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It all started with six dots. She’d put those dots in the same formation on some scrap of paper and then she’d connect them, same way, every time. It didn’t make a picture, like those sheets when he was a kid that the teachers would give out. It was more like a doodle of lines and points that made a series of triangles. Always in the same manner, she’d place the dots out, then stroke up, then back down, then across, then up, down again, across, up, down, repeating until her pyramids had been made. She’d then go over the lines again, darker or she’d start anew.
Bellamy noticed since she’d gotten back that it seemed like a coping mechanism, drawing these little shapes over and over. Not that he’d ever tell her he noticed. He looked away quickly whenever she caught him watching her hand sketch the doodle. But she did it often when she was stressed, or irritated, once when they were stuck waiting for Lincoln outside his old cave she used a stick and drew it in the dirt. Clarke made the design eight times before Lincoln came out. Up down, across, up down, across, up down, across, shade over again before starting a new set.
Sometimes he’d see the pattern of dots and lines when he lay down at night. He tried drawing it once or twice like she did, wondering if it might give him some sort of peace or well, really he just hoped to feel something. She seemed so caught up in it. He thought maybe it was like a prayer, an act to calm the soul. But his fingers were clumsy and despite knowing exactly the way she did it, he couldn’t recreate anything close to the look. Instead, he settled for watching her discreetly, or seeing the figure as he dropped off to sleep.
He wasn’t exactly sure how they ended up in this position. One minute they’d been discussing new maps and areas that might yield more game, she’d been lazily drawing, she could do it without even looking, she’d been looking at him, talking, and he’d gotten distracted watching her hand float across the corner of the map.
“Bellamy,” she said irritated. He’d been caught not listening. He looked up at her innocently but she just tilted her head, studying his face for something, he just wasn’t sure what.
Then she was kissing him. Bellamy stood still for a moment, sure that she’d stop, but when her tongue met his he groaned.
“This isn’t something I’m just forgetting,” he said as he managed to pull away from her.
“Good, but I’d hate for you to be too busy memorizing the moment or some sappy shit like that instead of making sure this is fun.” Clarke smiled her playful smile, the one that he’d seen only a few times, the one where her tongue came up against the back of her teeth, like she was trying to stop herself from sticking it out to tease. Bellamy wanted to return the smile, but he wasn’t sure if he was understanding her.
“I’m not fucking around,” he said cautiously, his face serious. Clarke kept smiling, unfazed by his demeanor.
Standing on her tiptoes she whispered into his ear, “I know that, idiot, and neither am I, this is going to happen again so drop the puppy eyes and take off your pants.” He shuddered as her mouth traveled down his jaw.
So now he was on his back, on his bed, as Clarke moved above him, rolling her hips. He was desperately trying to be quiet, aware that his tent was 25 feet from the medical bay, but Clarke didn’t seem to be in the mood for discreet.
“Shit, can you…can you just,” she stopped mid request and cried out when he lifted himself onto his elbow and thrust up, giving her the friction she’d been asking for. It was sloppy and fast, his hand holding her hip and her hand pushed against a spot between his clavicles, her fingertips moving swiftly in strokes he didn’t really understand but he was too busy concentrating on pushing up into her again and again before they unraveled together.
But then she was throwing on her shirt and Bellamy’s blood started to boil. “Where the hell are you going? You said-”
“Hey,” Clarke interjected gently, her eyes bright, “I gotta pee, I’m not fucking around with you.” Bellamy closed his eyes embarrassed. “I’m not leaving you again,” she added softly before heading out of the tent.
She didn’t actually come right back, but it was excusable. A returning group of scouts had survived a rockslide, there were five people needing serious medical attention so Clarke spent the rest of the night in helping. Bellamy milled around trying to keep himself occupied but around midnight too many of the kids were bothering him for shit he didn’t want to deal with, so he escaped to his tent and went to sleep.
He woke to Clarke’s light steps, but he didn’t wake fully, choosing instead to stay in that hazy in between. He listened to her take of her boots, he heard the zipper of her pants, and the soft sound of her coat and shirt hitting the chair. She crawled up the bed and fit herself next to him, head against his bare chest, and her hand rested in the spot in between his collarbones, fingers working in strokes.
“Sorry, I got busy,” she whispered and Bellamy sighed, pulling her closer to him, his arm resting on her hip. “I’m not just fucking with you,” she said even quieter.
“Is that going to be like a thing now, a declaration of some kind?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
“Sure,” Clarke answered. Her fingers continuing to float over his skin, up, back down, across, up, down, and then Bellamy realized. He snapped out of the fog of dozing, lifting his head off the pillow and watching her fingers.
“It’s the pyramids!” he exclaimed startling Clarke from her almost sleeping state.
“What?” she asked, her hand still now but Bellamy covered her fingers and moved them away from the spot. He was looking down at the area, chin pressed against himself to see better, and there he saw six freckles. Six dots like the ones Clarke plotted before starting her ritual doodle.
“You’ve been drawing shapes with my freckles,” he said, “for three months!”
“No, I haven’t,” Clarke shot back quickly. But she wasn’t looking at him and her whole body was stiff.
“You have! I’ve seen you make the dots and the lines over and over,” Bellamy argued.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clarke tried but Bellamy knew he was right. He brought her fingers up to the first freckle and let go. She narrowed her eyes at him but it just made him smile. She glared another moment before he felt her pointer finger twitch, he tried not to look away from her, but then she seemed to give in. Her finger started to trace down across his skin and her face broke, she buried her face in his side but her fingers still moved.
“Three months I’ve been trying to solve that little mystery,” he teased as his hands stroked her hair, she finally looked up at him now, cheeks pink from embarrassment.
“Shut up, asshole,” she muttered. Bellamy’s face turned soft and he took a moment to run his own fingers along her jaw. She swallowed. “Not just three months,” she confessed and he raised his brows in question. “It was a method, a soothing tick if anything,” Clarke explained. “I closed my eyes and I saw the horrible things I’d done. I tried to push them out but every time, every time I’d see the bodies of the Mountain or the fires of Tondc or the blood on my hands.”
Bellamy tightened his arm around her and nodded, encouraging her silently to go on. They’d never spoken about her time away, she never volunteered and he knew he was the only one who hadn’t asked.
“So I replaced, I worked to think of something that could push those awful pictures out. It became the freckles and the lines and then the shapes. It was,” she paused to look away from him a moment, like whatever she might say next would be a weight lifted or a weight made heavier. He wasn’t sure. “Therapeutic, it was soothing.”
“The dots and the lines and-“ he started but Clarke cut him off.
“You, it was you. But I didn’t think I deserved the whole picture of you, so it was just that little bit. And I had to change it and make it different.”
“Me?” Bellamy asked confused.
“You let me go, you knew I needed to do it on my own, but even then, I couldn’t do it on my own, I needed you. So when I could replace everything with the freckles and the lines I figured I could come home, come back to you. And you’d help with the rest.” Clarke looked at him expectantly, her fingers had stopped moving now and Bellamy took them in his hand.
“When you left, I was so desperate to help you,” he said. “I feel better knowing even without being with you, I helped.” Clarke pressed a kiss to his lips.
“You did,” she said before resting her head against his chest again. He moved her hand to the spot and let up and sure enough her fingers started to trace the pattern. Bellamy rested his fingers so gently above hers so he could finally make the shapes, too, with her hand underneath guiding.
Almost asleep, something niggled at his mind. “Wait,” he mumbled. “When we were having sex, you did it,” he moved to kiss the top of her head and felt her nod.
“First time I’ve ever had a chance to do it, I just went for it,” Clarke answered before yawning. Bellamy smiled, reveling in the contentment he felt.
After that night, Bellamy would notice her sketching the shapes and would hastily end any conversation. He’d whisper about having her fingers on his skin and she’d smile wickedly and they’d hide away so they could move fingers and hands all over each other’s skin.
True to her word, she didn’t leave again and he never worried she would.