Prompt: Bellarke fluffy "Why haven't you kissed me before?"
Whenever things got to be too much, Clarke would bake. The repetitive measuring and mixing always calmed her down, and she got pretty good at it. Now her friends would look forward to the worst weeks of med school because it meant they were ensured a constant stream of cupcakes, cookies, and pies. It indulged both sides of her brain— the precise, exacting medical student and the creative, free flowing artist, working in perfect harmony for once.
She was halfway into a chocolate espresso cheesecake when Bellamy walked in. “I didn’t know you had a test this week,” he observed, pocketing the key she’d given him after she got sick of having to interrupt whatever she was doing to buzz him in.
“I didn’t. This is just general life stress,” she said, adding an egg and turning on her mixer.
“What’s wrong?” Bellamy helped himself to a handful of chocolate chips that she had sitting out.
“Stop it, those are the garnish,” she said, slapping his hand away. “And it’s…nothing, really.”
Nothing really meant I realized I’m in love with you and you clearly don’t feel the same way but Clarke wasn’t about to say that out loud. She checked the recipe and tipped her chin towards the ground espresso near his elbow. Bellamy handed it over and she measured it out before dumping it into her turquoise Kitchenaid. “Hey, what is it?” Bellamy said gently.
Of course he would notice. He notices everything about me except for the one big thing, and the fact that he doesn’t see it tells me everything I need to know. “Nothing.” Clarke moved the lever to stir and wiped her hands on her apron. Bellamy was the one who had given it to her last Christmas along with an old plaid shirt of his, because he felt it was important that she have a smock for painting and an apron for baking, instead of her old method which was “whatever she happened to be wearing at the time, crossed fingers, and a lot of stain remover.”
“Clarke, whatever it is— you can tell me,” he said, and he turned her to face him.
His eyes were soft and searching, and honestly, it hurt. It hurt to be this close to him and not have him, so Clarke did something insanely reckless. Something that could jeopardize their friendship; something that would change things between them forever.
She kissed him.
She just rolled up on her toes and planted her mouth on his and then stepped back, bracing for the fallout and the inevitable I’m sorry, I just don’t see you that way.
But instead, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her back. Clarke groped out blindly and switched off the mixer, letting him press her into the countertop. She lost track of time, her in her apron and him in his Georgetown hoodie, kissing in her kitchen that smelled like vanilla.
Bellamy’s lips were swollen when they finally came up for air. “Why haven’t you kissed me before?” he asked with wonder in his voice.
Clarke ran her fingers through his now-rumpled hair and smiled. “I honestly have no idea.”
I spend more time than I probably should thinking about what things were like for Bellamy after Clarke left him at the gates to Arkadia
How he had to tell Abby that she had left—"Where to?“ "I don’t know"—and watch as she broke down into tears, every bit as broken on the outside as he was on the inside
How everyone kept asking him where Clarke was (everyone but Monty, who only looked at him in a sad, sympathetic way) and he had to tell them over and over again that she left, and the words never grew duller with use; they still dug into his lungs every time he uttered them, hurting with every breath
How he took to going to the bar in the evening (until he saw what the alcohol was doing to Jasper, and resolved to stop), and met Gina there, a soft sweet girl who coaxed the story out of him in between shots
(The first time she kisses him she tastes like moonshine and honey and it takes him a moment before he thinks to kiss her back; but Gina is a balm to the sharp edges inside of him and so he allows her in, allows her to comfort him)
How he insists on being part of the crew that goes back to Mount Weather to clean it up, and how the bodies there are still slumped over their dinners, buzzing with flies that had entered through the door they had left open, and the air tastes like rotten meat on his tongue
(He had objected when they had wanted to loot the mountain for supplies, but had been overridden; and after that first visit where he spent hours burying bodies in the meadow outside he never went back)
How he patrols the fence and looks into the woods, hoping for a glimpse of blonde hair returning home, hating her for leaving him, hating himself for not being able to let her go
How tales of the great Wanheda, Mountain Slayer, begin trickling in, tales of how killing her would gift her killer with her power; his heart clenches inside his chest but he can’t go after her, he can’t save her when he doesn’t know where she is (and she had left, anyway; she had chosen to leave him, to leave all of them, so maybe he should leave her to take care of herself)
How every day he pretends to be okay, for the sake of the delinquents (his delinquents), for the sake of his people, his friends (his family), and eventually it feels less like an act and more like a truth; eventually whole days go by where he doesn’t think of her, where that nauseating mixture of anger and grief and loss and worry doesn’t curdle in his stomach
How there are days when the weight of the mountain bears down so heavy upon him that he can hardly breathe, can hardly get up from bed in the morning, but then there are other days when that weight is lifted by his friends, and he thinks that maybe they can start healing together
He thinks that maybe the hole inside of him has started to close up, that he can and will move on without her, that life goes on even if she never comes back—
Then he catches a glimpse of her blonde hair through the sights on his rifle and all of those thoughts reveal themselves to be lies; because there is Clarke in front of him and suddenly it’s like she never left, and nothing in the world matters more than bringing her home