Classic bed sharing headcanon in the season 1 canonverse:
It starts when he forces her to come to his tent after finding out that hers had a hole in it and she barely had anything to cover herself with at night.
She was surprised by the vigor with which he had dragged her to his place and practically shoved her in his cot which was covered in soft pelts with a few blankets neatly folded on the bottom.
“Get comfortable, princess” he had barked in his typical up guarded Bellamy fashion but she could see the softness in his eyes.
“Where will you go?” she had seen no point in fighting him now, knowing it won’t end for at least another day but there was also another feeling in her that she tried to ignore as best as she could, and that was the feeling of someone caring for her that way.
“Where do you think? I’m not sleeping on the floor in the middle of the fucking winter.”
“We can’t!” she had stood up abruptly and the fact that she hadn’t eaten or drank anything all day played a part in her swaying so violently he had to steady her.
She slumped in his arms and he pushed her back down again with gentleness she didn’t know he possessed. A few minutes later she felt a metal cup pressed to her lips and his angry voice again “Drink!” so she had.
It was only maybe an hour or two later (she had truly lost track of time being as tired as she was, having not slept properly for days if not weeks) that she felt him sink right next to her.
Her eyes snap open to find nothing but darkness surrounding them. Somehow it doesn’t scare her as much as when she tries to fall in her own tent.
“Tomorrow we’ll get you something to eat.” he huffs and she watches him adjust the blankets over her.
There was only one pillow which made it hard for their heads not to be as close as they were.
She knew she should turn her back to him, couldn’t bear the intense look he was giving her so carefully she rolled over.
Distance. The only way to get through this.
In a few days he’d have all but forgotten about her. She could fix her tent, get a blanket and be off his hair for good.
“Why do you do it, princess?” she would’ve missed it if she wasn’t so intently, stubbornly trying to fall asleep.
His voice was nothing like the rough angry tune he used to bark orders at the kids and her-it was soft, scratchy, peppered with tiredness and soon-to-come sleep.
“Do what?”
“Don’t play fool with me!” she squeezes her eyes shut, hoping he can’t see her wince at the accusation “You barely eat, give all your rations away and never actually rest. On top of that you freeze under a paper thin jacket, your nose is constantly rainy and you sleep in a damn tent with a hole and no blanket!”
“You’re exaggerating!” she tries to brush it off but when she feels him shift next to her and feels his breath fan her ear, she knows she won’t be able to shrug that one off “You know I’m not. But that’s okay, if you can’t take care of yourself, someone else will.”
“And that someone will be you?” she laughs “Please, Bellamy. You don’t give a damn about anyone.” and she knows it’s not true the minute she says it, she regrets it.
She’s seen the way he takes care of the kids. How he relieves the youngest ones off their shifts because he knows they can’t take the cold like he does. Or the way he gives his unfinished plate of meager rations to the weakest, throws blankets over their wanky shoulders, pesters her about checking up on them, brings in sea weed, goes out hunting on his own in the middle of the storm.
He doesn’t say anything and she lets herself get comfortable in the heat of the blankets. He rolls over and her back is to his which is a relief.
It doesn’t happen right away.
It’s an arm thrown over her stomach at first or a loose leg entangled between another two. Then it gets to her head nuzzled in his back or his hand touching hers.
He doesn’t give up, doesn’t forget about it in a few days. Every damn night he waits for her to finish her plate and then practically drags her to his tent. If the kids make subtle comments about it, they don’t pay any attention to them and she thinks he might’ve had a say in it but prefers to ignore it.
It’s warm.
Everything about Bellamy is sunlight on the brightest of spring days.
He smells like wood, gunpowder and fire. His curls are the softest thing her hand has touched, his freckles the most beautiful of night skies.
They don’t talk about it. Ever.
They don’t mention the fact that they wake up with her spooning him, practically sprayed on his back or with him nuzzling his face in the crook of her neck.
They never discuss the nightmares or how they hold each other after each one-how soft their touches are, how needed.
And they never talk about the night they start lying down facing each other instead of their typical back-to-back style they had mastered in the past few months.
No, they do not. There’s time for that.
Clarke has to believe so.
