.  

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