You are one of my favorite Bellarke writers! Was hoping you can do a prompt about Bellarke trying to drink each other under the table. Or maybe something to do with Drunk! Bellarke
Drunk bellarke, coming right up.
Clarke readjusted her grip on the whiskey bottle and waited. Bellamy opened his door and immediately his face went from confused to annoyed. “What are you doing here?”
Clarke pushed his door open and shouldered her way in. “We’re fixing this,” she announced.
“Fixing what? And I don’t remember inviting you in, princess,” he said, but he shut the door behind her anyway. Clarke thumped the bottle down on his table and started opening cabinets until she found shot glasses.
“You and me. Octavia said she’s going to kill me if we don’t start getting along, so whatever our shit is with each other, we’re going to deal with it.” She inspected the shot glasses to make sure they were clean— they were, and Bellamy sent a dark look her way for doubting him— and nodded at his table. “Well? Sit,” she said, and Bellamy kicked out a chair and flopped into it with ill-humor.
“You know this is my house, right?” he said as she poured each of them a shot. Clarke ignored him and threw hers back. “So what are we doing?” he asked, resigned. “Or are we just going to drink until we don’t hate each other?”
“That’s roughly the plan, yeah,” she said, her eyes watering a little. She poured herself another shot and waited for Bellamy to take his before topping him off. “First of all, I don’t hate you.” Bellamy snorted and she tamped down her irritation. “I don’t,” she insisted. “I find you aggravating. There’s a difference.”
Bellamy cut her a look over the top of his shot glass and sighed. “I don’t hate you either,” he gritted out. “Do I have to do this straight? Can we have chasers?”
“I didn’t bring any, what do you have?”
“Nothing that will work with whiskey. You seriously didn’t bring a chaser?”
“I didn’t think you’d need one.”
Bellamy closed his eyes in frustration and sighed again. “Okay, so we don’t hate each other. We’ve established that. Now what?”
Clarke shrugged. “Tell me something about yourself.” They had to have common ground somewhere, she figured. She had just never bothered to try and find it, but Octavia and Raven had told her on no uncertain terms that she and Bellamy had to stop bickering or there would be hell to pay. Booze was the easiest way to bond with someone, so here she was.
It was a plan, at least. Not a good one, but a plan.
Bellamy, however, was doing his best to sink her plan before it got off the ground. “Tell you what? You know me.” He took his second shot and she poured him another one.
She swallowed a groan of annoyance. “I don’t know, something. Something that will make me like you.” This shot of whiskey went down easier, but it still burned in her chest.
“I thought you already said you did.”
“No, I said I didn’t hate you. Again, there’s a difference,” she retorted, but found a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She fought it, but it seemed to her like his eyes were dancing with amusement.
“Okay…I went to senior prom with pink nail polish on because Octavia wanted to help me get ready and I wouldn’t let her put my hair in braids. Your turn. Tell me something that will make me like you.”
Clarke couldn’t fight her smile much longer. “I got suspended my freshman year of high school for calling a teacher a bigot.”
“You got suspended for that?”
“It was supposed to just be detention, but I organized a protest instead of going. I doubled down so they did too.”
His smile flashed, and she noticed— not for the first time— how handsome he was.
Two hours later, they were officially friends but Bellamy’s floors had started to roll up and down like waves. Clark stumbled out of his bathroom and tripped halfway down the hall, knocking her shoulder against the wall before tumbling to the ground.
“Shit, are you okay?” he yelled and came careening around the corner only to trip on the rug himself. He landed next to her on his stomach and she burst into giggles. He started laughing too and slowly they pushed themselves back into a seated position, Clarke propped against one wall and Bellamy against the opposite one.
“I should go home,” she hiccup-laughed. “I’m drunk.”
Bellamy’s eyebrows shot up in mock-surprise. “You’re drunk? Since when?”
“I’ll call an uber, where’s my phone?” she said, but made no move to stand up. It was nice to sit like this where she had an unobstructed view of him.
“You shouldn’t call uber, that’s dangerous,” Bellamy stumbled over dangerous, his dark eyes glassy and unfocused. Just yesterday she probably would have been annoyed with the way he said that; declarative, like she couldn’t take care of herself. But now she heard the concern that lurked just under the surface.
She waved her hand at him. “It’s fine. Murphy works for uber.”
“Exactly. Murphy works for Uber. Come on, you can stay here.” Bellamy stood up and offered her a hand.
“Do I get to sleep in your bed?” she asked, and something deep inside of her stirred a little.
“Not a chance. I’ve got a couch though,” he said, and she took his hand to let him pull her up. He pulled a little too hard and she ended up bumping into him. His chest felt broad and strong, warm under her hands. Bellamy threw an arm over her shoulders. “Come on, the couch is this way,” he said, and she leaned into his chest as they walked. Sober, she might have called it a nuzzle. Drunk, it was just…something that happened.
Bellamy pressed his cheek against the top of her head and squeezed her shoulder, and Clarke wondered if she’d managed to fix them just a little too well.