Us (Bellarke Fanfic)

[chapter twenty eight - bellamy]

For some reason, I feel like being nice to Clarke. 

I guess seeing her so upset on Saturday... made me feel bad, or something. But then I saw her with Abby and Marcus, how happy she was... and I feel like I owe her something. 

It's a complicated feeling. 

So I'm making her salad. 

I remember her telling me the story about making Caesar salad with her dad, and I decided to make some. I don't have a recipe for the dressing, so I'm just using the stuff we have in the fridge, but I don't think it'll matter. 

I pick up the last lemon slice I cut earlier and squeeze it over the bowl, humming. Octavia is at Lincoln's, and Clarke is in her room, probably drawing something. We got home about two hours ago, and Clarke slipped away sometime when I was bringing in the bags. 

I grab the tongs from the drawer and gently toss the salad, picking out a crouton and popping it into my mouth. "Clarke!" I call. "Come eat!"

I don't get a response. 

Sighing, I scoop the salad into two bowls and pick them up, walking over to Clarke's room. "Clarke?"

She still doesn't answer, so I balance one of the bowls on top of the other and open her door with my free hand. "You alive in here?"

"Hang on, I'm finishing this drawing."

"Does drawing prohibit you from speaking?" I ask. 

"Just come in, close the door," Clarke chirps, not looking up from her sketchbook. 

"Who are you drawing?" I ask. 

"My mom," Clarke says. "Sort of. I'm sketching a photo she sent me, the one we all took together before we left."

"Can I see?"

"When I'm done."

"Want to eat first?" I ask. Clarke shrugs. "I made... salad." Now that I'm saying it out loud, it sounds kind of stupid. 

But Clarke looks up at me. "You did?"

"I, uh, kind of figured, you know, after spending the weekend with your mom, I don't know, it might be... nice or something?" I set down one of the bowls on her dresser. Shoot, I forgot forks. Now I feel even more stupid. 

Clarke smiles slightly. "Thank you, Bell."

She sets down her drawing and climbs off her bed, taking the bowl from her dresser. "Um, there isn't a fork."

"I forgot," I say, frowning. "Um, let's just go to the table, then."

"Right," she says, looking down at her bowl. 

I leave her room, staring at my salad. Why did I do this again? 

"Have you finished your homework yet?" she asks, grabbing two forks from the kitchen. 

"Of course not," I reply, shaking my head. Clarke sighs, handing me a fork and sitting down at the table. I sit across from her, pushing my hair out of my face. 

"So, um, this was nice," she says, holding up her bowl. "And very out of the blue. You're not dying or something, right?"

"Why would I be dying?" I ask, resting my fork on the table.

"You made salad. You don't even really like salad."

"I don't have anything against salad," I argue. Except that it's so boring. And healthy. And lettuce kind of freaks me out.