academicpunk replied to your post “maybe scott always wears a cowl even if it doesn’t look as good bc...”
oh i love this...
i have lots of thoughts about Cyclops Mode vs Scott Mode and now i’m wondering if another facet to that is that the costume has pressure stimming and noise reduction built in...i wonder how his visor compares to his glasses in terms of sensory stuff...
The 100: Clarke is a street medic, Bellamy punches a Nazi and some good ol' fashion anti-fascist romance ensues. (Bonus points if Clarke also punches a Nazi?) ❤️
It’s always nice, in a kind of weird way, when Clarke sees someone she knows, but doesn’t know very well, at a protest.
She likes to assume that most of the people in her life, even the passing acquaintances, are at least against the Trump administration, and that many of them are opposed enough to be taking direct action, but it’s always nice to have those feelings confirmed.
And it is, admittedly, especially nice to have those feelings confirmed with someone she is lowkey crushing on.
Not that it’s surprising, really, that Bellamy Blake is a revolutionary. He’s not white and not straight, both of which are good indicators on their own, let alone together, and he’s always struck her as the kind of person who stands up for what he believes in.
He’s also a trainer at her gym and stupidly ripped, which is probably why she becomes aware of him in the middle of a fight, punching some guy who’s trying to hassle a couple kids who don’t even seem to be involved in the whole thing, just passing through.
She doesn’t see him, specifically, right away; she’s making her way over to the altercation, trying to figure out what’s going on and if she can break it up, when she sees one guy throw a punch, and another guy punching back, and by the time she realizes that one of the guys on her side is Bellamy, it’s too late for her to do much except help get the girls out of danger.
“Hey, Blake, I’ve got the kids!” she says, sees his eyes flick over to her for just a second, just long enough to see who she is and what she’s doing before he turns his attention back to the fight.
“Thanks, doc,” he says, moving to shield them, still ready to keep fighting. The girls are probably high-school aged, wearing Hillary Clinton shirts but not, apparently, actually involved in the rally, and Clarke checks them both over while listening to the fight with one ear. It’s growing, of course; these things always do.
“What were you guys doing down here?” she asks one of the girls.
“Just walking,” she says. “We heard there was stuff happening, so we wore the shirts, but we’re just going to the movies.”
“Bullies always pick on people they think won’t fight back. They wanted to hassle someone and you guys were there. I’m sorry,” she adds.
The girl shrugs, pragmatic. “We knew it might happen. And it’s not like they did anything to us. They called us names and then your friend showed up to walk with us.”
“Do you think he’s okay?” the other girl adds. “He got hit.”
“Trust me, I’m checking on him after I check on you. But he should be fine. He’s pretty tough.”
“Will you thank him for us?” the first girl adds. “He was really nice.”
“I definitely will. Where are you guys going?”
The movie theater is in sight of where they are, but Clarke walks them anyway, just to be safe. She’s not much of a fighter, but she’s older and knows how to look intimidating enough that no one hassles them again.
Once they’re inside, she head back where she came from, planning to go check on the fight, try to find Bellamy, but he finds her first, falling into step with her.
“Cover for me? Cops broke it up, but I don’t really want to talk to them, so–”
She slides her arm into his, leans her head against his shoulder. “Couple going on a movie date?”
“Perfect. Hi, by the way. Nice to see you.”
“You too. Those girls said to thank you. How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better. Did you seriously come to a rally with a first-aid kit?”
“I worked in an ER every summer during college. I might as well use it. Did you come to punch a Nazi?”
“I’m always hoping, but it’s never actually worked out before.” He puts his face in her hair as a couple cops pass, she assumes to hide the damage she hasn’t gotten a chance on check yet. But it’s also a little bit nice, if she’s honest. She needs more cuddling in her life.
Once they’re in the clear, she holds the door open for him. “Come on, they might have a family bathroom.”
“I think they’ll think we’re trying to hook up.”
“Yeah, I like them bloody and achy.”
“Adrenaline is an aphrodisiac for some people.” He wets his lips, looking around. “There’s a chair, I can sit in a chair, right? They aren’t going to kick me out.”
“We can always buy tickets to something if they make us. Here, sit down.”
She gets him settled, facing away from the windows in case anyone is seriously trying to find him, and gets her first good look at him. His hair is always kind of messy, but it’s obviously not deliberate now, going every which way and like someone was pulling it, and his eye is already starting to blacken. There’s a little blood on his lip, but nothing too bad.
He’s also wearing a tight pansexual pride shirt that makes his arms look even larger than normal, but she probably shouldn’t think about that until she’s got him cleaned up.
“So, this was your first time punching a Nazi, right?”
“Not for lack of trying. Not that I come to these to pick a fight,” he adds. “But I know I actually can win the fight, and not everyone can.”
“Yeah. That’s why I bring the first aid kit and water bottles. I can be a warm body, and if anything bad happens, I can help out. Was anyone else fighting on our side, or just you?”
“A couple others. I think they’re fine. I was in the middle.”
“You got off pretty light.”
“You haven’t looked at my hand yet.”
She winces. “Fuck, I forgot. Split knuckles?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“You want me to do the face first or straight to the hand?”
“I think the hand is bleeding more.”
“Okay.” She unties the flannel from around her waist and puts it on his lap, making him smile.
“I’m not sure my jeans are more worth protecting than your shirt.”
“They’re nice jeans,” she says, absent. “Jesus, Bellamy.”
“That bad?”
Her fingers trace over the jagged cuts. “You really got him in the teeth.”
“He was harassing a couple of high-school kids,” he says, gruff. “Just because they were away from the pack. He deserved to get his teeth knocked in.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. Just–sucks for your hand.”
“Worth it.”
She gets antiseptic out of her first-aid kit, starts to clean out the cuts. He winces, but doesn’t say anything. “Have you noticed how punching Nazis was completely socially acceptable right up until it started being something we thought we needed to do again?” she asks, to distract him. “They were the safest fictional targets in the world, and now that we have assholes in swastikas demonstrating in the street, suddenly everyone wants to remind us that violence isn’t the answer.”
“Depends on the question,” says Bellamy. “It’s not like I really wanted to spend 2017 worried about losing basic rights and fighting fascists, but here we are.”
“Here we are.”
He clears his throat, watching her work on his hand. “Have you had to do this a lot? Treat people?”
“It’s mostly giving them water and stuff. A lot of kids are really upset and want to do something, so they just come out here pissed and don’t bring supplies.”
His laugh is soft. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
“If I was as ripped as you, I’d be thinking more about punching people too. A good revolution uses everyone where they’re most effective. We have different skill sets.”
“Well, I appreciate yours right now. I would have just waited until the protest was over and probably gotten an infection.”
She makes a face. “Yeah, whenever you cut yourself on someone else’s body, you should clean it out right away. You don’t know where that guy’s been.”
“Thank goodness. I’ll be sure to bring my own antiseptic next time.”
Her first impulse is to suggest that they just come to the next one together, but it feels like a little much. They still aren’t really friends, just friendly acquaintances, bonding over some old-fashioned Nazi punching. She’d like to leverage the whole thing into seeing him more, but it feels a little–weird. This is more important than her romantic entanglements.
“If you’re planning to punch people you should be prepared, yeah.” She gets her gauze out and starts wrapping his fingers, which is bad only because she’s going to stop having an excuse to touch his hands soon. He has really nice hands. But they’re set now. “Okay,” she says. “You’re good.”
“Thanks. Are you going back out there? The protest isn’t over yet.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“We should probably stick together,” he says. “In case anyone needs medical attention or an ass kicking.”
She bites her lip on her grin. “Yeah, that sounds right.”
It’s fairly uneventful after that, which Clarke can’t really bring herself to mind. They yell a lot and cheer a lot and she identifies some kids who need to sit down and take a break, and Bellamy keeps them near the counter protestors in case anyone tries to start anything else, but the police are out now and no one really wants to get arrested unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“At least you got to punch one Nazi,” she tells him as the crowd starts to disperse, and he smiles.
“Nightmares come true.”
“That’s the 2017 mood, yeah.”
“Where are you heading?”
“Home.”
“I was hoping for a couple more details. On the train?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
As they walk to the station, they establish they live in the same neighborhood, which isn’t really a surprise, given that’s where the gym is, but she wasn’t sure. She doesn’t live that close to work; he might not have either.
They’re two stops away when Bellamy says, “So, uh, I feel like I owe you.”
“For what?”
He holds up his bandaged hand. “Medical attention.”
“I don’t mind. I finally got to put my first-aid skills to the test.”
His mouth twists in a smile. “I can’t tell if you’re shooting me down preemptively or not.”
“Shooting you down?”
“I’m trying to leverage protests and Nazi fighting into a dinner date. If that’s something you’d be interested in.”
“Oh, wow. Yeah I didn’t get that. You should keep going, I wasn’t trying to shoot you down. Just be nice.”
He laughs. “Awesome. Do you want to get dinner with me?”
“That would be great, yeah.”
*
The next protest that rolls around, they go together, with a backpack full of supplies, and Clarke’s the one to punch someone this time.
“Good energy,” Bellamy says, cleaning out her cut. “Not great technique. You’re lucky you didn’t break your thumb. Did no one ever teach you how to throw a punch?”
“I thought it was one of those things you learned by doing.”
He snorts. “Yeah, no. There’s definitely a right way to punch someone. We can work on it.”
“Yeah?”
“If the current administration is going to keep on making us fight Nazis, we might as well be good at it, right?”
She has to smile. “That’s the goal, yeah. You’re not great at the medical side either.”
“So we should probably stick together. We make a pretty good team.”
She leans in for a quick kiss. “Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.”
