...Even if he probably doesn't deserve it ._.;
Shitfuck... Bellamy grit his teeth as another burst of chill wind iced him down to his bones. He was almost there. Just a few more steps. The wind died down, a sick warmth spreading through his abdomen to ease the chill away. "Fuck," he muttered, tripping up the last step. He knocked on the door.
This was bad.
Clar was fortunate enough to have the evening off, and planned very much to enjoy it. It was when she had just finished applying her facial cream that a knock came on the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she’d learned to grow skeptical of anyone coming over at this hour. If anyone it was likely Bellamy.
She opened the door, half reluctantly, half excited. Once she saw him, however, her heart sank. The part of her that wanted to see him suddenly wished very much that he wasn’t standing-or crouching-in front of her right now, not like this. She should’ve expected something like this at some point, but she never did. Not like this.
She struggled to speak, to act, to do anything but stare in shock. She failed.
Bellamy clutched his torso with one arm, the other bracing his tired body on the door frame. Blood dripped around his forearm and onto the pavement, splattering gently. For a moment--just a moment--he had the decency to look the least bit sheepish. After that moment passed, a painful leer crossed his face. "Can I interest you in purchasing a box of cookies for the Girl Scouts of America?"
Clar almost laughed.
“What the hell happened to you?” she snapped at him, jerking herself back into reality. She shouldn’t be so shocked to see him bloody like this. She knew what he was, what he did. He joked about it all the time. Risk of the business and all of that. She pursed her lips, not waiting for an answer, before she grabbed his hand and dragged him inside. She was never so good at taking care of herself, but maybe she’d be better at taking care of him.
Air hissed through Bellamy's teeth at the sudden motion, but he didn't protest. He staggered through the livingroom and onto the couch, a tiny trail of blood marking his path. Bellamy grunted; "You probably don't even know first aid, do you?"
“Shut the fuck up,” she snorted as she lead him to the bathroom and sat him on the toilet, “I used to be a girl scout.”
This made her uncomfortable, but not just the blood. It sat wrong with her for Bellamy to be so calm, so ambivalent about the whole thing. This was who he was, ambivalent about everything; she should’ve known better than to expect anything else.
She swallowed her discomfort and pulled open Bellamy’s shirt, she needed to treat his wounds. Then she saw it: liquid crimson pouring down his side, bruises littering his body. She was taken aback, her heart jumping up to her throat. Her breaths were short and worried.
“Bellamy… what…. Jesus Christ.”
"Nah, it wasn't him--this time," the blonde muttered, slowly lifting his arms so Clar could remove the ruined shirt. He didn't offer any other explination. The truth was too nerve-wracking and yet at the same time logical, which made it all the more difficult to swallow. Bellamy sat on the toilet, staring hard at the floor while Clar went to work. She knew a decent amount of first aid. She knew how to treat wounds, how to sanitize them, how to dress them. She wasn’t sure if she could handle this. After she pulled the fabric out of the bloody, matted mess, she realized that it was worse than any wound she’d seen. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. She pulled a clean towel out and pressed it against his side, hoping the pressure would help, but red still streaked her hand, stained the blanket through.
“Dammit, Bellamy,” she managed through a hissing breath. She didn’t know what else to say, what else she could say.
Blue eyes flickered away from the tile to the towel; Bellamy watched his life spill out over Clar's manicured hand and to the floor. A hospital. Impossible. Fuck. He sighed. "Well. That sucks." Bellamy gingerly removed her hand, tossing the towel to the floor.
He'd been beaten up before--fuck, thrown off a goddamn building even--but the cuts had never been this deep. He'd taken enough vicodin that he could at least put on a macho front, but there was only so much drugs could do. Bellamy sneered slightly, grabbing a clean towel. Yeah. Only so much.
Clar wanted to cry. Not because he was destroying her towels, not because there was blood all over the place, and not because she wouldn’t have anyone to tease if he died. She wanted to cry because she cared about him, honestly and genuinely cared about him, and here he was, dying on her toilet seat.
She crumpled onto the floor, her dress soaking up the pooling blood. She just stared at it, stared at the gash that wouldn’t stop weeping. Everything she’d cared about for the past six months was dripping out onto the tile floor.
“You’re gonna die?” she asked, not so much as looking up.
"One day, yeah," Bellamy replied without missing a beat. "I'll be going just like Elvis, if this keeps up."
“I’m sorry I couldn’t…”
It was a thought she didn’t finish, but she didn't have to. Bellamy knew--had known before he even came--that she couldn't. There were so many ways she failed him, so many reasons she felt like this was her fault. No matter what she knew, it didn’t change that, and it didn’t change the whole in Bellamy’s chest. She breathed thick air then. There was nothing else for her to do, so she breathed in the heavy air in shuddering gulps.
Bellamy was busy with the new towel when Clar's hiccups reached his ears. He glanced down at the blonde girl covered in his own blood. Blue eyes lingered for a minute through half-lidded eyes before calmly reaching into his jean pockets for a crumbling cigarillo and lighter. With some difficulty, Bellamy lit it, tossing the lighter into the sink. He took a puff, then two, smoke wafting towards the ceiling. "Don't worry," the bleeding man mumbled. "Scrubbing Bubbles'll clean those tiles right up."
Every word he said, no matter how stupid and trite, was like a stab straight into her heart. Her entire face burned until she sobbing. She tried to hold it in, tried to hold it back, but it just kept coming harder and stronger. She couldn’t believe this, couldn’t believe that his life was pouring out of him like this, in front of her, but she couldn’t stop crying. She covered her eyes in blood drenched hands, red smearing over her face.
“What am I gonna do after you’re gone?” she asked, barely distinguishable through her weeping.
Her weeping made it worse. No woman had ever cried for him. Awful. Just awful. It was worse than the betrayal, than the huge knife nearly gutting him and certainly worse than being told he was fired. And for what? Bringing dishonor to the group by having the balls to stand up to the tikifuckers and the mafia aristocracy. Bullshit. Bull. Shit.
"Who said I was going anywhere," Bellamy muttered, staring at the ash on the cigar. He wasn't sure how much stock he put in those words. "I always get the last laugh, babe. Always."
Clar wanted to believe him; she really, really did. She wanted so much for what he said to be true. She wanted to wake up from this and find out that it was all a bad nightmare. She couldn’t stop crying and wiping her eyes, pink smears left behind on her cheeks. She wanted to tell him shed loved him, to tell him he meant the world to her, and she wanted to mean it, too. Would he laugh at her? Would he believe her? Would she believe herself?
"Thaaat's the spirit!" Bellamy tossed the cigar into the sink, suddenly losing his taste for it. He thew the second towel right into the sink along with it, quickly replacing it with another and several washcloths. "Be a dear and get me one Andre's dark shirts, will ya? You know what they say about shirts, shoes and service, wench." Bellamy stood up slowly, reaching for medical tape to begin winding it around his torso and the towels.
Clar dashed to the other room, glad to have a purpose, glad to have something to do. She padded red footprints into the carpet as she went. Once she was in his room, she pulled out the first dark shirt she found, a heavy maroon. When she got back to the bathroom, she handed it to Bellamy, not sure if he was stupid or insane for trying to get up in the condition he was in.
Bellamy looked at the thing distastefully. "Purple? Jeez. Faggotry abound." He took the shirt anyway, slipping it over his injured body.
“Go to a hospital,” she said, entirely unsure if he’d be able to make it to one in time. It didn’t matter, though. She knew he wouldn’t go.
Bellamy shrugged. "Meh." He finished pulling the shirt down, though it didn't conceal the blood stains on his jeans. It hardly mattered though. "I might. In any case, I need to get going," he said with a slight yawn, making his way out of the bathroom towards the front door.
“I don’t want you to die,” Clar said as he left, tears still burning down her cheeks.
Bellamy paused at the door. "...No one said I was..."
He glanced over his shoulder. It was all terribly anti-climactic, in the blonde man's mind at least. No matter what happened, he couldn't come back. There wasn't even time to figure out the right words. But, for once in his life, Bellamy made an attempt to find them anyway.
She had nothing else to say to that, no other words she could offer that wouldn’t sound trite and meaningless in the end. So she stood and stared at him silently as he left her apartment, and presumably her life, maybe even his own. It was the most surreal thing she’d ever experienced, and if it weren’t for the bloodstains in her carpet, she wouldn’t believe it had happened. She kept standing there for a while, a good twenty or thirty minutes before she moved, the metallic scent of blood burned into her head.
He wasn’t coming back, and he probably wasn’t ever going to come back again. All she could think to do was to clean the floor.
And I fold.