Bellarke One Shots Book 1

38)I have wounds only you can mend

Clarke likes to think of herself as neat. Orderly, even. Her desk is the only exception, generally being a confusion of books, but her filing system has been described by Raven as 'obsessively well-sequenced', her wardrobe is better organised than a fashion designer's and every single song on her iPod has all its details filled in, from name to genre.

Today is not a neat day.

She shoves her gear into the bag, not even taking the time to fold it, and plonks her mud-encrusted football boots in on top of her sweat-sodden skins. Her uniform chafes against her sticky skin, and her hair is sliding out of her hair bobble, strand by damp strand. She knows she's being childish, but the coach kept her out in the rain for an extra ten minutes to give out to her for hogging the ball and 'not being a team player' even though that Roma girl is even worse than her, and when she got back into the locker room the rest of the girls were either gone or in the shower. Clarke sat in the corner, fumed, almost yanked poor Mel out of the shower when she finished up and stood under the flow for fifteen minutes, wasting copious amounts of hot water. Whatever. She wouldn't have to use so much hot water if they actually turned on the heating every once in a while.

With everything safely stowed away, Clarke stomps out of the locker room. The rain has lightened to a soft drizzle; the water is soothing on her heated skin, and she feels her temper begin to ebb away until-

"Ow!" Her ankle decides to give way, leaving her kneeling on the cracked concrete path hoping that she hasn't torn her tights. She prods at it, eliciting a hiss of pain when her fingers find the ligament. Mom would be proud, she thinks dully. Seventeen and already diagnosing like a proper doctor.

She wishes, for a sudden moment, that her mother was here; she'd know what to do, can treat a sprained ankle with her eyes closed. But Abby Griffin is in a far away by Jaha's side, and this particular corner of the campus is vacant of anything but scrubby grass, empty bottles of Coke, and crude graffiti.

She knows she oughtn't put pressure on it, but she has no choice. Class has started by now and her friends won't get her call, and even if she texts them the teachers won't let them out of class, not after the pencilcase incident. (Finn's fault - then again, a lot of things are.) Clarke rises with a wince, and starts to take lopsided, mincing steps up the path. The distance widens immeasurably with each limp forward, and Clarke crouches down again, gritting her teeth as the ligament stretches. The grey of the concrete wavers before her, little pebbles digging into her palms.

"Griffin? That you?"

With that, Clarke's day goes from awful to terrible. That stupid drawl belongs to none other than Bellamy Blake, Student Council President; the guy who won an international award for his essay on the role of women in the reign of Emperor Augustus, who beat her out for Student of the Year last year and whose senior debate team just about thrashed her own junior one two weeks ago in the intra-school competition.

"Blake," she replies, refusing to meet his eyes as she gradually straightens up, ankle protesting. "What are you doing out here?" The only building out here is the women's locker room. Last time she checked, Blake was rather definitely male and indicated no preference to be otherwise, so he has absolutely no reason to be here.

"Octavia forgot her gumshield." He stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You okay?"

"Fine," she manages. "Don't let me keep you." She takes a few halting steps, hoping that Blake will be, for once, less than his incredibly perceptive self and won't notice her stilted gait.

"Must be something wrong, Griffin. You're never civil to me unless we're about to start having fundamental differences of opinion." He blocks her path easily.