The 100 fic: Weather the Storm With You
1828 words | [PG]
Bellamy gets more than he bargained for during a hail storm. Like a wet, angry, sobbing Clarke in his tent. Started for Camp NaNo 2017: inside.
The rain came out of nowhere—the kind that drowns out all other sound and pulverizes the ground into a muddy mess in seconds. And to think, Bellamy used to like the rain. Thought it was magical and refreshing that first night on the ground. Now he just feels wet. He throws open the flap to his tent, grumbling about rain and mud and anything else he can think to curse.
They’ve been on the ground less than two weeks and have already endured a hurricane and countless other storms. He’s tired of being cold and wet all of the time. His jacket catches on his arms when he tries to take it off. He slams it onto the ground in frustration when he finally gets unstuck then runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes with a sigh. He really, really hates being wet.
Peeling off his soaked t-shirt, he leaves it in the pile with his jacket. The tent flap suddenly catches in the wind, letting in a blast of freezing rain just as something plinks against the roof. The sound turns harder. Like a thrumming. Hail, he realizes. Terrific. He’s a foot from closing the flap when something slams into him. Something solid, wet, and with golden hair.
Bellamy looks down at Clarke plastered to his front. He’s not quite sure what to do about this. His body has a few ideas that he’s trying to suppress, though. He steps back.
Clarke’s gaze drifts up slowly, taking in his exposed abs and chest. She’s totally checking him out—her expression going from bewilderment to curiosity to mortification. He smirks when her eyes finally meet his. Her cheeks are scarlet. So are the tips of her ears that peek through the stringy wet mess of hair. She opens and closes her mouth like a little fish. It’s adorable.
Adorable? What the hell is he thinking? He places his hands firmly on her shoulders and forces her further away. He needs space between them before the heat scalds them both. Why is there even heat? A second ago he was freezing.
Clarke finally shakes out of it. Her brow knits together, eyes hardening. “Why are you naked?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “This is my tent.”
“Oh.” She glances around, growing even redder. “I, uh- I- I was trying to get out of the rain.”
Bellamy has to bite back a smile or she’ll catch on that he’s loving every moment of this. He waits for her to do or say something else. Girls are notoriously unpredictable, and Clarke is the worst. She’s constantly surprising him—it’s part of the reason he likes her. First adorable and now like? Maybe the rain is getting to him.
Clarke wraps her arms around herself. “Still, aren’t you cold? You could catch pneumonia or something.”
He tries not to laugh. He can’t tell if her concern is genuine or if she’s just trying to save face. And he sure as hell doesn’t want her to know that he’s bouncing between freezing and burning up with her standing so close. Her eyes drift back to his stomach then shoot up to his face.
She coughs. “I’m going now.”
Bellamy’s never seen her so flustered. When she opens the flap, there’s a brilliant flash of light that nearly blinds him followed by a rumble of thunder so loud, he feels it before he hears it. She squares her shoulder, ready to leave anyway.
“Clarke, wait,” he says, grabbing her arm. She swallows hard like she’s having as much difficulty controlling her body as he is. He wonders, as he always does, what she’s thinking.
Her whole body trembles suddenly, and she closes her eyes. He really likes flustered Clarke. It’s kind of comforting to know she doesn’t always have everything under control. “Cold?”
She snorts. “I’m not the one that’s half naked.”
He goes over to a crate in the corner and pulls out a dry shirt. “There. Not naked anymore.”
He thinks she’ll be relieved but her eyes narrow, anger sparking in them. So not the reaction he was expecting. She shoves past him and knocks the lid off of the crate. “What is this?” She lifts a jacket then drops it like it scalded her.
“Clothes. And they’re dry. You want some?”
“Where do you get them?” She spins, hands on her hips, her eyes steely.
He’s pretty sure she knows the answer—she just wants him to say it out loud. He refuses to play her games. “Does it matter? You’re dripping all over them,” he snaps, pushing her aside to close the lid. She’s not expecting the force and nearly topples over but he catches her around the waist.
Her breath hitches. Bellamy’s is just gone. Their faces are inches apart. Less than that because his lips brush along her temple, and damn if she doesn’t shiver. Part of him wants to feel satisfaction that he can have that effect on her. The other part is terrified because she’s having the same effect on him. He sets her on her feet then steps away.
He needs space.
Clarke takes a moment, too. “So, what?” she says with a little less vitriol. “You were just going to hoard all of this stuff? Other people could use these clothes.”
“I’m not hoarding anything.”
She looks around at the stockpile of blankets, food, and random crap he’s collected. His entire face heats up. “Okay, so maybe I was hoarding it a little.” He shoves a hand through his tangled hair. “Look, if anyone wants some of this they can have it. If I left it out there it’d be a free-for-all and you know it.”
She crosses her arms, obviously not convinced.
“Take the clothes if it bothers you that much. Pass them out to your loser friends.”
She huffs. “You sister is one of my loser friends.”
He glares while she digs through his boxes.
She stops suddenly, sucking in a sharp breath. Slowly, she pulls a jacket from the bottom of the crate. “This was Wells’” she whispers.
Bellamy looks anywhere but at Clarke.
She gets up, hugging the jacket to her chest. “How could you? How could you steal from-”
“Clarke-” He rubs the back of his neck with a sigh. “It’s not stealing. It’s redistributing. That’s how we do things.”
“That’s how they did things on the Ark. This isn’t the Ark and this-” She motions to the boxes. “Isn’t being redistributed.” Her shoulders start to heave again, and she buries her face in the jacket as she’s racked with sobs.
She’s crying so hard, he thinks she might fall over. He tugs her over to the bed and helps her sit down. She shoves him away and hugs her legs to her chest. Bellamy sits next to her with a heavy sigh. “It wasn’t stealing. We’re going to need those clothes. Wells knew that.” He adds the last part quietly. “He was the one to bury the first bodies. He was the one to reclaim the clothes.”
“Everyone hated him, and he never did anything to anyone. He was the sweetest guy. No one ever gave him a chance.”
“They hated his father.”
She glares at him over her shoulder. “Like they made a distinction. And I was horrible to him. I spent months hating him. Why didn’t he tell me? Why did he let me think-”
Bellamy’s heart breaks for her. He scoots a little closer and puts his arm around her shoulders. He expects her to pull away or maybe hit him, but instead, she crumbles into his arms, sobbing. He just holds her, resting his chin on the side of her head as her fingers twist into his shirt. She was upset after they found Wells’ body. She cried after they buried him. But nothing like this. She’d kept it all bottled up. And he managed to uncork it all with a freaking jacket.
“I don’t know how he could ever forgive me,” she murmurs.
He rubs circles across her back like he used to do with Octavia. He doesn’t know all the details of what went down between her and Wells, but he does know one thing. “I didn’t know Wells very well, but I know he would have done anything for you. And that includes forgiveness.”
Her eyes finally meet his. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Bellamy licks his lips. “Because I hate seeing pretty girls cry.” He really has no idea why he said that, but it makes her smile so he considers it a win. And when did Clarke smiling constitute a win?
He reaches in the crate for a dry shirt. She takes it with a sniffle and wipes at her eyes. Bellamy picks at a hole in his pants. He can feel Clarke watching him—it makes his skin tingle in a not entirely unpleasant way.
“So, you don’t like seeing pretty girls cry?” she says after a moment.
His face is instantly on fire.
Clarke laughs. “But you have no problem seeing ugly girls cry?”
He bites his lip, trying not to smile. Their foreheads are almost touching, and that heat is building again. He pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He doesn’t know why. Her eyes dart down to his lips, and god, if that doesn’t set fire to every inch of his body. He leans closer. Dammit—what the hell is he doing?
His mind is telling him to abort—move away—this can’t end well. But the rest of his body is ignoring it. Their noses brush, and she sucks in a sharp breath. He doesn’t know how because his lungs have forgotten how to work. His hand slides down her face, fingers trailing along her cheek. She shivers, and it nearly undoes him.
Outside, people start moving around. When did the hail stop? “Octavia, have you seen Clarke?” Finn shouts.
Clarke freezes, eyes wide. Bellamy quickly backs away while she hops to her feet, adjusting her wet clothes. Bellamy stares at his boots, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Octavia barges into the tent without warning.
“Oh,” she says, stopping short. “There you are. Finn’s looking for you.”
Clarke nods. “Yeah, I heard.” She heads for the door but pauses at the flap. She squeezes the jacket she’s holding and glances over her shoulder at him. “Thank you, Bellamy. For… you know.”
He just nods, watching her leave. He suddenly feels ice cold.
Octavia looks from him to the empty flap. “What just happened?”
Bellamy falls back with a groan. If only he knew. He’s confused as hell now, his mind and body and heart in the middle of some kind of tug-of-war over his emotions. All he does know is he wants Clarke to come back and finish what they started. He’s so screwed.