#for a moment there I thought of adding physical touch as Clark's love language

[blackbatofel]

What are Clark & Bruce's love languages for each other?

I think Bruce's would be acts of service and gifts. He's a fixer, and he'll jump at any opportunity to help others, specially those he loves. Thing is, he's also a bit controlling (understatement of the century), so he'll most likely do these acts of service without asking first (same with the gifts), and I can imagine that, at least in the beginning, it'll bother Clark. But he'll eventually get that that's how Bruce shows he loves him, and he'll make a point to ask him to not intervene whenever he deems necessary.

I can also imagine a situation where Clark tells him he doesn't like expensive gifts, so Bruce's solution is to make his gifts more personalized and meaningful. Bruce would give Clark the most earth-shattering sweet gift, like something he made with his own hands and worked on for months, and he would just shrug and say "it's nothing, I just thought you would like it" while Clark is on the verge of tears.

Clark's love languages would be words of affirmation and quality time. It's canon that he doesn't shy away from telling it to Bruce how it is (more often than not, that means calling him on his bullshit), and I don't think it would be any different when it comes to telling him directly how much he cares for him and showing his affection with words. Of course, Bruce would short-circuit for a second, but he'll get used to it. I also like to think that Clark would try to make time to be with Bruce as often as he could. He would visit him at the cave and accompany him while he works, or drop by during patrol just to say hi.

[choiceslife]

When Worlds Collide: Part Two (Limited Series)

Disclaimer: Based upon characters in Choices - Endless Summer, It Lives in the Woods, The Royal Romance, #LoveHacks, Home for the Holidays, and The Elementalists series. All characters presented are the property of Pixelberry Studios. I claim no ownership. This story is purely the work of the poster as fanfiction.

Overall Series Rating: 18+

Warnings: Adult Language, Adult Content, Sexual Discussions. Future chapters may contain SMUT and Gratuitous Sexual Descriptions

Overall Series Summary: The sisters are together again and Ava Cunningham believes only they can help her.

Author’s Note: This Limited Series is a companion/sequel to Divided By Circumstance. I suggest you at least read that series in order to understand this one. As with most of my stories, this is a crossover and is part of my interconnected Chromatic AU. My MC’s are as follows: Carrissa Monroe (TRR), Abby Bennett (#LH), Scarlett Joy (HFTH), Taylor Reed (ES), and Donovan Bailey (TE). There will be an End Note following this chapter. Previous Chapters can be found in my Master List located in my header.

Tag List: @cinnamonroll-duffy @darley1101 @debramcg1106 @brightpinkpeppercorn @regrettingnathan @katurrade @teamtomsato @luxurylives @akrenich @ladynonsense @riseandshinelittleblossom @kinkykingliam @jlouise88 @kenjikatsoros @eileendannie @marshmallow-ortega @littlecrookedheart @i-choose-liam @bobasheebaby @boneandfur @tmarie82 @europeanguy @walkerismychoice @pixieferry @sstee1 @3pawandme @endlessly-searching-for-you

***

Somewhere Over the United States

The jostling of Jake’s private plane jolted Dan out of his uncomfortable sleep. He and Ava had expected to fly commercial from Louisiana to New York, but when Jake said he owned a plane, they thought it would be an awesome experience. It had been nothing of the sort.

The first leg of the trip, Dan had gripped the arm rest so hard, he thought he would leave finger impressions in the aluminum. For the second and final flight, Dan tried to sleep away his worry, but every slight movement the plane made stirred him out of his slumber. “I thought you said he was a pilot?” Dan asked turning to Ava who was seated across the aisle from him. Ava chuckled with a smirk before sliding a sleep mask back over her eyes. “Guess I’ll check on him myself.”

___

“Take a seat and strap in Mop Top,�� Jake remarked after glancing behind him at the sound of the cockpit divider being opened. “There’s a lot of turbulence to deal with right now.”

Dan did as he was told, quickly sitting in the co-pilot chair and buckling up. He looked over at Jake wearing a vintage green bomber jacket over his snug black t-shirt. Even clothed, Dan couldn’t deny Jake’s natural sex appeal. “Only Mop Top this time? No Sexy?”

Jake playfully side-eyed his new friend. His heart remained firmly with Taylor, even more so knowing that there was some chance he could be reunited with his lost love. But it was nice to know that others still found him desirable, even though his peak physical condition faded months ago after Taylor vanished from his life. “Your shirt is on,” Jake replied as he flashed his signature underwear dropping lopsided grin.

A tiny laugh mixed with the faintest snort left Dan’s mouth. “I can fix that ya know,” he said with a wink. Dan saw the corners of Jake’s lips curl up slightly before the pilot refocused his attention to the controls. He knew Jake was taken and that he was working with Ava to help them reunite, but damn if something inside him didn’t ignite when he met the pilot. Ava had asked Dan to accompany her in this quest in case things didn’t work as she hoped and Jake needed someone to help him cope with the trauma. Dan was more than willing to help in that capacity, but he hadn’t expected to crush hard on Jake. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be flirting. Taylor is a lucky guy and I hope we can help bring him back.”

“No apology necessary Dan. My Bayou charm is impossible to resist.” A brief moment of silenced passed before the two men burst into a riotous laughter. “But I appreciate it and the help you and Ava are giving me. Come what may, you’ve given me hope again and I realized, I need to live for Taylor whether we are successful or not. He wouldn’t want me to be acting all sad and lonely.”

Dan fist bumped Jake to acknowledge their mutual respect. He sat quietly for a moment as Jake adjusted several control settings and verified their flight position. “So I gotta ask, how the heck did you afford a plane?” Dan finally inquired after Jake had gotten everything situated with the controls.

“Oh Delilah here?” Jake affectionally patted the control as he looked over towards Dan. “Long story, but let’s just say I won her.”

“Someone gambled a plane? Jeez! What did you wager?”

“My clothes.” Jake saw the absolute shock on Dan’s face at the revelation. Sure, Jake had omitted some key facts to the story, but Dan didn’t need to know that information. “I told you Mop Top...Bayou charm.”

Another fit of laughter and soon Jake and Dan were engaged in more friendly discussions and jokes. Dan learned about everything that happened on La Huerta, while Jake learned all of the strange happenings in Westchester. Before they knew it, the plane was descending towards their destination at a small airport outside of New York City.

___

Teterboro, New Jersey

The plane door lowered inside a private hangar allowing the three occupants to finally feel land again after hours in the sky. As Ava descended the stairs, her girlfriend Stacy bolted across the hanger as fast as her legs could carry her. The two wrapped each other in a tight embrace as they pecked tiny kisses all over one another’s faces.

From the top of the stairs, Jake observed Ava’s reunion with her girlfriend, as well as two gentlemen standing off in the distance. “I gotta admit, I’m pretty surprised that Hermione would date someone so peppy,” Jake remarked as Dan stepped beside him. “I figured Clark Kent or Pretty Boy was dating Cheer Squad.”

“You have an amazing knack for nicknames,” Dan laughed. “Cheer Squad would be Stacy Green. She and Ava started dating shortly after our near-death experience. Pretty Boy is Cade Phillips and he’s actually dating Stacy’s brother, Connor. And Clark Kent is Lucas Thomas. He’s one of the smartest guys I know and as far as I know he’s currently single.”

“That’s a good thing for you, Mop Top, because his eyes haven’t left you since we stepped off the plane.” Jake winked at his new friend before making his way down the stairs for the official introductions.

Dan stared at Jake in confusion before looking towards where Lucas and Cade were standing. He locked eyes with his smart friend and was sure he noticed his smile widen and cheeks blush. Lucas gave a little wave and in that moment Dan began to wonder if Jake was right. Hmm. Lucas Thomas huh? All this time we’ve known each other and I never noticed it. Dan waved back and made his way over to greet his friends.

___

New York City, New York - Manhattan

“So we’ve been following the sisters for a couple of days,” Cade said as he steered the large passenger van through the streets of New York. “It’s been tough to get anywhere near them. What with one being a Queen and all.”

Jake sat beside him in the passenger seat, holding on for dear life. He wasn’t a religious man, but Jake lost count of how many prayers he made since getting in the van with Cade. And people give me shit for my flying?

“Needless to say, but security is always around,” Lucas chimed in from the back of the van, momentarily distracting Jake from wondering when the inevitable side swipe of one of the many yellow cabs would occur. “But I read this morning that King Liam and most of his entourage are returning to Cordonia on business. The Queen is staying behind to get to know her sisters better.”

“And through some casual eavesdropping, we were able to find out which club they’re going to this evening,” Stacy added. “So we’ve gotta quickly get back to the hotel, devise a game plan, and change in order to not stand out like we don’t belong. And don’t worry gents, I had some clothes sent up to the rooms for you.”

“We might not make it there. Pretty Boy might kill us with his driving first,” Jake quipped. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, letting out a puff of air in the process. “Can’t believe I flew up to New York to go to a friggin night club.”

Cade glanced into the rear view, making eye contact with Dan, after hearing Jake’s grumbling. A mischievous smile appeared on both their faces before Cade spoke. “Jake, ohmygawd, if you’re a tourist and looking for a good time, New York’s hottest club is Rumper Thumper.”

“Rumper Thumper?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes. Situated in an old processing plant in the meat packing district where Thomas Hunt once posed for shirtless photos during his underwear modeling days; this club has everything. Techno. Bubble baths. Stock broker’s on mobile phones from the 80’s. ‘Bare Mables.’

“Bare Mables?” Jake questioned as he looked at Cade in total confusion.

From the back of the van, Dan smiled before he spoke. “Yeah, it’s that thing where a shirtless muscle guy planks and you use him as a table.”

Everyone broke out in laughter. Everyone except Jake. He simply cocked an eyebrow at Cade until the noise subsided. “I’d much rather use a muscle guy for something much more fun than pretending to be a table. I’m sure I’m not the only one in here that feels that way.”

The others looked perplexed, but Dan knew what Jake was hinting at. He looked up towards the front of the van to see The Pilot smirking in his direction, before he noticed Lucas’ ears blushing from the seat beside him. Dan patted his friend on the knee. “This Jake guy, he needs to stick to flying instead of comedy eh?”

“Yeah.” Lucas shuffled his shaking hands into his lap, strategically covering his swelling length. He couldn’t have Dan notice that one simple touch caused him excitement.

___

Everything in the hotel hallway looked swanky. The art hanging on the walls, the design motif on the plush carpet, and the upscale decor contained in the nooks peppered periodically along the corridor - all of it looked fancy and more expensive than anything Jake owned. Not including Delilah. “Hey Clark Kent. How are we affording three rooms in this place?” Jake and Lucas were at the tail end of the group. Hermione and Cheer Squad led the way, with Mop Top and Pretty Boy close on their heels.

“My name is Lucas, not...never mind. Anyway, Stacy’s dad is loaded. When her parents split, he moved to New York and made a fortune on Wall Street. All she had to do was call and say she wanted to bring some friends to the city to shop and he got these rooms.” Lucas halted his conversation and walking when he noticed Stacy stop.

“Ava and I are in here,” Stacy said as she swiped her key card to unlock Room 309. “Cade and Lucas are next door in 311 and Jake and Dan are across from them in 310,” she said as she handed the other room keys to Cade and Dan. “Everyone be dressed and meet downstairs in two hours to go over the plan.” And like that, Stacy and Ava disappeared into their room. Jake swore he heard some giggling between the girlfriends as he passed making his way towards his room.

“Swap rooms with me,” Jake said placing a arm across Lucas’ chest to impede him from following Cade. “I need a south facing room or I won’t be able to sleep at all.”

“This room faces north.”

“That’s what I meant. Just switch rooms Clark Kent.”

“It’s Lucas.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. Please Lucas?” Jake playfully pleaded with the agitated young man.

“Ugh. Fine.” Lucas huffed and made his way into Room 310. Jake grinned as he entered 311 across the hall.

___

Lucas barely made it three steps into his new hotel room before stopping dead in his tracks. His mouth agape as his eyes blinked several times, trying to determine if what he was seeing was really happening. He always knew Dan was muscular - had to be in order to play football. Lucas just wasn’t expecting Dan to be that muscular. After a few moments of taking in his friend’s sinewy, shirtless beauty, Lucas cleared his throat. “Sorry. Looks like...” his mind ceased functioning mid-sentence when Dan turned to face him and Lucas saw his long time friend’s chiseled abs and defined pecs. “Jake needed to switch rooms. I’m gonna grab a shower,” Lucas blurted out rather succinctly, averting his gaze. He bolted into the nearby bathroom before Dan had a chance to realize what happened.

The shower clicked on moments later and immediately Dan chuckled. He knew exactly what Jake was doing. Dan grabbed the garment bag that had been laid out on the bed by the hotel concierge; the bag meant for one Jacob McKenzie. He threw open his hotel room door and was instantly met by the pilot, leaning against his own door jamb with an arm bent back over his shoulder holding the clothing bag meant for Lucas. “You’re a funny guy Jake. Poor Lucas damn near had a coronary when he walked in and saw me.”

“Told you he liked you Mop Top.” Jake extended his arm holding out Lucas’ garment bag.

Dan quickly exchanged the one he was holding with Jake. “You forgot Sexy, Jake.” The pilot looked at him curiously for a moment, clearly not recalling his earlier commentary. “I’m not wearing a shirt,” Dan reminded him before retreating back into his room and closing the door.

How could I forget? Sexy Mop Top. Jake chuckled before heading into his own room to get ready.

___

Hours of thumping bass music and drunk patrons were taking its toll on Mara. She knew the Queen wanted a fun night out to bond with her new sisters; she just wished it would have been anywhere other than a packed nightclub. Only two other member’s of the King’s Guard stayed back in New York with her. One served as a look-out up on the club’s balcony, while the other remained with their black SUV out front. Mara had the honor of standing guard near the Queen’s table; never more than a few steps away.

All through the night, Mara kept a keen eye out for any patrons that may wish to do harm to the Queen. Thankfully, most Americans had no idea they were in the presence of royalty. This made Mara’s night go by relatively uneventfully. There was one gentlemen that caught Mara’s attention. He was a heavyset man in a grey pinstripe suit. His being in the nightclub caused Mara’s hairs to stand on end. Something seemed odd about him and she swore when he smiled that he had what could only be described as fangs. He ended up leaving in a huff when an attractive business woman approached him and exchanged some words. Mara breathed a sigh of relief when the man left and shook the image of him from her brain. Fangs? Ha. Get it together, Mara.

“Ohmygawd! Is that, like, the Queen of Cordoba?” Stacy pretended to be drunk, peppy, and apparently from the San Fernando Valley as she approached the female body guard protecting the Queen. “I, like, totally need to get a selfie for my Pictagram.” Stacy turned her back towards the Queen and her sisters, aiming her phone up high, parsing her face to make duck lips, and pretended to take a picture.

“Miss, I’m gonna have to ask you...” Mara began before being bumped into by a tall, attractive woman with beautiful streaks of pink in her flawless hair.

“I’m so sorry. Is my girlfriend bothering you? Come on Stacy. Let’s leave these nice people alone.” Ava placed her hands on Stacy’s hips, pretending to try to escort her away. On cue, Stacy challenged Ava, knocking the two of them backwards into Mara and onto the ground.

Carissa, Scarlett, and Abby jumped from their booth as Mara and the two strangers fell. Cade and Lucas made their way over, pretending to be two concerned patrons just trying to help. As Cade reached down to assist the fallen trio, Lucas slipped a note into Abby’s palm.

“Please,” Lucas begged. “We need your help. This was the only way we could figure out how to talk to you.”

High above the commotion, one of Mara’s fellow guards saw what happened and tried to make his way down, but he got tripped up over the foot of Jake McKenzie. “Careful there bud,” Jake snickered as the Guard fell into Dan’s arms. Dan snatched the radio from the Guard’s hand and quickly shoved him into a nearby utility closet. He slammed the door shut and pressed his body against it until Jake pushed a couch over to block the Guard’s escape.

Mara bolted up from the floor, swatting hands away from her in the process. “Speed Racer get the car ready. Eagle Eye get down here. We need to extract Glitter Eagle and The Doves.” She received an affirmative response from Speed Racer in her ear piece, but silence from the other guard. “Eagle Eye? Report.”

“We have code names? So cool.” Scarlett giggled. She sipped her drink clearly reveling in the sudden action.

“Calm down Mara,” Carissa finally said. She had the note in her hand that Lucas had given to Abby. “I would like to chat with these...eager patrons.”

“Your majesty?”

Carissa handed the note over for Mara to read. Mara’s jaw went slack for a moment before returning the note to the Queen and resuming her professional demeanor. She stood attentively as Carissa motioned for the others to join her and her sisters. “So you need our help, but first...” Carissa placed the note down onto the table. We have information about your mother. “How do you know about the three of us and our situation? And why shouldn’t I perceive this as a threat?”

___

“The Learned One and her friends have made contact with The Sisters.” Zeph alerted the others that had been trying to observe the siblings via one of the many mirrors that lined the walls near the club’s seating area.

“We need to decide soon if we are going to do something,” Beckett remarked. “If The Learned One convinces The Sisters who they truly are, they’ll be in grave danger.”

“Beckett’s right. Everyone in the magick world felt something when they came together and the binding spell broke.” Griffin pinched the bridge of his nose before exhaling deeply. “But if they do a spell and there is no precaution in place, then those forces that wish to do them harm will be on them instantly. We gotta do something Donovan.”

***

End Note: Cade Phillips is the name of my MC from It Lives in the Woods. Also, special thanks to @endlessly-searching-for-you for letting me reference her fic, Plane Luck. The events of that story have a similar, corresponding event in my AU. If you haven’t read it, you should check it out.

[storywool]

Stay with Me

Request:  "Promise me you'll stay" for Bellamy, preferably after he and his S/O make love. 

Word Count: 1,205 

She looked over at the sleeping man next to her, and smiled. She blushed at the intimate moment she was having with her sleeping lover. She traced a finger over the scar on his lip, counted the freckles on his face, and memorized the way his face looked so calm when asleep. All of his defenses were down, and not a single thing bothered him in that moment.

She pulled the covers over her toothy grin and squealed slightly. As a criminal with no parents, minimal skills, and a chance of dying every waking moment, she couldn’t understand how she ended up with such a great guy. She remembered him from the Ark: he was a guard and she was an engineer. They never talked, but always traded bashful glances. Then she was thrown into the Sky Box for attempting to tell the public about the oxygen supply depletion, much like Clarke Griffin’s father. She never thought she’d see him again until they ended up on the ground together. They became best friends after that, and then lovers.

Y/n was never one of those girls to get super giddy about boys, but no one was around to see her gush over Bellamy Blake. She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He stirred under her touch. She retracted her hand and froze.

He didn’t move again. She sucked in a calming breath and rolled onto her back. She glanced at her watch. It read 3:00 AM. Bellamy’s shift on guard started in five hours.

She grabbed the sheets and wrapped them around her naked body. She sat up to find her clothes and take a midnight stroll, when Bellamy’s hand reached out and brushed her bare back. She glanced over her shoulder. Bellamy groggily rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What’s wrong?” He asked.

Y/n smiled sheepishly. He always expected the worse of every situation. She hated that he was always so worried, but that was Bellamy for you. “Nothing. Just can’t sleep.” She replied. She climbed back into bed. She laid her head back on the pillow and stared into Bellamy’s sleepy eyes.

“Wanna go for round two?” He laughed, and then added, “I guess like… round five would be more accurate.” Their tired laughter filled the quiet night air. The past five hours were spent in bed, worshipping each other’s bodies in the most primal of ways. It was fun, but Y/n would be lying if she didn’t admit how much her body ached and how tired she was physically. She just couldn’t seem to get her mind to quiet down.

“Tempting, but I’ll have to pass, and you need to sleep.” She cupped his cheek gently, but lightly smacked it before turning onto her back.

“I agree.” He rolled over and his breathing slowed quickly. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she felt herself start drifting to sleep, but heard Bellamy mutter something in his sleep. Her eyes fluttered open and he spoke again, “Promise me you’ll stay.”

She woke up more. His words, while she knew they were sleep talk words and did not necessarily hold merit, surprised her. Bellamy had issues with abandonment, and while she couldn’t know if he was talking to a dream Y/n, she still felt saddened by his words. She shook her head and decided she’d talk to him in the morning.

She drifted into a dreamless sleep. She awoke the next morning to the sound of Bellamy dressing for his guard shift. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and rolled over. “Morning already?” She asked, still very sleepy.

“Unfortunately.” He replied. He sat back down on the bed, and leaned down to kiss Y/n’s forehead. “How’d you sleep?”

“I didn’t.” She yawned.

“Aw, why?”

She stretched and pushed herself up, leaning her back against the head board. “I dunno, just couldn’t sleep.”

Bellamy leaned back and propped himself up on his elbow, so he was still facing Y/n. “Couldn’t take your eyes off of me, huh?”

She laughed. She reached down to the ground and grabbed her discarded shirt. She murmured a ‘yep, you got me’ as she pulled it over her head. Bellamy kissed her on the cheek before standing and fixing his shirt. “Hey, I actually wanted to ask you about something.” She piped up.

“Yeah?” He turned around to face her and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Do y’know you talk in your sleep?”

He hid his face in his hands and sighed, “Oh God, what did I say this time?”

She chuckled at his blushing cheeks. “Something like ‘promise me you’ll stay’.” She whispered and paused, searching his face for some sign of anything. His face dropped slightly.

“Oh-”

“I-I just wanted to know what you were dreaming about. Usually sleep talk is just babble, but I don’t know…something about those words stood out to me.” Y/n stammered. She didn’t mean to make the atmosphere awkward, but she was curious.

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Y/n could tell by his body language that the dream was something embarrassing.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. It was stupid, never mind.” Y/n tucked stray hairs behind her ears. She watched her boyfriend walk over to the dresser and put on his watch that he forgot. She felt her heart swell as she watched him. She loved watching him go about his everyday business; washing clothes, dressing, cleaning, etc. She just loved him when he thought no one was watching.

“It was dumb, honestly. I had a dream that after we got to the ground, you left like Octavia did and yada yada…” His cheeks continued blushing. He fidgeted with his watch some more. “Needless to say I didn’t like the dream very much.”

Y/n got up from the bed and took Bellamy’s hands in hers. He looked up at her and feigned a smile. “Thankfully it was just a dream. I’m not going anywhere.” She brought his hands up to her lips and placed a light kiss.

“I know.” He cast his eyes back to the ground. Y/n placed two fingers under his chin and lifted his chin up slightly so he’d look at her.

“I’m serious, Bell. You dreamed it because that’s a real fear of yours, and I want you to know that I’m staying right here. Plus, it’s kind of hard to leave when you know nothing about the ground.” She chuckled. Bellamy cupped her cheek and pulled her into an intimate kiss.

He pulled away for air and eyed his girlfriend up and down. He stopped at her neck and reached out to poke it. “Nice hickey.”

“Thanks, my boyfriend gave it to me.” They laughed, and the awkward air disappeared. Bellamy gave Y/n another quick kiss before the alarm on his watch went off.

“Shit, gotta go. I love you.” He kissed her cheek and grabbed his jacket.

“Love you too.”

“See you when I get back.”

“I’ll be here!” She smiled, and hoped Bellamy didn’t miss her joke. He didn’t. He smiled too, and waved goodbye. Once gone, Y/n returned to the bed and slept, happy to know everything was okay.

[williammarshal-blog]

Reshop

Post 3x07. Clarke & co are determined Lexa doesn't pull any of her stitches out. They figure out a compromise.

"...Shot...it's not fatal..."

"...Where did he even get that gun?"

"...Is the Commander okay, Wanheda...?"

Lexa's eyes flickered as she dozed in and out of sleep. The only thing keeping her awake was the sharp jabbing pain in her abdomen. Over the next few days it had dulled until it was nothing more than an irritating ache. It also meant that Nyko's milky potion of pain relief knocked her out within minutes, which wasn't ideal when she wanted to signal for more water for her parched mouth. It wasn't ideal when it was just her and Clarke in the room, and Clarke was hovering over her, and all Lexa wanted to do was will her arm up to yank her down by the neck and kiss her.

She'd survived. Somehow, somehow the gods, the spirits of the Commanders—by some magic or Skaikru technology—she'd survived.

She saw flashes of a terrified Clarke, her hands covered in black blood. She could see Aden barging into the room with supplies day in and day out, his hair growing far too long. She didn't have the energy to tell the boy to cut his damn hair.

The pain potion was too much. It dulled her senses to a point where she could barely count to ten. And it was on a warm day where the sun streamed through the windows, and Clarke took a particularly long time to fetch the potion by the windowsill, that Lexa grabbed her chance.

"Wait," she croaked out, her eyes squinting at the sunlight. Clarke stilled. "Wait."

"Lexa?" She spoke her name as if she would never say it again, and swivelled slowly, as if to make sure it really was Lexa speaking. Even if there was nobody else in the room. "Shit. Are you okay? Do you want more of—"

"Not the pain potion," she forced out, wincing as her stomach pierced in response. "I can't think, Clarke. I can't do anything. If you'll let me live, don't immobilise me."

"I'm doing the best I can. We're doing the best we can," Clarke said adamantly. "This'll help."

"Compromise," Lexa said simply. "I would rather suffer a bit of pain and get to look at you than sleep all the time, painless."

"That's ridiculous—"

"Yes? I think my tolerance is quite high, considering I got shot by a Skaikru weapon by my own mentor."

Silence fell between them, and with a heavy sigh, Clarke set the potion aside. It took a lot of coercing and a bit of charm—a lot of it—for Clarke to relent and hide the potion in one of the drawers. She supposed Lexa had a point. There was not much good in having a vegetable of a Commander when she was going to recover anyway. So long as she didn't strain herself too much and throw herself into physicality straight away, there was no reason to keep her mollified for so long.

"Aden's been worried about you," Clarke said quietly as she dabbed at Lexa's sweating forehead with a cold, wet cloth. She leant over, setting the cloth aside and cupping Lexa's face. "We all have."

"How is he?" Lexa asked for him as if he were her own child. Considering the nature of his parenthood, and how they had only recently been killed in an Ice Nation raid—he was of the Water clan—she supposed she had earned that title. Or maybe she just wanted it. "Is he under Titus' tutelage?"

"Somewhat. He confided in me."

"Oh?"

"He told me that someone—" Clarke shot her a meaningful stare, "Advised him to take Indra's counsel."

"Don't look at me like that," Lexa teased, a little weakly, because if she laughed, it did hurt like a bitch. "Did you expect me to tell him to go seek tutelage from the person who shot me? Aden would've tried to kill him, the reckless juvenile he can be sometimes."

"He almost did," Clarke admitted, and Lexa startled, only for Clarke to wave it away. "A story for later."

"Okay. Trade me that story for your body against mine?"

It came out a lot smoother than intended, judging by Clarke's eye-roll. Still, she relented—she did a lot for Lexa these days—and Lexa scooted over carefully, ignoring Clarke's insistence on not to rip out the stitches. Eventually, after a lot of sweat, shouting and cursing, the pair managed to fit onto the double sized bed. And then it just came naturally. They had always been two missing pieces of a jigsaw, and they slotted together smoothly.

It struck Lexa then, that they hadn't really spoken for what felt like weeks. She didn't want to ask how long she'd been out for—she didn't want to steer the conversation towards that direction today. Not while she could function and speak like a normal person, for the time being.

Lexa took the opportunity to rest her head against Clarke's chest. Usually, she was the bigger spoon. The reliant one. And she never got to revel in how good it felt to just be embraced; to let that responsibility sit on someone else. To let everything in her head, in her heart, just rest on Clarke—just in that moment.

"There's a lot I didn't tell you," Lexa mused, pressing a soft kiss to Clarke's collarbone. Clarke hummed in response, quietly content in just holding Lexa. "When we kissed...when we were about to say goodbye..."

Clarke dipped her head to look at her, her lips quirked in a smile. "Three words?"

Lexa felt her words get stuck in her throat. "Hm?"

"I was about to tell you the same thing."

"You know, in Trigedasleng, it's four."

"Ai hod yu in," Clarke told her, and Lexa grinned at her clunky use of the language, pleased nonetheless. Clarke could feel the amusement resonating from her, and held her carefully as she laughed, by the stomach, so she couldn't rip any of her stitches out. Lexa had long been healing, but she was still tender to touch, and winced when Clarke let go. "You're made of words, Lexa. But sometimes you can just look at me and I'll know. Aden says your eyes are green like the forest because that's what made you. I think your eyes are just..." Clarke fiddled around for a word. "You."

"Then—" Lexa cleared her throat, feeling her eyes droop in contentment. "I—love—you."

Clarke laughed, and dipped her head again, this time, to press a proper kiss against Lexa's lips. Lexa angled her head to deepen it, only to hiss in pain from her stomach wound. It would take a long time to recover, and though Lexa stubbornly ignored it, her hands roaming over Clarke's hips, Clarke stilled her movements. It would be no good kissing Lexa if she'd injure herself in the process. Lexa closed her eyes and allowed it, feeling a familiar ache between her legs. It never seemed to go away whenever she thought of Clarke like that; it was like once she'd bitten the apple, she needed to eat the rest of it. And the way Clarke held her, her hands occasionally stroking up and down the side of Lexa's body, Lexa knew she felt the same.

Aden visited on the third day without Nyko's potion, his hair neatly combed to one side. In one hand he held the Commander's red sash, and in the other, he—rather awkwardly—presented a bouquet of flowers. Lexa could've laughed at the sight of him, if she had the energy, but she smiled warmly instead and he strode in, bowing deeply before the foot of the bed.

"Heda," he said, almost breathlessly. His cheeks were pink, as if he'd sprinted up the staircase. "I, uh, cut my hair. Clarke kom Skaikru told me my hair looked messy, and I wanted to be presentable. This—" He carried the bouquet in his hand, looking for some excuse to babble, "Is—well—one of the kitchen girls, her friend, well, she's a florist, or something, and she said these flowers—I can't remember the name—they're for good health, and good lock, and—"

"They're lovely, Aden," Lexa settled him, and his shoulders deflated, the tension instantly gone. "How have you been?"

"Sleepless," he rambled, setting the flowers to one side. He self-consciously patted his hair down. There was one particular strand that just wouldn't sit down properly. "There is a lot of paperwork in being a Commander."

"A lot of honeyed wine, too," Lexa added, and Aden grinned a little guiltily. Already she could feel herself easing back into the regularity of life. They didn't talk of the elephant in the room: Titus. Lexa decided she'd deal with him later—and personally. Aden didn't need to get involved in this. "So. Tell me about your glorious tenure as Commander. Clarke tells me you've been doing exceptionally well."

"For a replacement," Aden added, cocking his head to the side as if to be sure. Lexa nodded at him to go on, and he pulled up a chair by her bedside, wringing his hands together. "It's difficult, Heda. The clan leaders want this, and another clan leader wants that, and meanwhile, there's a dispute in a village over some bread and meat, and..." He trailed off, contemplative. "It's stressful, Heda. I barely get time to spar in the pits anymore, and I fear I am incompetent as a fighter, too. It feels like everything is taking a part of me, and I do not have the time to regain—anything."

"You're overwhelmed," Lexa assessed him, briefly.

"Yes. And—and please tell me if I should stop talking," Aden said. "It's just—there are so many things I wish to say to you, Heda, and—"

"Don't stop," Lexa told him. "I find you soothing, Aden. Your mind has always been one I've been fond of. Say whatever you want to. I..." She shook her head. "Sometimes I speak too much and it is too much exertion. So tell me stories, Aden. And look at you," she added, somewhat proudly. "Look at how you've grown."

"I have?"

"You won't notice. But your shoulders are broader; you sit tighter; you are more confident, not in me but in yourself. And that's important."

"I remember. You told me once." Aden smiled brightly at her, pleased with her assessment. He was never one to be cocky; he was a good egg. There had never been anything too much with him. He was not the most well-read of the class, nor was he the best fighter, the speediest, or the most agile. He was average—but Lexa found he had the biggest heart of them all. And perhaps that was why he'd won her over so quickly. He was not naturally intelligent, but he was eager to learn. He was not an excellent fighter, but he would spar in the pits whether it was raining, or too hot, or too cold. He was the first there and the last there. The tenacity of his spirit would be rewarded—Lexa was sure she'd see to it.

"Go on then," Lexa teased him. "Who cut your hair? It looks good."

"Bessie," he said, and the tips of his ears burned. "She said I looked handsome with a neater, shorter cut."

"She's right. So...Bessie?"

"She's two years older than me, Heda," Aden said quickly. "And Madden said that she had kissed him twice behind the art-house. He teased me about it, actually," he added, a little crestfallen. "He's three years older than me. So I think she must prefer older men."

"Madden is not a man. He's a boy."

"So am I!"

"There you go."

They spoke idly of crushes and food and haircuts and fights—there was one story Aden was so reluctant to tell that Lexa practically had to pull it out of him—and it made her near-cackle at the childishness of it. But it made her grateful too. Aden still had the glimmer of youth and optimism in his bright eyes; he was mature and he'd have made decisions in her wake that she wouldn't dream of putting on his shoulders. Yet despite all of that, he'd decided to pick a fight with Indra in the sparring pits just to impress pretty Bessie. He'd been beaten roughly ten to twelve times before Indra had muttered into the ear she hadn't bashed that maybe it was enough. But he'd kept going for more, and by the time Indra was finished with him, he was bleeding from nearly every orifice.

Sadly, it hadn't worked.

By the time Aden left, with an ample basket of cheeses, bread, fruit and some of the best snacks from the Polisian stalls in the Square, Lexa found herself grinning.

Boys.

"You," Clarke was disgruntled, and Lexa tried to placate her by rubbing her arm. Clarke shrugged her off. "You are one piece of work. I told you: gentle exercise! That does not mean sparring with Indra!"

"It was gentle sparring," Lexa defended herself meekly, as Clarke redid her stitches. It hadn't been a big thing, and not all of the stitches had been ripped open. They'd mostly healed, to be honest—and it wasn't only until Indra had noticed speckles of blood on her tunic that they'd stopped the session. They'd only been lightly sparring, finding Lexa's feet on the ground again.

It had felt good, to breathe fresh air, to see Indra's face light up in relief, to feel the mud squelch beneath her boots. It felt good to just be doing something.

Clarke's fingers traced over the stitches, and covered it with a bandage and surgical tape she'd attained from her medical bag of wonders. "Doctor's orders," she reprimanded, mock-seriously. "You're not allowed to spar with Indra for a week."

"A week?!"

"Five days," Clarke bargained, knowing she'd won when she pressed a lingering kiss to Lexa's lips. Lexa closed her eyes, relishing the way she tasted. She tasted of earth, and laughter, and life.

"I thought you said a week," Lexa murmured against her lips, kissing her again, briefly.

"Two days for bedrest," Clarke said. She pampered Lexa's pillows, and gently pushed her down. Lexa was ready for the milky potion until Clarke clambered on top, both legs straddling her sides, and her eyes widened. "With me."

"Are you sure?" Lexa asked, for once, thinking about the stitches.

"Are you?"

Lexa didn't need telling twice. With one arm supporting herself as she leant up, she kissed Clarke fully on the mouth, cherishing how she tasted. Every fibre of her body told her to slow down, but she hadn't kissed Clarke in so long. Hungrily, she deepened the kiss, coaxing Clarke's mouth open with a low moan as her tongue delved inside. Clarke's hands fisted into her hair as Lexa's teeth nipped on her bottom lip, drawing out another moan from Clarke as she supported herself up with her arm.

"Lie down," Clarke whispered.

"Clarke..."

"Lie. Down."

Lexa sank against her pillows, her eyes blown wide open by Clarke sitting on her. She could see where Clarke's line of vision drew to—the red sash Aden had returned earlier. With a cheeky grin, she took it from the headboard and played around with it, raising her eyebrow at Lexa. "Do you trust me?"

"I've missed you," Lexa pled, her hand reaching out to palm Clarke's breast. Clarke closed her eyes. Lexa was a heady, intoxicating mixture of pleasure and irresistibility. "I've missed..."

"I know what you've missed," Clarke said lowly. "You haven't given me a chance to tell you what I've missed."

"Okay." Lexa eyed the sash. "What have you missed?"

"This."

Clarke made quick work of tying Lexa's hands against the rails of the headboard, smirking at her half-hearted struggles. A ping in her heart told her she was doing it just so Lexa didn't exert herself too much. The overpowering part of her heart told her she just wanted to capture every essence of Lexa's body, every curve, every crook, with her lips. Just like Lexa had. Lexa had worshipped her like a Goddess, her lips kissing and sucking of reverence. And tonight, Clarke would do the same.

She bent down to kiss her again, hard. Their teeth clashed as Lexa startled, quickly settling into the rhythm of the kiss. It was desperate, almost brutal as Clarke bit down hard on Lexa's lip, feeling Lexa's groan all the way down to the ache between her legs.

"You," Clarke panted against Lexa's lips, "are a piece of work."

"You are a piece of art," Lexa whispered back.

Clarke smothered her smile with another kiss, rapidly moving down the side of her neck, biting and sucking her way down to her collarbones. With a pair of medical scissors on the desk, she cut apart Lexa's tunic despite her protests and tossed it to one side, taking a moment to stare at her. She was scarred and bruised—but she was so, so beautiful. She was, from Clarke's point of view, flawless. Every scar was a raised mark of beauty, and just as Lexa loved to relish Clarke's breasts, Clarke did the same, her lips enclosing around a nipple as her fingernails raked up the sides of Lexa's body.

Lexa arched up from the bed, craving more contact as Clarke sucked on her nipple, and licking in a swirling circle as her eyes danced back up to meet Lexa's. It was almost ravenous, the way Lexa looked at her, her eyes hooded and dark in desire. She imagined it was somewhat of a mirror. Clarke grinned rakishly at her as she nibbled, eliciting another one of those moans she'd longed to hear. One of those moans she'd imagined in the back of her mind as she slid a hand under her pants, the nights Lexa were unconscious, and she'd just wanted to—

"Jok..." Lexa was breathless as Clarke licked a trail down her navel, her fingernails digging into skin. Lexa loved it when she did that; she loved the brief burn of pain and the erotic sensation of pleasure afterwards. She loved watching Clarke's messy blonde hair move downwards as she spread Lexa's legs, feeling the sticky wetness, for her, all for her, even as they'd rushed this like two eager bitches in heat.

Lexa rocked against her as Clarke nipped at the inside of her thigh, careful to hold her in position in case she injured herself. Steadying Lexa with both hands, she slowly licked Lexa's clit with the flat of her tongue, enjoying the long and almost torturous moan Lexa let out. It was near torture for Clarke, seeing Lexa wanting to writhe and feeling it in her hands and trying to stop it for fear of ripping her stitches out. But Clarke's desire felt like an unrelenting storm, and she kissed her clit and then sucked hard on it, groaning as Lexa cried out, bucking her hips uncontrollably. Clarke gripped tightly onto Lexa's side as one hand failed to resist and she coaxed a finger inside, feeling Lexa clench for her.

It felt like it had been so long since they'd been rolling around in bed, enjoying each other, feasting on each other without a worry in the world. It felt like forever since Clarke had last traced Lexa's tattoos, and the peaceful kiss they'd shared upon wakening. Everything since had been a horror story, but Clarke was determined to fuck Lexa so hard that she'd forget everything.

She slid another finger in, pumping fast and hard as Lexa bucked into her face, her mouth still in a determined 'O' shape as she sucked on her clit. It was overwhelming for Lexa as she shuddered, feeling every muscle in her body spasm at the mere sight of Clarke staring hungrily up at her as her mouth gorged on her cunt, animalistic and desperate. It was a mix of sharp jabs of pain in her abdomen and an immense tidal wave of pleasure as Clarke curled her fingers inside her. Lexa tossed her head backwards, exposing her neck, and she could feel Clarke clamber up her body again, her fingers still sliding in and out of her.

"Come for me," Clarke whispered in Lexa's ear, her mouth still sticky with Lexa's juices. She kissed a wet trail down the side of her neck and then Lexa yanked her by the head, pulling her up so her mouth was hot and heavy against her ear. Lexa nipped at her earlobe and then she was coming, hard and fast, cursing heavily as she bucked against Clarke's hand. It had been quick and hard and fast—and Clarke could feel the heat pool in the bottom of her belly as Lexa came loudly in her ear, panting and panting and panting—

"Fuck," Clarke groaned, the ache between her legs growing even more as she watched Lexa's head loll back in pleasure. She could already feel Lexa's hand straining down Clarke's body, but she stilled it, near-torturing herself.

"Takes as long as it takes," Clarke told her matter-of-factly, knowing that an orgasm wasn't (quite) worth Lexa pulling out her stitches again. Breathlessly, Lexa laughed at the reference and sank back against the pillows, making room for Clarke's naked, sweaty body pressed against hers.

"Will you replace my tunic?" Lexa murmured, pulling up the covers so they could huddle in each other's warmth.

"Don't see the need," Clarke replied cheekily, snuggling into her. Her hands roamed Lexa's enticing skin, and if she could get drunk off sheer desire, she was far gone. Lexa smiled lazily, pressing a soft kiss to Clarke's lips, then to the tip of her nose, and then to both her eyelids.

"Reshop, Clarke," Lexa murmured dozily, her hand raking through Clarke's hair.

Clarke's eyes fluttered shut at the soothing sensation, nestling her head against the crook below Lexa's chin. "Reshop, Heda."

[gldngrl7]

Karamel Fic: Permission to Flourish (11/11)

Title: Permission to Flourish

Author: gldngrl7

Date Started: February 12, 2017

Rating: T for Teen (I know!  I can’t believe it either!)

  Author’s Notes:  

This story is the sequel to Bulletproof. Please read that one-shot before diving into this one.

FINAL CHAPTER!!!  Looks like we made it.

I’m toying with the idea of writing some one-shot “interludes” of stories that took place during the missing six years. Because I definitely thought there was going to be more Clark in this story.  There just didn’t seem to be much room for him with everything going on. If those plot bunnies are still in my head after I finish the next HOLG story then I might.  On the other hand, it’s highly likely that new show canon could kick off the need to write something else.  I JUST DON’T KNOW!!

Comments are welcomed, flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.

So many, many thanks to my those who’ve taken the time to comment: @lostin-the-desert, @anaveragegirl15, @threesilverthings88, @emarasmoak, @myfangirlinghq, @hermi1907, @wladyb91, @from-love-to-infinity-and-beyond, @fangirlintheforest

         I'm so in love with you

          And I hope you know

               Darling your love is more than worth its weight in gold

     We've come so far my dear

          Look how we've grown

               And I wanna stay with you until we're grey and old

     Just say you won't let go

              --James Arthur – “Say You Won’t Let Go”

 Chapter 11/11

 Messages from Belinda informed him that Amelia was improving by the hour and had even been moved to a private room.  She’d texted ‘PRIVATE ROOM!!!!’ in all caps with what seemed to Mike like a preponderance of exclamation points.

 He’d planned to visit his star student as soon as school let out Monday, so after speed-grading their verb-tense homework, he rushed over there (by car), exchanging yet another light-hearted text with Kara before leaving the school.  They’d been texting like teenagers in love since he’d had to peel himself away from her on Sunday night and fly back to Philadelphia.

 “But this is good,” he said aloud, to the solitude of his Honda Civic.  “We’re getting to know it each other again, without all that pesky physical attraction constantly distracting us.”  Physical attraction which, as it turned out, was not-unexpectedly explosive…and dangerous to furniture.

 Sunday morning had dawned like his entire life had decided to turn over a new leaf.  He’d opened his eyes to find Kara leaning over him, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, as she gazed down at him wistfully.  She hadn’t expected him to wake, and yanked her hand away like a child caught elbow-deep in a cookie jar.  “I’m sorry,” she’d rushed, her blood lighting a fire beneath her cheeks.

 “I’m a much lighter sleeper than you are,” he had yawned.

 “I see that now.”

 Mike had reached for her hand and taken hold of it. “And I thought we said no more apologies.”

 “About old stuff,” she’d nodded, as he tossed off the blanket and stood up.  That close to her, he could smell the minty-fresh flavor of her toothpaste.  He’d salivated at the thought of tasting her.  “Not about new stuff.”

 It had been on the tip of his tongue to compliment her on her apologizing skill, apparently honed to a razor sharp edge in the six years they were parted.  But needling her about her stubborn inability to apologize in their previous acquaintance fell into a grey area of the ‘no reminders’ policy.  “Just out of curiosity,” he’d said instead, “were you sorry about touching me, or sorry about getting caught?  Because those are two very different things.”

 Squinting her eyes Kara had smiled slyly.  “Sorry about waking you up,” she’d said, choosing option ‘C’.

 Mike had laughed at her diplomatic answer.  Diplomacy must have been a recently gained trait as well. The Kara he remembered had barreled through people without bothering to see whose feelings she was stepping on, especially if she thought a cause was just.  “Is your curiosity assuaged?” he asked. “That I’m real, and not some figment conjured by a dream?”

 Her eyes had widened to huge blue pools he could happily swim in, as though he had plucked the thoughts directly from her mind. “How did you know?”

 Mike had smiled in a way he hoped came of as enigmatic. “I believe I promised you breakfast?” he tested.

 “You did?”

 She’d remembered nothing about being put to bed the night before.  “Uh-huh. When I tucked you in and you asked me stay.”

 “I did?”  His words had stoked the fire in her cheeks to a high burn and she’d covered her flaming cheeks with both hands.  He’d been slammed with the need to kiss away the deep crinkle between her eyebrows.  

 “You were afraid you’d wake up to find it had all been a dream.”

 “I said that?”

 “More or less.”  In a moment of courage he can only blame on sleepiness and head full of romantic movies, he had grabbed her hand and placed it on his chest, slightly to the right of center, over his rapidly beating heart.  “So tell me…can you feel this?  Does this feel real to you?”

 She’d gulped visibly and he’d heard her own heart’s rhythm kick into high gear, which in turn had his stomach flip-flopping like an Olympic gymnast on steroids.  “Y-yes,” she’s stuttered, before biting her juicy red lip to stop it from trembling.

 Mike, still holding her hand over his heart, had wrapped his other hand around her waist and tugged her hips flush against his. “And that?” he’d asked.  “Does that feel real to you?”  His body had stirred even before he woke this morning, and her presence above him had served only to enflame him further.

 “Yes,” she’d breathed, nodding vigorously, her pelvis settling deeper into his as though hoping they could merge.  “Mon-El?” she asked, using his true name.  He hadn’t corrected her, but felt a thrill go through him at his name on her lips.  Though he’d been Mike Matthews for a long time now—had finally made his peace with the concept of becoming Mike Matthews—he could be Mon-El for her.  For her and no one else.

 “Yes?” he’d responded, his tongue snaking out to lick his lips.

 “I’m not afraid anymore.”  Her courage had taken over then as she’d seen within her grasp the culmination of six years of agonizing fantasy a heart’s beat from fulfillment.  She had reached up with her free hand and cupped the back of his neck pulling his mouth down to hers, making her declaration on where she’d wanted their actions to lead.

 If he could have taken a breath in that moment, he would have breathed a sigh of relief, because he hadn’t been sure if he was pushing too far, too fast.  If the actions of her tongue had been anything to guess by, he hadn’t been moving fast enough.

 When he’d pulled away, he’d rested his forehead against hers, their heavy breathing mingling together.  “Definitely not a dream,” he’d pronounced.

 “Definitely not,” she’d agreed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, as her arms wrapped securely around his neck.

 What had followed had been a flurry of clothing removal, of heated couplings that splintered furniture, knocked pictures from walls, shattered shower tiles and had more than one neighbor concerned for the safety of sweet, innocent neighborly neighbor, Kara Danvers.  And once started, it was like they couldn’t stop, their bodies drawn together like magnets—magnets all the more heated for having been kept apart for so long.

 But for all of its urgency and passion, it had still been at its heart…lovemaking—soul-binding and heart-affirming lovemaking.  Even though neither had yet to find the courage to actually say the words, it had been clear as the diamonds sparkling in her comet-like eyes.  And he had never in his life worshipped someone with his touch the way he had Kara. It was seared into his brain like a brand to the skin, and he had replayed it all over and over since leaving her naked, on the remains of her mattress, less than twenty-four hours ago.

 As he traversed the hallways of the hospital, he juggled his phone, laptop bag, and the giant get-well soon card made from poster board by the entire second grade roster of classes, until he found the elevator that would take him to the 7th floor, where Amelia was now located. Stepping inside the elevator with a crowd of other people all headed to different floors, Mike shot another text to her.

 “Just leave the mattress on the floor.  Safer maybe?”  He hit send after navigating to and choosing the deep thought emoji.

 “Safer for who?” she shot back.

 “Whom,” he corrected, adding a wink emoji.

 “Grammar Nazi!” she accused, frowny face emoji.

 “Teacher,” he replied, shrug emoji.

 “Safer for WHOM?” she asked again.

 “For the people in the apartment below you. Whatever.  If you do decide to get a new bed, steel reinforced…?"

 “It would have to be custom built…”

 “Get an estimate.  I’ll pay half.”

 “Bet your rock-hard ass you will,” she replied, blush emoji.

 He laughed out loud, happier than he’d been in…ever, well aware that the people getting on the elevator were staring as he exited at the top floor.  Mike checked his direction, looking for the yellow line on the wall that would lead him to “Yellow Station” and to Amelia’s room.    He wondered if there would be a wizard at the end of this yellow brick road.  He wondered if Frank Baum was appropriate reading material at story time for second graders.

 Tucking his phone into the back pocket of his slacks as he neared Amelia’s room, he came perilously close to running into a man in a dark suit exiting the door.  The man held up a brown leather briefcase to ward off Mike’s near collision.

 “Excuse me,” they said in unison.  The man in the suit nodded courteously before walking away.

 “Knock, knock,” Mike announced as he entered the room.

 Pink roses.

 They were everywhere.  On every flat surface, in every type of arrangement, in every shape of vase imaginable, pink roses had taken over the room.  The smell, though pleasant, was unmistakable.

 “Mr. Matthews!” he heard a recognizable shout. It was music to his ears, but still he held his finger up to his lips in their customary sign language for her to lower her voice.  Obeying his command, she lowered her volume to library voice.  “Mr. Matthews!”  Yet, she still managed to imbue his name with the exact amount of enthusiasm, despite the lowered volume.

 “I thought you were supposed to be trying to be quiet, per the doctor’s orders.”  Mike took note of Belinda in corner, reading something, her eyes widening, a freshly torn open envelope in her other hand.  He thought now might be the time for him to distract Amelia while Belinda finished doing whatever it was she was doing.

 “It’s so hard,” she whined.

 “I know,” he chuckled.

 “Aren’t they pretty, Mr. Matthews?” she asked, referring to the sea of pink roses.

 “Yes they are,” he agreed.  “Where did they come from?”

 Amelia shrugged.  “Mommy says they are from someone named Amomynissly.  That’s a silly name.”

 “I think what Mommy means is that you have a secret admirer.”

 “Really?”

 “Yes.”

 “What’s that?” she inquired, pointing to the poster board in his hand.

 “Well this is a card signed by the whole second grade,” he informed her.  “Everyone wants you to get well fast so you can come back to school.”

 “Did Ricky Prescott sign it?” she asked, her eyes squinting suspiciously.  She and Ricky were not exactly bosom buddies.

 “I don’t know,” Mike responded.  “Maybe you’d like to read it and find out.”  He relinquished the handmade card to her grasping right hand, noticing that her left hand had very little to do with the process.  “While you do that, I’m going to see what’s got your mother’s attention.”

 Whatever it was, Mike couldn’t tell if it was good news or bad news based simply on her facial expression.  Even after six years he could still read every one of Kara’s ‘crinkles’ but Belinda’s micro-expressions were a mystery to him. “Everything all right, Belinda?” he asked, tilting his head a little to see if he could get her look up at him. “What is it?”

 Belinda lifted her eyes to meet his, confusion in their depths.  “That man who just left…he’s a lawyer for something called The Fairchild Foundation. He had some papers for me to sign and gave me this letter.”

 “What does it say?” he wondered.  Something about the name Fairchild Foundation sounded familiar but he couldn’t place it.

 “Here,” she replied, handing him the letter.  “It seems so impossible, I still can’t believe what it says, even after reading it a dozen times.  At least.”

 Mike read through the letter.  The wording was clear and concise, like his college acceptance letter.  “It says here that an application for financial assistance has been accepted on your behalf with The Fairchild Foundation and that all of Amelia’s medical expenses both present and future until she reaches the age of 26 will be paid in full.”

 “I don’t know how this…what application?  What’s The Fairchild Foundation?  Do you know anything about this?”

 “I don’t know anything about an application. Maybe someone from the hospital submitted it?  A doctor or co-worker?  Five days in ICU,” he suggested.  “That can’t be cheap.”

 “It’s not,” she confirmed.  “We have insurance—decent insurance—but I would have been paying down the out-of-pocket for those five days for the rest of my life.  I was trying not to think about it, but I would be lying if I said I couldn’t hear the bills piling up.”

 “Looks like you can put those thoughts to rest and just worry about that miracle in the bed over there.”

 “Yeah,” she nodded, looking around the room at the sea of pink blooms.  “I guess so. And then there’s these flowers….”

 “Belinda,” he interrupted before she could get too far with her concerns.  “Someone wanted to help you out, maybe in the only way they knew how, or the only way they could.  Sometimes accepting their gift is the best way to say ‘thank you’.”

 “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

 Mike watched Amelia scouring the get well card for messages from friends and other names she recognized.  Mr. Snuggles was stuffed unceremoniously under her left arm. “What’s that about?” Mike asked, worried.

 “She has some left side paralysis,” Belinda nodded. “She came out of the coma mentally intact, for which I am very thankful, but the injury wasn’t without consequences.”

 “What does the doctor say?”

 “Dr. Dagmar doesn’t see any reason why, without physical therapy she can’t regain full mobility.  But it’s going to take time and effort on her part.  I’m going to have to find a way to keep her motivated.”

 Mike’s phone ‘blooped’ and he tugged it out of his pants, shooting off a quick response to the equally quick message he received.  “I might have a few ideas about how to do that.”

 “Well, I’m all ears.”

 “I have a little surprise I know she’s going to like.”

 “What is it?”

 “Well it’s kind of a surprise for you too. Won’t be long now.”

 “I don’t know if I can handle any more surprises today,” Belinda cringed.  “I’m expecting to wake up any minute now and find that I’m still sitting in that uncomfortable chair in the ICU.”

 Mike nodded in understanding.  “I’ve had a similar experience myself recently.  I found that sometimes it pays off to let yourself believe that good things can happen.”  Leaving it at that, Mike sat down on the end of Amelia’s bed and asked her if she liked the card.  She nodded a resounding yes.

 “So…do you remember what happened, Amelia?  Why you ended up in the hospital?”

 Amelia’s smile slipped and she shook her head. “Mommy says I fell.”

 “You were climbing on the jungle gym,” he reminded her. “Way higher than you were supposed to go.  And when you fell, you hit your head on the monkey bars on the way down.”

 “I did?”

 “You did,” he confirmed.  Mike chucked her on the chin with his finger.  “How about you don’t do that again, huh?”

 Amelia nodded.  “I’m sorry.”

 “I know.  But there’s a good part of this story too.”

 “There is?”

 “You were hurt pretty badly, and we needed to get you to the doctors fast.  Faster than the ambulances can go.  And just when we thought that wasn’t going to happen, guess who showed up?”

 “Who?”

 Mike leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Supergirl.”

 Amelia gasped, her eyes widening to a nearly impossible size, her tiny body practically seizing with excitement.  “Supergirl?!”

 “Supergirl,” he confirmed with a grin.  The expression on her face was every bit as awestruck as he had imagined it would be.  “She scooped you up in her arms and flew you all the way here in about two seconds.”

 “I flew with Supergirl?”  Check that.  Her eyes could in fact widen further.

 “You did.”

 Her face fell, the beautiful sun-struck smile melting from her face which seemed to literally dim the room.  “But I don’t remember.”

 “I know,” he pulled a frown as though commiserating with her.  “But I made a few inquiries, worked a little of my ‘magic’, called in a few favors, and guess what?”

 “What?” Amelia asked, her excitement rebuilding.

 At her cue, Supergirl stepped into the room, arms akimbo in her trademark stance and asked, “And how is the patient today?”

 Mike kept his eyes on Amelia the whole time as her entire being lit up like a tiny atomic bomb had detonated inside of her.  She gasped, almost choking on her excitement, nearly coming apart at the seams in the face of her fangirl bliss.  Mike held his finger up to his lips.  “Remember you’re supposed to be quiet.  Whispers only.  Can you do it?”

 He would not have thought it possible that someone could scream and whisper with the same breath, but apparently it was Amelia’s superpower.  “Supergirl!” she vocalized, every muscle in her body seizing with joy.

 Neither was Belinda immune to the presence of Supergirl.  “Oh my gosh!” she gasped, barely able to gather the air in her lungs to do so. Unable to properly express the full breadth of her feelings in words, she threw her arms around Supergirl’s neck and proceeded to babble.  “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much.  You saved my baby’s life.”

 “Oh, okay,” Supergirl chuckled, accepting the Belinda’s attack-hug, and gently, if a little awkwardly, returning it.  When Belinda tore herself away from the superhero, embarrassed by her outburst, Supergirl said, “I was just the ambulance service; the doctor’s saved her life.  I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time.”

 “Why were you there?” Belinda wondered, covering her embarrassment over getting a little too familiar with a perfect stranger. Even if that perfect stranger saved her daughter’s life.

 “Visiting an old friend,” she replied without hesitating.

 “I can’t thank you enough,” Belinda said, tears spilling down her cheeks.

 “You just did,” Supergirl assured, her empathy on full display as she stroked the other woman’s upper back to soothe her.  “But I thought I’d come and hang out for a while. Maybe get to know Amelia while she’s awake.”

 “I don’t know if you noticed…but I think she’d be okay with that.”  Both Supergirl and Belinda turned to Amelia who sat on her knees on the bed, right hand clutching Mr. Snuggles for dear life, practically panting at the opportunity to hang out with her idol.

 Mike grasped Supergirl’s forearm before she could get to the bed and whispered, “How long were you in the hallway?”

 “Long enough,” she nodded.  “I know what to do.”

 He threw her a wink and she responded in kind.  It felt so good to be partners again.  Real partners this time, on equal footing. ‘Okay,” he said, “I need to step outside for a few minutes and make a phone call.”

 But before he could do that, Belinda grabbed his arm, preventing him from leaving.  “How?” she asked.  “How did you pull this off?  This was the surprise you were talking about, right?”

 “It was more her, really,” he downplayed his involvement, unable to clarify how the entire surprise really came into being.   How could he explain that he and Supergirl had concocted the whole plan while taking a shower together after sweating up the sheets of the latter’s demolished bed?  “She tracked me down.  She has her ways.  After that…it was just about figuring out the timing.  She wanted to see for herself how Amelia was doing.”

 “Thank you,” she said.

 “It really was all her.”  Mike spared a glance for the alter ego of the woman he loved, finding that she had climbed aboard the bed with Amelia.  Supergirl lay back on one elbow, her legs crossed at the ankles, and her cape wrapped around the little girl like a blanket, while the two chatted like they were old friends.  With a smile and a nod at Belinda he excused himself from the room.

 Out in the corridor, he scanned through the contacts on his phone until he located the one he sought.  Surprisingly, the phone only rang twice this time before he picked up on the other end – as if he’d been waiting.

 “Wayne.”  His gravel voice was like a command, as though ‘Wayne’ was verb and he fully expected Mike to perform it.  But Mike didn’t play that game, and he wasn’t intimidated by the billionaire.

 “Pink roses?” he asked.

 “It seemed the right choice for an eight-year-old girl.”

 “Seven-going-on-eight,” he replied automatically.

 “I stand corrected.  Did she like them?”

 “Of course,” Mike chuckled.  “Her room is filled with pink flowers from a secret admirer. She feels very special.  I assume you’re responsible for the private room as well?”

 “How else was there going to be space enough for 1200 pink roses?” he asked, as if this should be obvious.  “About the roses…I paid extra for the Baby’s Breath.  Was there plenty of Baby’s Breath?”

 “I don’t know what that is.”

 “Dilettante,” Wayne shot back.  “I’m told she’s doing well.  We’re setting her up with a private physical therapist. She’ll get her left side back in no time.”

 “How can you know that?”

 “Wayne Enterprises has access to her medical records now.”

 “So that was you?” he confirmed.  Mike had suspected as much, but wasn’t certain.  “I knew I’d heard of The Fairchild Foundation but I couldn’t remember where.”

 “You must have seen some paperwork in the Manor when you were training with me.”

 “Must have.”

 “At any rate, Ms. Connor’s signature give us access to Amelia’s medical records until she’s eighteen and she can decide for herself if she wants to continue the program.  We’ll be collecting data on her head injury, as well as any medications and treatments she’s subjected to.  The hope is that the medical R&D arm of Wayne Enterprises can find a way to completely reverse Traumatic Brain Injury or mitigate its damage.  The fact that she’s a child is an important part of why she’s needed in this study.  Sadly, few children her age survive a trauma like that, or come out of it with so few ill effects.  Had it not been for the quick actions of you and Supergirl, they’d likely be taking her off the ventilator right about now and donating her organs.  She’s going to help save the world, Matthews.”

 Mike shuddered at the thought of Amelia’s situation turning out any other way than it had.  “Careful, Wayne…your empathy is showing.”

 “You’re right.  I should go hit something,” he deadpanned.

 “Well, they don’t know who to thank, but I do. So…thank you, Bruce.”

 “It was my pleasure,” Bruce groused, clearly uncomfortable with receiving thanks either for heroic deeds or acts of charity. “So…if that’s all…?”

 “Actually there’s one more thing.  I wanted to say…about that other thing…”

 “The thing you were so mad at me about?”

 “That’s the one.  I wanted to say thanks for that too.”

 “So everything worked out after all?”

 “You could say that.  I flew to National City and we talked things out.  And then we worked through it in ways that didn’t involve talking.”

 “Okay, we’ll keep that between us.  You don’t want that getting back to Clark.  Or maybe I do….could be fun.”

 “I know where you live, you overgrown bat,” he threw out the empty threat as though he’d used it a hundred times.

 “How’s this going to work between you?” Wayne wondered. “A bi-coastal life?”

 “It’s a 31 minute commute at hypersonic speed from Philadelphia to National City.  Slightly less than the average rush hour commute in Philly.  And there’s always weekends and summer break.”  They’d discussed the matter between them during one of their few breaks from Sunday lovemaking, recognizing that they could not be parted for long.  

 Inescapable.

 “Just be careful,” Wayne cautioned.

 “Careful about what?”

 “Hashtag SupergirlInPhilly is already trending on Twitter.  That’s twice in less than two weeks.  If ValorInNC starts trending…how long do you think it’s going to take the tabloids to crunch those numbers?  Or CatCo? Or the Daily Planet!  Lois might put it on the front page just for giggles.”

 “I’ll be careful,” he chuckled, seeing Wayne’s point.

 “Don’t screw this up, Matthews,” Wayne grumbled. “I might not be on your side next time.”

 “This was you being on my side?  You sold me out, as I recall!”

 “I was giving you what you needed.  I was tired of looking at your sad sack face.  It doesn’t become you.  I’m supposed to be the tortured one.”

 “Yes, I suppose ‘sad sack’ looks much better on you.”

 “Watch it, Matthews,” he warned, his voice deepening ever lower than its usual gravel baritone.

 “You walked right into that one.”

 “You were more fun when you didn’t sass me.”

 “I bet I was.”

 “This girl of yours gives you spirit.”

 “That’s one way of putting it.”

 “Don’t lose her,” Wayne said, a distinct tinge of sadness in his tone.  “Don’t let anything happen to her.”

 “I don’t know if you noticed, but my girl is pretty good at taking care of herself.  But don’t worry, I’ll always have her back.”

 Mike ended the call a moment later when he heard the door open and saw Supergirl slip out, turning back for one last wave to the little girl in the room.  She wore a crown woven from pink roses on her head.

 “How did it go in there?” he asked, reaching up to touch her flower crown.

 “I promised her I’d take her flying when she gets her left side working.”

 ‘That should do the trick.”  It was no less than what he expected from her.

  “Were you talking about me?” she whispered, she nods, motioning to her phone.

 “Among other things,” he teased, the dimples on his cheeks deepening.  He adjusted his glasses, like they were the touchstone that reminded him that this was his life now.

 “Was that Clark?”

 “Uh…Bruce, actually.  I called him to thank him for the….” Mike waved his hand to indicate the room.

 “He did all that?” she asked, incredulously.  Her brow furrowed.  “He doesn’t seem like the type.”

 “Still waters run deep with that guy.  He has his moments…apparently.”  Mike wanted to reach out and touch her, but even in this private wing of the hospital there were still people to see.  He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and she mirrored him by clasping her hands behind her back.  “I…uh…also called him to uh….” He cleared his throat, “to thank him for giving you my location.”

 “You did?” she grinned, sway back and forth so that her cape spun gently around the back of her legs.

 “I did.  Credit where credit is due, I guess.”

 She pinned him with a sultry gaze he was beginning to recognize.  “I want to get out of here.  Can we get out of here?”

 “I thought you’d never ask.”

 He said his goodbyes to Belinda and Amelia, promising to see them soon, and bring her homework next time (much to Amelia’s chagrin) before grabbing his things.  Mike and Kara separated at the elevator and he made his way out to the car, while she ducked into a supply room and changed back into Kara Danvers.  She met him in the parking lot and slipped into the passenger side of his Civic, pouting that it would me much faster to fly.

 He drove her home to his garage apartment, holding her hand the entire way.  Mike introduced her to the indomitable Mrs. Scheinbaum, who took one look at her and knew instantly who Kara was, as if seeing beyond masks was her superpower.  To her credit, she said nothing, only revealing her knowledge with a sly wink in his direction.  The three of them shared a pot of tea before Mike and Kara retreated to his apartment.

 They spent the night there, managing not to break a single piece of furniture or wake a single neighbor.  Although, to be fair, Mrs. Scheinbaum had made quite a lot of noise about taking her hearing aids out before going to bed.  Sometimes she didn’t like to do that.

 The next morning, Supergirl made a “surprise” visit to Fox Chase Elementary, where she shook hands and answered questions, accepted innumerable kisses on the cheek (some more sloppy than others) and gave a firm but good-natured lecture on playing it safe around playground equipment as well as the importance of following the rules set forth by adults.

 Every few minutes she glanced up to find Mon-El gazing at her, his eyes sparkling, his lips quirked up on one side as he watched her with a mixture of pride and joy.  They were here together, and he was hers at last, after years of unanswered yearning. Together they had laid out a plan (because Mon-El was big fan of plans and strategies) on how they would make this work.

 He wasn’t ready to leave Philadelphia, it was his city and more his home than National City or Metropolis ever had been.  Citizens embraced him here, proud to have a superhero of their very own.  The city limits even had signs that proudly proclaimed, ‘Welcome to Philadelphia: City of Brotherly Love and Home to Valor.’  They’d added that last bit just a few months ago.

 And likewise, National City was Kara’s home, where her sister and sister-in-law lived, where her work was headquartered, her contacts, her cultivated sources, and her growing reputation as a hard-hitting crime journalist.  Though she’d confessed to him while lying curled together atop a dangerously cracked kitchen table that she had once applied for a job with the Philadelphia Inquirer, he had quickly declared that he didn’t want that for her.  He didn’t want her to give up her hard earned reputation just so they could be closer to one another.  They could make it work this way—at least for now.

 And there was an unspoken truth there as well. Their lives would be long; longer than the human existence by several centuries if Dr. Danvers’ estimates were to be believed.  There was no reason to rush this towards some undetermined finish line, whatever that was. Because for them, there would be no finish until, one day in the far distant future, death would part them. For now, by mutual decree, they would enjoy each other to the fullest as well as this second chance they had resolved to take for themselves.

 Only one thing was for certain; with transgressions forgiven, and hearts on the mend, the future before them held endless possibilities.

 THE END.

[badassclarke]

I was doing a little S1 rewatch and the idea of Bellamy being there for Clarke got stuck in my mind. This draft has been here since idk 4x04 when they were separated. It takes place between 1x09 and 1x10, when the Exodus ship crashed and they go on a search party after.

This is my first published fan fiction ever and I’m probably not that good at writing - feel free to notice me of any typos or grammar mistakes, really, anything you notice that might be constructive. I’m also not that familiar with writing in English and Tumblr/songs/series have been my only source of contact with the language sooo. That’s it. Hope someone reads you guys enjoy it. 

***

“NO!” Clarke shouted, horrified. “No, no, no, no, no, this can’t be happening”, she thought, not with her mom, her own mother. No, no, DAMN, no!

There was no longer track of time and space; the only feeling Clarke experienced was a monster growing inside her, aching her stomach, making her gasp for breath, blurring her sigh and sending one hundred needles throughout her body.

She suddenly feels everything: the loss of Wells, hating him when she should’ve hated Abby and refusing to speak with her mother when she had the chance. Now that was impossible: she was forever gone and all the hate was for nothing. Her mother was dead, burned and cold.

It all dizzies her. Clarke wanted to cry at her mom’s lap, be reassured and get out of that hurricane. Everything spins, she knows she has to get out and she wants to scream “GET OUT, CLARKE!”, but her body is unable to answer. She’s stuck and her mind spins as well.

“Clarke?,” the voice was distant like a dream, “Clarke, can you hear me?”

There’s a hand on her shoulder, touching her lightly, “I’m here.”

He shouldn’t be in the middle of that mess. She recognizes his voice and he should protect their people, otherwise they’d all explode. Like her mom did.

Suddenly, low voices were everywhere to be heard and there was some gossip as well. Not much after, curious delinquents were out looking for some explanation.

“What was that?“ A boy whispered to the group. “Should we worry?”

“Jessica said it was an explosion.”

“What about the screams?”

Bellamy looked at the girl on her knees below him. Clarke had always shown herself as brave and strong but right now she was shattered into a million pieces. He knew what it felt like when the only twisted sort of protection in your life was gone. No matter the issues he had with Aurora, he’d wanted her to stay with him. Clarke was surely experiencing the same misery.

The delinquents started to look at her with mixed feelings: pity, irony, despise, shock and incredulity among them. There was no way in hell Bellamy would allow them to see their princess like that.

“Everyone back inside! NOW! There’s nothing to be seen.” Regardless, one guy remained with the pair. “Are you deaf?“ 

"But my family-”

“I don’t care." Bellamy mentally cursed, knowing rudeness was the last thing they all needed. "Tomorrow we’ll go on a search party, okay? You can do more from the inside organizing a group than here.”

Bellamy almost felt sorry for the delinquent, just a kid trying to hold back a sob. He disappeared into the darkness, leaving both Clarke and Bellamy alone again. She was still kneeled in fetal position and, fuck, Bellamy had no clue on how to reach her.

“Clarke, we need you. I need you. Did you hear me? We’re going on a search party tomorrow. Clarke. Please, come back.” Bellamy knelt in front of her, soft whispering to her ear. “You’re okay. I got you, you’re going to be okay.”

He keeps the mantra because he doesn’t know what else to do. Clarke was lost in a whole different world and Bellamy was afraid it was one worst than theirs, if possible. Crowds and rebel teenagers were okay to inspire but broken individuals? He tried, of course, but how can you help fix someone when you can’t fix yourself? If they switched places, she’d know. She always did. He just desperately wanted to do something about excruciating pain.  

“Breathe. You’re okay, you just need to breathe.”

Slowly his words started filling her mind. She was okay. At the ground, but okay.

“It’s Bellamy. I’ll stay with you, just take a deep breath.” Clarke inhaled and exhaled after he pronounced it, much to Bellamy’s astonishment.

“That’s right. I’m here, keep breathing.”

Her eyes are hazy and full of tears when she finally looks at him; her palms, sweaty. She almost feels like waking up from a nightmare except that reality hadn’t changed. It was still awful.

“Bellamy?” She asked in a thread of voice.

"Hey.” 

“What happened?”

"You were in shock. I think you had a breakdown.” The information makes her try to recompose her face and wipe away the tears. “It’s fine. You’ve been through a lot.”

Clarke subtly nods. “Yeah.“

"You need to get some rest.” Bellamy offered her a hand, which was a welcome surprise although she didn’t take it right away.

It was at least ironic that he was the one providing her comfort and safety when he threatened her for starters. But the truth was: the more Clarke learnt about him, more he grew on her. They were partners now. He’d already proven he was there. Bellamy Blake was making Clarke Griffin stand in every meaning of the word. With this in mind, she takes it.

“I don’t want to sleep here.” She whispered after they reached her tent. Clarke didn’t want to be alone or to be reminded Abby would be there if she had made it to the ground. The thought her mother would’ve loved the Earth was too heavy to carry.

Bellamy assents understanding. “You can stay in mine. I’ll be in watch.“

"You’re a terrible liar, Bellamy. I know you have to sleep for the search party.” He smiles and shakes his head. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just ridiculous you’re still able to rationalize after all of,” He gestures, unable to find the words, “This.”

Clarke attempts to smile. “I’m supposed to be The Head, you know?”

“Whatever you say, princess." 

Sometimes Bellamy felt like it was too easy to put his walls down around her, maybe a bit too much. It was easier to let her in than to let her go, anyway.

"I’ll just keep thinking of plans.”

“That’s not a definition of rest.” He deeply inhaled before saying anything again. “We can stay together.”

The suggestion was both sweet and tempting for Clarke, considering she really didn’t want to be alone and Bellamy was doing a nice job distracting her. To be fair, it’s not like she had many other people to lean on at the moment.

“I mean, if that’s not weird for you”, he added.

“Thank you.” She said and he shrugged his shoulders, heading to his tent.

It was a silent walk and there were tears shimmering Clarke’s eyes but she refused to let them fall. Bellamy had already seen much of her misery.

Once they arrived, Clarke stood awkwardly still. What if someone arrived? That’d put them in a very uncomfortable position.

“No one will bother you. You can relax.” He said like he was inside her mind. Actually, in some ways, he was.

Clarke didn’t think relaxing was possible but she also didn’t realize how exhausted she was. That whole damn hour had made her body weaker than a five miles walk would have. That’s why when Bellamy sat with his back touching the tent and pointed at the sheets and pillows in front of him, it was no surprise Clarke almost fell.

“We leave at first light.” He reassured, closing his eyes.

There were many things stuck in Clarke’s tongue. “Thank you”, “you should rest too” and “lay here” among them. Unfortunately, nothing came out of her mouth. She just buried her face in his pillow and it’s smell was a mix of mint, soil and sweat that was so Bellamy. Right in that moment, it meant safety and that was enough.

Bellamy watched Clarke surrender herself to her physical needs – sometimes it was easy to forget she was just a girl. She’d always carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and they were all responsible for letting her. It was sad, really, that watching her asleep, soft and peaceful, made him realize how she struggled to be the opposite everyday. For their survival. Not even Atlas deserved that burden on his own.

If Clarke really meant she needed him… God, he knew there was no chance to step back. She was human, not the unstoppable force of nature she manifested herself into, and she could break too. Clarke’s puzzle was being exposed little by little as the time passed and Bellamy was glad to be the one helping her put the pieces back together.

[ratherhavetheblues]

JIM JARMUSCH’S PATERSON “We have plenty of matches in our house…”

© 2017 by James Clark

   Poetic filmmaker/ musician, Jim Jarmusch, has been bringing to our consideration singularities of dynamics for a long time. The effectively eccentric apparitions populating these works, often far from the dominant sagas of the struggles, treat us to white-hot energies paradoxically muted and doomed. With his recent creation, Paterson (2016), a memorable motif from the past resurfaces for the sake of contemplating 21st century dotage toward lives having erected fire-walls the better to confine themselves to tepid and myopic cocoons. The off-beat motif in question is the positioning of a dog being too-carnal to well-coincide with busy escapists. In that hipster/inventor’s Broken Flowers (2005), a TV-comic-like winning sensibility having made a fortune with IT has to rein himself in to avoid laughing in the face of an old flame who claims to derive insight from wild animals, especially the instance of her now-dead dog. In Ghost Dog (1999), a connoisseur of samurai methodology is far too preoccupied with practising his underground art to notice (twice) a black mutt who would love some attention from the ascetic self-server.

   The protagonist, Paterson, of our film today is, like those just mentioned, a technician of sorts (being a local bus driver and poet of rigid literalism stifling the volatility of his muse); and he’s numbingly negligent toward his English Bulldog, Marvin. The legions of reviewers holding this paragon of modesty, civilized expression and citizenship as a new-wave everyman have no time for what he’d be like to a non-rational being. Clearly never having expended any time and energy on fathoming Jarmusch’s discoveries, they stumble into the axiom/meatgrinder which could be put as, “Mess with the dog and you get covered with shit.”

   Notwithstanding The New Yorker Seal of Approval, the figure of Patterson, as we’ll get going discerning, is a hero with feet of clay. He being, in his source of income, a source of motion strictly scheduled, we eventually find that virtually everything he does consists of a high degree of predictability. He wakes at the same hour, he gives his wife, Laura (who has no salaried work and so sleeps late) a rather inert cuddle, he silently spoons his Cheerios and tramps along a verdant deciduous pathway to the textured red-brick center of the small city of Paterson, New Jersey, where he spends a few minutes at the wheel of his parked bus with his poetry production. Paterson, having been a gritty 19th and early 20th century manufacturing centre, now consists of remnants of industry, retirees and those, like a pair of college students being regular riders, who are quick to describe and slow to do. The girl recounts the exploits of a resident anarchist more than a century before, who travelled to Italy to assassinate the King. She, and the boy with her, pivot the incident to the situation that the killer could not be executed because there was no provision for the death penalty but died in prison either assassinated by guards or having committed suicide. They show some liberal disfavor about America’s still using the death penalty and dovetail that outrage with lightly knocking the absence of an anarchic spirit in Patterson and lightly enjoying the good fortune of having time for a coffee before their first class. From the flotsam and jetsam of this civic dip our protagonist records the mundane products and services as if seeking a bracing mystery within so much retreat. Here is the first incantation we hear:  “We have plenty of matches in our house/ We keep them on hand always/ Currently our favorite brand/ Is Ohio Blue Tip/ Though we used to prefer Diamond Brand/ That was before we discovered/ Ohio Blue Tip  Matches/ They are excellently packaged/ Sturdy little boxes/ With dark and light blue and white labels/ With words lettered/ In the shape of a megaphone/ As if to say even louder to the world/ Here is the most beautiful match in the world…”

   This reading of a mixture of doggerel and the Dadaist/ Surreal spreads out to his purporting to be inspired by wordsmith, William Carlos Williams (1883-1963). But the latter was (although stylistically drawn to the obvious surfaces of domestic life) a medical doctor eager to maintain that life is nasty, brutal and brief. Paterson’s poem cited above has the title, “Love Poem” and its home stretch reads, “So sober and furious and stubbornly ready/ To burst into flame/ Lighting, perhaps, the cigarette of the woman you love/ For the first time/ And it was never really the same after that…/ I became the cigarette and you the match/ Or I the match and you the cigarette/ Blazing with kisses that smoulder toward heaven.” The central image of fire and loving dynamics (“Blazing with kisses”) in mysterious conjunction with a solid materiality (“Here is the most beautiful match in the world/ It’s one-and-a-half-inch of soft pine stem/ Capped by a grainy dark purple head…”) comprises the heart of Jarmusch’s filmic architecture. But whereas the poetasters beside themselves with a portrait, like themselves, talking the talk and in addition going on to mincing hyper-civility, Jarmusch, as always, is on the trail of walking the walk in serious accordance with the dynamics of fire. In the passage, “Sturdy little [match] boxes,” we are to know about the anonymous, ritualistic and yet very physical hit man in Jarmusch’s The Limits of Control (2009), who handles nicely-designed match boxes in the course of his (open to adjustment) métier bringing a comprehensively poetic twist to the nasty, brutal and brief.

   There is a moment at the bar Paterson frequents every night where the owner-bartender consults him about putting on his wall a newspaper clipping with a photo of extreme rocker, Iggy Pop, chatting up some Paterson residents. The proprietor—a middle-aged African American and chess devote, named Doc—presides over a pool and beer centre bringing to mind the black Memphis lair of a British psychopath named, Elvis, in Mystery Train (1989). The careful Doc knows there is something about that musician a bouncer should deal with, but Patterson, having some vague recognition of the name and no real interest in rock (Doc’s place being a retro-Motown bailiwick [with a pair of customers named Sam and Dave]), thinks it would be fine to show the home-town in the spotlight. There is, in many Jarmusch films, a running joke about the effete qualities of Motown; and here, with the very different Detroiter, it shoots to us another take on florid poetry and action running on empty. Iggy’s ragged drive to dangerous heights is not only an irony in that context, but the very idea of paying homage to such an alien demonstrates the workings of vitiating anything requiring painful effort and replacing it with a bland facsimile. Paterson drinks a single innocuous bottle a night at the bar; but he’s been overrun with a process of soporifics from which he will never sober up. (A visually salient and far-reaching impact within this reflection stems from the undertaker-sober, deadpan body language of actor, Adam Driver. Such evasiveness engages the notion of “jerking off,” most directly exposed in Down by Law (1986), but rampant in all of Jarmusch’s films.) His wife urges him to publish or at least back up by duplicating the sweet little sentiments which repose in a “secret book.” (One afternoon, on his way home, he encounters a young girl in an alleyway who tells him of her fondness for writing poetry. He had been primarily making sure she was safe while waiting for her mother and sister. But soon the kinship takes over and his new, brief friend leaves him with, “A bus driver poet! Awesome!” That latter cheapened word gives us a taste of the omnipresent instinct whereby precious articulation [the child asks if he ever drives an “accordion” bus; and he tells her, increasing her vocabulary, the official word is “articulated”] becomes an end in itself, stifling wild, adult syntheses to be risked by those knowing the exigency of shutting up and delivering.) He’s remarkably unmotivated to bid for awesomeness, and we have been given the sightline to see that, for all the consistent effort and charm of his production, what is lacking is the full point about moving another or others to join in taking to heart the incendiary countering of that superficial dominance to which literary poetry is an entrenched partisan.

   In a bemusing binary association with the introverted endeavors of Paterson, there are the off-the-grid researches of homebody Laura, pulsing with extroverted zeal. We see her adding touches to their cramped bungalow which would bring an illusion of space to a warren where her husband is most at home in a cluttered unfinished basement bent over his filling the “secret book” forming the bedrock of his experience. One day she pries him upstairs to ask for financing a guitar (including do-it-yourself learning accessories) she’s found online (a dimension he never visits). Though never having till then thought of herself being a musician, she feels there’s a real possibility that with her “Harlequin” model (with a black and white color scheme from which she never departs in her home renovations and clothing designs) she could be the next Tammy Wynette or Patsy Kline. “Nashville here I come!” After a few seconds of assimilating the 300 dollars involved, he endorses her shot in the dark with the same muted and stilted tone by which he circulates elsewhere. “Maybe you could be a country singer…” Do the black-on-white circular patterns, she finds right, seep down into her perception of an earthy circularity which would prepare her for the slippery slope where her heroes, Tammy and Patsy, were hardly avatars of simple contrasts and making nice? The day before, while on his lunch break by a picturesque river racing with rapids and a soaring, minty bridge, he had broached, from a very different angle, the universe of possibilities. “When you’re a child you learn there are three dimensions/ height, width and depth/ Like a shoe box/ Then later you hear there’s a fourth dimension/ Time/ Hmm/ Then some say there can be five, six, seven…/ I knock off work/ Have a beer at the bar/ I look down at the glass and feel good.”

   A canny beer with Iggy Pop pinned to the wall is as good as it gets. Time and its uncanny spray of dimensionality merits “Hmm…” Brought to mind by this caution is a night in the Sam and Dave chapel where two other regulars don’t find the kind of peace in the valley Paterson believes in. Marian and Everett, sweethearts since grade school, are no longer feeling born to be wild. Marian wants him to disappear and Everett has begun to disappear in a quicksand of failing to ween himself from her. During one of the nightly melodramas, Paterson is happily attached to his glass while behind him Marian accuses her ex of acting out and he reminds her he is an actor by trade. (Self-absorbed artifice and disinterested passion making a painful brew.) The scene is filmed with the nice guy in the foreground and the hobbled relationship further back. That induces the poet to stifle revealingly a laugh at the suitor’s lack of self-control. Everett sees the slight and makes things worse for himself by claiming to be insulted. (Here is the moment to note that we’ve been given two quick glances of a framed photo of Paterson in his Marines parade uniform [linking sharply to the image of gung-ho Iggy]. Along with Laura’s Middle-Eastern make-up, they exude an innate expertise in survival tactics, especially in coming up roses while making sure to do nothing decisively difficult. As we keep shaking our head about something systematically amiss, we are caught up with the question, “What kind of dark alley do a pair like that represent?”)

   There is, however, one creature stirring who dares to change the prevailing tempo, dares to want more. Paterson arrives home from a day like every other and the only recurrent event he doesn’t control comes up in his front yard, where the letter box is always, somehow, askew (though it was straight, by his hand, in the morning when he left). Peering from a front window there is Marvin. He had taken the measure of Paterson’s scratching in the basement for hours and seen fit to not only shake things up but feel a bit of the play he never gets directly. Laura’s rendition of taking him for a walk being opening the front door to let him pee (a rendition on the same level of her deadly guitar-accompanied version of, “I’ve Been Working on the Railway” and her occasional reflexive baby talk to him), the virtually invisible full-of-beans has settled upon pushing the post in order to see Paterson (sort of) play with him. The other “contact” in Marvin’s life speaks volumes about the putative Humanities luminary. Marvin gets to stretch his legs, as far as Doc’s bar. On the first outing we see, he’s belting along as vigorously as he can, with Paterson in tow, grim and obviously bored. He treks past the destination and Paterson drags him back, ties him to a pipe and leaves as if he were dealing with an inanimate object. (We can extrapolate that, in a considerable past, the small, going concern would have tried his utmost to generate some affectionate fun. But, as with Everett, full-scale ardent life is, at best, an odious joke to our antiseptic protagonist. In accordance with a Tephlon basic body jacket which Paterson would never be without, the dark and perhaps criminal-infested streets where he accesses his nightly Mass provide figures on the scale of the awesome child—spilling into view from out of that vein of ritualistic blandness which beats being mugged or otherwise having to dig down for something more and exhausting. At a laundromat a scrawny gangstah works, with some verve, on his rap routine of stepping on toes, and our good humor man rewards him with an elbow salute. “You’re on to something,” he purrs donnishly. Before Paterson comes into view here, Marvin is the gambit and the town crier regards him ominously as possibly uncontrollable. The emotional animal emits a growl/ purr, ready for both possibilities. “Shut up, Marvin,’ is the master’s ingratiating himself with diversity-safety. Another time, the silent walkers come upon a convertible full of non-9-to-5ers, and, with an unmistakable eye for value that could be theirs, the driver rallies the pedestrian with “Yo, c’mere!” Marvin growls, and the spokesman moots, “That’s an expensive dog…” The impasse, punctuated with the pup’s seeing the possibilities and offering a threat, dissipates with the Neighborhood Watch all-clear, “Be careful he don’t get dog-jacked…Be safe” At the hitching post a moment later, Patterson, in the only mode he’d be interested in engaging Marvin, mocks, “I’m cuffin’ you, Marvin…Don’t get dog-jacked…” During the festivities within, Doc’s wife spoils the mellow with barging in to complain about his stealing her pin money with a view to the all-important chess tournament on the week-end. She shows a bit of Metaphysical wit, probably not to be found in the resident poet’s repertoire, in linking his event to his need for a tourniquet if the cash doesn’t return. On this occasion, Paterson doesn’t laugh. But, in face of molten currents a real poet would take to heart, he reflexively asks his friend, “Are you alright?” and looks into his glass to restore feeling good. That pacifier code is also frequently in trusty shape while he gives short and dry shrift to the transit dispatcher’s domestic and medical woes.)

    Marvin lacks classical, radiant canine presence. His eyes don’t twinkle, his coat is a dirty sand color with a pronounced whitish bib, like a bit of errant foam, and his feet are too big for his body. He knows his rights and assumes they should be respected. He needs a family to coincide with his own kinetic gifts. He very pointedly doesn’t have one. He’s a vigorous and often contrary puller on his leash, as if the tugs between them might miraculously amount to affection. Many viewers purport to be bowled over by a Zen-like magic emanating from the mundane processions of Paterson and Laura. The young Japanese tourist to Memphis (in Mystery Train) who surprises himself with an epiphanic (brief) moment in face of a homely home-town of Elvis, had gone 7000 miles out of his way and fervently reflected on Rockabilly for years—leaving him with dour facial qualities—before reaching that reward. Paterson’s dour facial qualities perhaps have to do with a similar long trip. But they come by a vaguely humiliating retreat, the opposite of a full-scale and daunting encounter. That’s not Zen. That’s anesthetics.

   Though the regime of feeling good has had a solid check-up in our presence, Marvin brings tidings from an exigency worth risking a lot for. Another of Laura’s pipe dreams is to convert her skill in baking to a cupcake empire. On Saturday, she attends a food market (alone—the deep thinker not wanting to be involved [he telling Doc, “She understands me,” in his good times dividedness, and hoping that she’ll bring along Marvin [she won’t]); and, on returning, she claims to be a “sensation.” In the meantime, Patterson’s extraordinary afternoon dog-time showed a particularly peeved and difficult entity no one wants. Thus, as they celebrate her coup with dinner at a restaurant and a movie—Paterson forgetting to put away his secret book—they return home to find that nobody’s dog has ripped to shreds the only versions of those bemusing preoccupations. The movie they chose was a classic from the Depression Era, once again circumscribed by the kind of Hays Code they live by. Their first response is to do what they both had wanted to do since the Gigigi whim wore off, namely, dump him in the garage. After a sleepless night, Paterson has restored the vandal to the living quarters and he regards the latter with a listless glare. He drones, “I don’t like you, Marvin,” (as if Marvin needed to be told). Laura, probably the purchaser and trying to make a decisive statement from out of a spigot of semi-consciousness, drags the misfit back to the garage.

   In one of his stressful ruminations, he insisted, “They were just words…” During a walk to try to still the paradox of verse of no significance and yet of great significance, he comes to his lunch spot by the racing river and a Japanese tourist devoted to local-legend William Carlos Williams declares, “I breathe poetry!” Paterson first describes himself as “Just a bus driver;” but his conversation reveals how knowledgeable he is about poetry and he’s left with a gift of a leather-bound journal. (Marvin could be described as a leather-bound vehicle for filling up a lovely void with dimensions ripping past mere reading matter.) When last we see Paterson, the soulmate to the stranger has come to resume his string of poems. The first one, in homage to a long-gone relative, is far from a triumph. In fact it derives from a Bing Crosby movie,   “…or would you rather be a fish? / Or would you rather be a mule?/ Or would you rather be a pig?/ Our pick is the fish/ We started with…” The original, which the family elder (like Paterson, a Paterson native) loved, speaks to an exigency of going full-tilt, with grace. “Would you like to swing on a star/ Carry moonbeams home in a jar/ And be better off than you are? / Or would you rather be a mule…” The several instances of twins, beyond Sam and Dave—Laura’s dream of their having twins; the old-timer twins on the bench he passes that first day; the girl poet waiting for her twin sister—would seem to cut two ways. Identicalness in retreat. But also the rising above Paterson (person and place) being in play from the same launch-pad bringing forth such paltry and widely acclaimed results.