A lil 4x03 bellarke speculation fic for your enjoyment
Bellamy can’t stand to watch Clarke cry.
Under other circumstances, he would consider himself strong. He threw away his chance at a normal life the moment he held baby Octavia in his arms, he’s gone to the ends of the Earth and back for her and the other delinquents time and time again. He’s watched loved ones die over and over and still pushed on—
But he can’t stand to watch Clarke cry.
As she sits in front of him, sobbing, he can’t help but to reach out to her, just a hand on her shoulder, a silent comfort, a gesture of solidarity. He lets it rest there for a second, giving her a light squeeze, and he’s about to pull away when she rests her hand over his, anchoring him.
Then she turns her head, resting her cheek over the hand that has a death grip on his. He can feel the wetness of her cheeks, and he is so, so weak.
Bellamy kneels in front of her, sliding the hand on her shoulder up her neck to delicately cup her jaw, his thumb swiping away a stray tear.
“Clarke,” he says, voice low. “We’ll figure this out. We always do.”
Another tear slips down her cheek, and he gently wipes it away. He brings his other hand to rest above her knee, thumb tracing patterns back and forth over the fabric there.
She reaches out and grips his shoulders, still catching her breath from crying, and its natural, the way his hand travels from her knee to rest on her hip, his thumb continuing the comforting circles over her hipbone.
Having her this close—it’s terrifyingly intimate. It’s more intimate than anything they’ve done before, but somehow, it still feels right. His heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest, but he’s breathing easier than he has in months.
He shivers when her hands on his shoulders snake around his neck, fingers curling into the ends of his hair. With a sigh, her head falls forward, forehead resting lightly on his, noses barely brushing.
They stay like that for a moment, just breathing the same air, and he can feel Clarke start to relax before him. It would be so easy, he thinks, to close the gap between them—only a few inches—and just kiss her.
He wants to map her body with his lips. He could make her pain go away, even for just a few minutes—he could make her feel good, if that’s what she wanted.
It startles him, when the thought crosses his mind, that it’s not what he wants.
Of course, he’d do anything he could to take her pain away.
But he wants more than that.
He knows, that as much as he’d like to kiss her at this moment, the timing is wrong. The way things are right now, with both of their still healing hearts, the ticking time bomb that is a nuclear apocalypse hanging over their heads—he could never have more.
It’s why he’s so caught off guard when Clarke closes the distance between them and presses her lips to his.
At first, she’s tentative, her kiss gentle and unsure. She presses another slow kiss to his cheek, his temple, his forehead, and then she seals her lips over his once more.
He’s ready this time, and against his better judgement, he kisses her back.
The second kiss is more demanding. She swipes her tongue across the seam of his lips, demanding entrance, and he gives it to her. She groans into his mouth, and that’s when he knows he’s fucked.
The hand resting on her hip slips under her shirt, smoothing over the soft skin of her stomach and sliding up her spine. His other hand curls around her neck, tangles in her hair, holding her as close as he possibly can.
One of her hands remains anchored in his hair while the other fists into the collar of his t-shirt.
Her mouth moves desperately against his, and she presses against him, silently pleading for more.
He lets his hand roam from her spine back to her stomach, and when he traces his fingers over the skin beneath the underwire of her bra, he feels her whole body shudder.
It takes all his willpower to wrench himself away from her mouth. He tries catch his breath, to get himself under control, to tell her that they can’t, but Clarke takes the opportunity he’s presented her and attaches her lips to his neck, trailing hot, wet kisses across his jaw and collarbone.
“Clarke,” he tries, but it comes out more like a sigh when he feels the light scrape of her teeth against his skin.
She finds his lips again, but he feels wetness on her cheeks. He pulls away.
“Clarke,” he says, more firm this time, and she hastily tries to wipe the tears from her face.
She brings her forehead back to his and grips his biceps. “Bellamy, please.”
He rubs his hands up and down her arms. “We can’t, Clarke. Not like this.” She looks at him then, her bright blue eyes boring into his. “Not when we only have months to live.”
He’s afraid, after he’s said it, that Clarke wouldn’t even want this if they weren’t about to die.
“What if we did?” she asks, and her voice is strong, sure. “What if we did have time?”
He searches her eyes for any evidence of hesitation or uncertainty, but he finds none. Instead, her eyes are clear.
It takes him a long time to find the words. “If you still want this after we both survive the end of the world,” he starts, and even he is surprised at the confidence in his words, “then I’ll be here.”
It feels like a promise, somehow, and she squeezes his arm to tell him that she feels it, too.
She looks at him then, eyes a little watery but otherwise composed. “You still have hope?” she asks.
He almost wants to laugh. The only reason he’s had hope since he landed on this radioactive wasteland of a planet is sitting right in front of him.
“Are we still breathing?”