A series of bellarke oneshots

My love

Not mine

prompt: "Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery, but today you've caught me and have demanded to come with me to make sure the 'girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft' and I'm trying to figure out how to break it to you that we're on our way to a graveyard."

She decides that this is the last straw when she wakes up before the sun to him knocking over one of the terracotta pots in her garden. She hears him swear as she throws on her clothes and rushes downstairs, throwing open the back door and catching him with the a piece of cracked pot in one hand and a bunch of blue hydrangeas in the other.

"Please don't call the cops," is the first thing he says.

She smiles, leaning against the doorframe. "I won't if you take me with you."

His brow furrows. "What?"

"You sneak into my garden at the asscrack of dawn a few times a month and steal my flowers, and now you've broken my favorite pot. If you don't want me to have you arrested, you better let me come with you so I can see if this girl is pretty enough to warrant a good old fashioned B & E."

His shoulders slump. The dim orange glow from the light above the door highlights the freckles that dance over the bridge of his nose. "Just call the cops, then."

She frowns. "Sorry, that was a bit of a gender-normative question. Is it a guy?"

"No, it's not." He puts the remains of the pot down and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Just forget it. Call the cops, I don't care."

"Hey." She steps out of the doorway and touches his arm. "I'm not going to call the cops. Relax. But she obviously means something to you, and I'd like to meet her. If anything, it's just so she'll know where those awesome flowers came from."

He stares at her for a long while. His eyes are so dark she can barely make out his pupils. There's a lot of pain in his gaze, and the longer he stares at her the more she thinks that perhaps this whole thing was a bad idea.

"Fine," he finally says. "But Pudge gets shotgun."

Pudge, as it turns out, is a fat little pug who pants at them from the front seat as they approach his car. She slides into the backseat, pushing a stack of papers out of the way and onto the floor.

"Sorry," she says, catching his eye in the rearview as they pull away from the curb. She tries to restack them but he just shrugs.

"They don't matter anymore, anyway."

Gnawing on her bottom lip, she plows on. "So, I didn't take you for the type of guy to have a pug, let alone to name him Pudge."

"He's not mine," he grunts. Pudge whines, and he takes one hand off the wheel to scratch behind his ears. "Well, I guess he is. But I didn't pick him out, or name him."

"Let me guess. She did?"

He makes a sharp left.  "That she did."

The sun is just starting to rise as they merge onto the highway.

"So, do you live around here or do you trek out this way just to steal my flowers at five in the morning?"

"I live one block behind you. I can see your garden from my back porch." He smirks. "I used to climb the fence, but I got tired of the splinters."

She rolls her eyes, and Pudge- surprisingly agile, despite his figure- hops into the backseat and climbs into her lap.

"So, if you've known about me all this time, why pick today to call me out?" he asks as he flicks on his turn signal and merges off the highway.

She shrugs. "You broke my favorite pot."

They drive around back roads for about ten minutes before he breaks the silence.

"This probably wasn't what you were expecting, was it?" he asks somberly. She looks up from scratching Pudge's belly and gasps when she sees him pull up to a cemetery.

"No," she murmurs, swallowing thickly. "No, it wasn't."

Her stomach flips and flops as they get out of the car and start walking. He's clutching the blue hydrangeas in both hands, and she takes control of Pudge's leash. The dog seems to know where to go, and she doesn't want to think of how many times he's traveled this route before.

"What's your name?" she asks, suddenly realizing that she doesn't know.

"Bellamy," he tells her. "Bellamy Blake. You?"

"Raven Reyes."

Pudge stops in front of a headstone, and Bellamy clears his throat.

"Well, Raven Reyes, meet Clarke Griffin."

Pudge curls up at the base of the stone, and Bellamy kneels down to rest the hydrangeas against it.

"They were her favorite," he explains. "They matched her eyes. She wanted them to be her 'something blue' at our wedding."

Raven sits down beside him. There are a million things she could say, but somehow she knows that Bellamy Blake does not want her condolences. So she asks, "What's your favorite memory of her?"

He looks at her, eyes wide with surprise. After thinking for a moment, he smiles.

"I proposed to her at- don't laugh, okay, she loved them- a Fall Out Boy concert. They were her favorite band and I got her the tickets for her birthday. I was down on my knee during her favorite song, and just as I was about to ask her, some drunk idiot stumbled into us and threw up all over my shoes. Before I could even do anything, she turned around and punched him across the face and was like, 'Hey asshole, you just ruined his proposal!'"

Bellamy chuckles, plucking at the grass below him. "I was just kneeling there, partially grossed out because he barfed on me and partially freaking out because now what was I going to do and then Clarke just knelt down in front of me, vomit and all, said yes without ever hearing my question, and slipped the ring onto her finger."

Raven scoots closer and nudges him. "She sounds like a badass."

"She would have liked you," Bellamy murmurs, resting his head on her shoulder. "She would have liked you a whole lot."

Despite the tears pricking at her eyes, Raven finds it in her to smile. "I think I would have liked her, too."

Clarke E. Griffin

1992-2013

May We Meet Again