Chapter Text
Bellamy almost didn’t go running that day.
It was hot–-hotter than hell, and only 7am in early May—and sticky, the sort of day that made him grateful that the dorm had window air conditioners, the sort of day that made him want to draw the shades and read in the dark, cool solitude. But after a moment of dithering he forced himself out the door and into his usual four mile run down the river path, around the strip mall, and back up the other side of the river. He usually stopped a quarter mile from the dorms to stretch on a shady patch of pavement at a nearby park, and that was when he saw her.
She was sweaty and flushed, her face the color of a tomato. Her teal sports bra was stained darker in spots and wisps of her blonde hair stuck in limp streaks to her cheek. She smiled politely and scooted over so he would have space to stretch, surreptitiously checking him out. Before, Bellamy would have smirked and let his eyes drag over her. Five years ago he would have done just that and probably more, but that was back then. Before. Not now. Now, he returned her polite smile and stretched his hamstrings, his eyes trained on the pavement.
That was the whole point, after all. He wasn’t going to be that guy anymore.
He saw her more often from then on—not every day, but most days she was out running at the same time. Sometimes she would be done by the time he started stretching, giving him a jerk of her chin in acknowledgment as she headed toward the parking lot. Other days he would see her in front of him, her long pony tail swaying with her gait as she kept up a rather punishing pace. (Not for nothing, but Bellamy was in pretty good shape and several inches taller than her, but she was consistently just too far ahead for him to catch. Not that he tried, or anything). He started noticing things about her too—no wedding ring, for one thing, and no tan line or divet that would indicate a ring she just didn’t feel like wearing it when she ran. She had a nasty looking scar down the inside of her forearm, long healed but still there, shiny and pink. She wore earbuds most of the time and sometimes when she stretched her eyes would take on a far away look and she would hastily skip the song, like it caused her physical pain. Bellamy didn’t mean to notice these things, of course. He wasn’t studying her, or anything, they were just simply things that somehow wormed their way into his brain and stayed.
She was the one that spoke first, after a few weeks of friendly nods and waves. Bellamy was stretching out his hamstrings and grimacing when she furrowed her brow and tipped her chin toward him. “It shouldn’t hurt that much,” she said bluntly. “If it does, either you’re doing something wrong or you pulled something and you should ease up.”
Bellamy straightened as she pulled her earbuds out. “And what do you suggest I do differently, princess?” The words were out of his mouth before he had a second to check his tone—it was too teasing, too flirty. Too much five-years-ago. He would have to do better.
“For one thing, ease into the stretch and stop when it starts hurting,” she said, seemingly unaffected by his flirtation. “For another, maybe take a break from running every once and awhile.” Bellamy raised his eyebrows and held her gaze, a little too pleased with himself when her cheeks flushed infinitessimally darker. “What? I see you here all the time. I get the impression you don’t really take a day off.”
“And why should I take your advice?” he asked, and this time he managed to keep Old-Bellamy out of his voice.
“Because I’m a doctor. Clarke, by the way,” she said forthrightly and stuck out her hand for him to shake.
Bellamy reached across the cool concrete and took her hand in his. “Bellamy,” he replied. “And thanks for the tip.” She ducked her chin and smiled, and Old-Bellamy, Before-Bellamy, would have enjoyed that smile and everything it implied, but instead he felt nothing. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
They didn’t have any more conversations until the Thursday morning Bellamy rounded a curve nearly a mile from their stretching point and found Clarke sitting on the side of the trail, glaring at her ankle. He slowed to a stop next to her and panted a little in the thick, humid air. “You okay?” he asked and she nodded, then shook her head.
“I’m fine—it’s my stupid ankle. I rolled it, that’s all.”
Bellamy frowned. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah, I’ll just be slow. I’m fine, really.”
“Here,” he said, and stuck out his hand to help her up. It was dumb—she clearly didn’t want help, but here he was, offering it anyway. She smiled softly and took his outstretched hand, pulling herself up but keeping her left foot from bearing any weight. He walked with her, mostly because she didn’t tell him to leave. It was slow going, however, and eventually she made a frustrated noise and stopped.
“Just go—this is taking forever,” she said angrily.
Bellamy sized her up and made a decision. “How about a piggy back ride?” he offered. After all, that had been his primary form of exercise when Octavia was between the ages of six and twelve. “I know I’m all sweaty, but you’re a doctor—you’ve dealt with grosser things.”
Clarke laughed and nodded. “Fine. But first I need a last name.”
“Blake,” he said with a smile.
“Griffin,” she responded as he crouched down and she hopped up.
It should have been awkward, by any stretch of the imagination. They were hardly more than strangers and she was pressed against his (bare) back in nothing but a sports bra and shorts, but instead it was easy. He asked where she worked (the ER a few miles away) and she asked what he did for a living (grad student he said, not entirely untruthfully) and before he knew it they made it to the parking lot. She directed him to her car with her lips a little too close to his ear and again, five years ago, he would have been asking for her number, but that wasn’t possible anymore. He set her next to her car and straightened, his thighs screaming a little after the unexpected workout. Clarke leaned against the side and smiled. “So, Bellamy Blake—can I buy you a cup of coffee sometime? As a thank you for being my knight in kind of sweaty armor?”
He felt a little flicker of his old self way down deep inside as he looked in her bright blue eyes, but it quickly extinguished. Honesty, Blake, he heard Father Kane’s voice echo in his head. You can’t do this if you aren’t honest with yourself. “Yeah, but—in the interest of full disclosure…there’s something you should know.” He actually saw her walls go up and her eyes shutter so he hastened to explain. “I’m a grad student, but there’s something more. I’m, um, a novitiate.”
“A what?”
“A novitiate. I’m in the seminary—I’m going to be a priest. I’ll be taking my vows in a few months.”
Clarke stared at him for a second and then her expression cleared. “That’s all? Jesus, the way you were acting I thought you were going to admit that you had a secret family or were a convicted murderer or something. Oh, shit, I just took the Lord’s name in vain, didn’t I? Dammit, sorry.” She bit her lip and Bellamy smiled—really smiled, for the first time in a long time.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Clarke smiled broadly. “Do I have to call you “Father” now?”
“Not yet, princess,” he said, bordering dangerously close to flirting.
“Still, coffee?”
Against his better judgment, Bellamy nodded. Priests are allowed to have friends, after all.
She unlocked her car and slid in, still favoring her leg. “There’s a Starbucks on 13th—does Tuesday at two work?”
“Yeah, sounds good,” he said and closed her door for her. She pulled out of the parking lot and he watched her go, wondering if he’d gotten in over his head.
One coffee date became two, which turned into a standing running date and coffee once a week. There was something about Clarke that kept drawing Bellamy in, a kinship he hadn’t felt in years. She understood him and he understood her, although he did wonder what darkness lurked behind her eyes. It was a darkness that haunted him too, but his was more easily explainable—two tours in the Middle East tended to do that to a person. But Clarke wasn’t a soldier, and the pain seemed too deep and too personal to be just a casualty of her work. But he didn’t press her. It wasn’t his place.
Bellamy got so used to running with Clarke that the days he ran without her he felt lopsided, like a part of his body was missing. Even though they kept their music on and rarely talked there was a companionship to running together, jostling elbows and panting for breath whenever Clarke challenged him to race the last hundred yards (he usually won, but just barely).
They exchanged phone numbers, but Bellamy didn’t use hers for much more than confirming coffee until the night it came back.
He was used to the nightmares now. In fact, most of the time he could shrug them off—except this one. It changed shape each time but the fear and guilt remained the same, threatening to suffocate him. The dead were all there—his mother, Connor, Myles, Miller, even little Charlotte. Sometimes they accused him of murdering them, sometimes they simply stood by, silent and watchful but no less accusatory. Bellamy woke up in a cold sweat. His clock blinked at him: 3:17. He sat up and turned on the lights, trying to get himself under control. He tried praying, but the words wouldn’t come. Even just reciting his favorite (Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee) didn’t calm him and the words echoed hollowly in his head.
Bellamy sat on the edge of his bed and contemplated his options. Kane wouldn’t be awake but he would gladly get up if Bellamy knocked—but Bellamy wasn’t sure Kane’s brand of stern almost-compassion would help. He glanced at his phone sitting on his nightstand. Ugh, I’m working nights all week. Which means fighting to stay awake when there’s nothing going on and then battling adrenaline when I get home, Clarke had moaned that day at coffee.
It was a long shot, but what the hell. Clarke picked up on the third ring. “Bellamy? Everything okay?” The concern in her voice made his throat close and for a second he considered hanging up. “Bellamy?”
“Hey,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey.” It was stronger this time, less broken-sounding. “Got a minute?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty dead here—just give me a second, okay?” There was a muffled sound and then he could hear the PA system paging a doctor. “Jackson, I’m gonna take ten,” she called. Everything got much quieter then. “Okay, we’re good. What’s up?” Bellamy didn’t even know where to begin, opening and then closing his mouth wordlessly. Clarke sighed. “Nightmares?”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve seen your tattoos. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out you served.” Clarke left the rest off—that she saw a darkness in him that mirrored her own. He wondered again who she lost.
“Oh.” He didn’t know how to start—didn’t know how to admit he was weak and terrified. He didn’t want to burden her, but she was the one he needed right now.
“Talking won’t help, I’m guessing?” Bellamy grunted, feeling weak. He couldn’t even talk about it. Images flashed in his mind, unbidden. Charlotte, her face black and twisted. Connor, blown to bits. Myles, drowning in a pool of his own blood. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the neverending stream of his failures. Clarke seemed to measure his silence. “Anyway, tonight’s been pretty typical,” she said and launched into a recitation of her evening. It was mundane—mostly drunks needing stitches and a handful of addicts looking for painkillers—but oddly enough, it helped. At some point she must have opened her dinner, because there was a smacking sound between her words. She didn’t seem expect him to respond with anything more than grunts and she kept her tone studiously light. It helped more than he could possibly say.
Clarke broke off mid-story and quickly conferenced with someone in the hospital. “Okay, we’ve got some actual action—you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah. And—thanks, Clarke,” he said.
“Anytime,” she replied and he could hear the smile in her voice. Somehow, she’d given him a measure of peace that he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he slept the rest of the night without interruption.
**
Clarke fought fatigue as she drove home, her eyelids feeling like lead. She’d already told Bellamy at coffee that she wouldn’t make their running date, because her first shift back on nights usually wrecked her and today was no different. Still, she considered stopping by to see him and make sure he was doing okay.
She wasn’t sure how she knew exactly why he was calling last night, but the second her phone lit up with his name she just…knew. They never talked about things like that, but somehow she’d known. Clarke was no stranger to nightmares herself, and the looming terror that pulled her back to waking was so familiar it was almost comforting sometimes. Between her father’s face, wasted from months of desperate cancer treatments, and Finn’s eyes, glassy and scared as his body slowly pumped out his lifesblood against her hands, Clarke rarely went more than a week without one.
She almost turned and pulled into the parking lot near their stretching spot but changed her mind at the last minute. If Bellamy was anything like her–and more than ever, she suspected he was–he wouldn’t want a reminder of his weakness. So she drove home, showered, and collapsed into bed, hoping that today, at least, she would be able to sleep.