Bellarke One Shots Book 2

88) Groundhog Day

Archive of our own
By: rowanrt7
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Hospitals are thought to be calming places, places to heal, and to die. The emergency corridor in DC General, even the recovery wing, was far from it. Bored children skated past on exam room stools. They were racing, knees tucked up, as their accomplices chased them. A couple stood at the entrance to surgery, shouting at each other. Doctors and nurses parted around them like rivers around rocks. In the midst of it all, stood the girl at the nurses station, playing with a bit of blonde hair as she filled out forms.

Directly across from her, in a room with the door propped open, a boy fell out of bed. "Excuse me, excuse me--hey!" The boy tripped as he stood, disappearing almost immediately as he toppled sideways. He was wiry, falling out of the papery gown he wore, with a sheaf of dark hair that flopped sideways as he lost his balance. He fell to the ground with one hand outstretched, the lower half of his body still trapped in the bed by tight-bound sheets.

The shouting couple, the skittering wheels, the constant voices over the speaker didn't pull her out of her concentration. She started however, at the sound of her patient falling out of bed. She dropped her clipboard with a clatter and darted to the door. The boy, not noticing her, inspected his hand, its blue veins against the pale linoleum. His fingers seemed odd, stubbier than usual. He flexed his hand and then flexed again, completely oblivious to the doctor in the doorway.

"You can't do that!" Clarke said, her pen loose in her hand. The boy looked up at her, his head turning slowly, as if he were underwater. Clarke recognized the look; it was someone who had just woken up from surgery. The medication was still tickling the corners of his consciousness. Tucking the ballpoint behind one ear, she went to him.

"Can't do what? Hey!," he exclaimed as Clarke clamped down on his arm. She dragged him forcibly back into the bed, one hand planted on his back to maneuver him without opening his sutures, and tucked the sheets around his torso.

"My name's Clarke Griffin, Mr. Blake. You need to stay in bed." She tugged at the edges of the sheets so they were taut across his body.

"You gonna stay with me?" he tried to smirk, but only half the muscles in his face responded and the skin around his eyes crinkled, making him look like a baby monkey.

Clarke coughed over her laugh. "I think you should rest Mr. Blake."

Bellamy Blake nodded slowly, "I could you show you a good time" he squinted at her "...what's your name?"

"Doctor Griffin. Almost doctor. We met just before your surgery."
Clarke moved to his feet, tucking the linens tight, so that he was trapped by the thin blankets. As long as she kept her hands moving, she was in control of herself. When she looked up again, Bellamy's eyebrows were drawn. He sat as far up as he could, holding himself up with his elbow.

"What are you doing here? I don't know you."

"That's okay," she said, with the soothing voice reserved for skittish animals and small children. Clarke stepped forward, laying her hand on his shoulder, her skin between the cool paper of the hospital gown and the pre-feverish heat of his skin. "That's fine. Do you know why you're here?"

"No." Bellamy looked down. "My chest hurts."

Clarke made a humming noise, an affirmation. "That's because you were shot." Bellamy's eyes widened, and his hand rummaged at the paper dress. Clarke flipped through the chart, chewing her lower lip.

"I was shot?" Bellamy exclaimed.

Clarke ignored him. "Okay, so," she said, "a little short term memory loss is sometimes a reaction to anesthesia. I'll get your doctor." She turned to go, hanging the clipboard at the foot of his bed with a practiced click.