i feel we're close enough (i wanna lock in your love)
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written by: Emily / @prosciuttoe
prompt: a canonverse fic set in s5: "Bellamy has a weird reaction to Clarke's bob haircut and she doesn't know what the deal with her hair being a few inches shorter is" for anonymous
word count: 3491
But he’s not looking out in the distance, or at the trees. He’s looking at her, his gaze tracking the movement of her fingers through her hair, the heat in it sending a frisson of anticipation surging down her spine.
She could be wrong, but if the way he’s staring is any indication, it’s almost as if he likes it.
Or: three times Clarke catches Bellamy staring at her new hair, and one time she does something about it.
(1)
The next time she sees Bellamy Blake— a whole six years after, without a galaxy between them— he’s bleeding out in a prison cell.
There’s a moment of disorientation, of disbelief and shock and overwhelming, overwhelming relief before Clarke’s moving, fitting her stolen keys into the lock and twisting. He’s on his side, his face half hidden in shadows, but there’s no mistaking the familiar curve of his jaw, the tousled mess of curls.
(It’s the face she’s spent the last six years perfecting in the pages of her sketchbook, the face she’s pieced together carefully for Madi, rebuilding him from stories and memories and everything he’s ever told her. She couldn’t forget it even if she tried.)
He groans when she eases him on his back, and she tries not to wince at the mess of blood by his temple. It’s not deep, but he’ll definitely need stitches, at some point.
“Figures,” she murmurs, her voice hitching on a watery laugh as she rips at the edge of her shirt, wrapping it deftly over the wound. There’s a hysterical edge to it, gleeful, almost, and she has to tamp down on the sudden hope surging in her chest. “Getting into trouble the second you get back down onto the ground. You never make it easy for me, do you?”
The last thing she’s expecting is a response, considering his less than conscious state, so she gives a little jump when his eyelids flutter open a second after, his lips forming her name. “Clarke?”
She stills, one hand on his cheek and the other still knotting at the ends of the bandage. “Bellamy?”
He manages a strangled sound of acknowledgment at that, the rise and fall of his chest evening out to a low, steady beat. “Present,” he murmurs, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. She can feel the heat of his gaze sweeping over her face, the rifle strapped to her chest. The blood coating the edges of her sleeves, her hair hanging loose.
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