#cloverjean

It can't be. She just saw him yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she dropped him off at the airport and kissed him goodbye.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, her husband was in her arms. Warm. Safe. 

Alive.

"Yes," she says, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "I'm— yes."

She doesn't know what else to say. She's not sure she's even capable of saying anything else.

Oh, God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

"Ma'am," the voice continues, serious and sober, "I'm calling today to inform you about your recent transgression against the Marine Corps, the Department of Defense, and the very Constitution of the United States."

Her breath stutters in her throat.

"Um," she squeaks out, "my what?"

"Transgression, ma'am," the voice repeats, an undercurrent of irritation lacing its patient tone. "Ma'am, are you aware that the defacement of government property is a serious federal crime?"

She actually drops her basket, the plastic clattering flatly to the linoleum floor of the supermarket. "The what of what?!"

"Penalties for this crime can go up to a maximum fine of up to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, or ten years imprisonment, or even both," the voice continues, unbothered by her incredulous tone. "The American government does not take kindly to destruction of its property, ma'am, not at all."

Her jaw drops. "What are you talking about? I didn't—" Cutting herself off in sheer frustration, she shakes her head violently, her blonde curls whipping about her face. "Look, what the hell is going on? Where's my husband? Is he okay?"

"Okay?!" There's a loud scoff on the other end of the line. "Ma'am, you've got a lotta nerve asking if he's okay! Especially after that giant contusion you left on Corporal Blake's person!"

Her brows knit into a sharp frown. "Contusion? What contusion?! I have never laid a hand on my husband!"

"You'd think after two years of marriage, you'd have the good sense not to leave it right out in the open where everyone can see," the voice continues over her protests. "Or at least aim for somewhere below the collar of our uniforms!"

All of a sudden, memories of the night before flood into her brain, the images of freckled skin and warm lips overwhelming her senses. The last night she and Bellamy shared together before he'd left for his second tour.

All the blood rushes out of her face, leaving her pale and dizzy for a brief moment before flooding right back in, her cheeks burning up in that way that always makes her look like she fell into a giant pan of bright red blush.

"Oh my God," she hisses, gripping the phone tight against her ear. "Are you talking about the hickey?"

A contemptuous sniff. "If that's what you two are calling that big old ugly—"

There's a loud bang in the background, like a door being flung wide open. Another voice booms, muffled and inaudible but reassuringly and thrillingly familiar — and then all of a sudden, there's nothing on the line but the sounds of what she can only make out to be a scuffle, a barked-out "Murphy!" and a high-pitched yelp, and then—

"Clarke?"

"Bellamy?" Even though she now knows full well that he'd been fine all along, the relief washes over her like a wave over the sand, cool and comforting. "Bellamy, God. It's you."

"Of course it's me, babe," he says, his voice turning soft and low in the way that always seems to melt her heart right in her chest. "Jesus, hang on—fuck off, Murphy!" There's a last muted mumble in the background, and then the sound of a door closing. "Okay, he's gone now. What was he—"

"Jesus Christ, Bell!" she explodes, no longer able to contain the fire of sheer indignation. "I thought you were dead! I was this close to losing it in the fucking grocery store!"

"What?" his voice roughens in concern. "What do you mean you— what the hell did that asshole say?!"

She throws her free hand up in exasperation. "He asked if I was me, if I was married to Corporal Bellamy Blake of the Marine Corps, yadda yadda yadda, and the whole time I was thinking something terrible had happened, I was just thinking about you and I was this close to going out of my mind, and then he fucking accuses me of destroying government property!"

Bellamy begins to laugh.

"It's not funny!" she half yells, but she can't quite suppress the grin already forming on her own face. "I thought you were dead, and your dickwad friend was giving me shit for giving my own husband a hickey!"

Bellamy can't stop laughing. "Oh, shit," he manages when he catches his breath. "Oh, babe. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it was a shitty joke. Murphy and a couple other guys have been teasing me all morning, but I'm gonna—" He dissolves into another peal of laughter, and it's not fair how the sound makes her picture him crystal clear in her head, eyes crinkled, mouth stretched wide, broad chest all rumbly and warm with the evidence of his amusement.

"I'm gonna kill him," she promises darkly, a wide smile on her own face, still flushed and warm with residual embarrassment. "It's Murphy, right? John Murphy? What's his middle name? Social security number?"

"Don't worry, baby, I'll get to him first," Bellamy chuckles. The last of his laughter dissolves into a small sigh. "Fuck, Clarke. I miss you so much already."

She exhales, leaning against the fridge door to cool her skin off. "I miss you too. When are you shipping out?"

"Three more days. Flight time isn't confirmed yet, but I'll let you know when I can. Should be set by the time we get to video chat tomorrow night."

"Any chance you could make it a private video chat?" she quips, smiling.

"My, my, Mrs. Blake," Bellamy says, and just from the tone of his voice she knows exactly which smile he's wearing — lopsided and charming, with a hint of teasing. "I'm not so sure you should be trusted alone with government property. Looking to make a repeat offense so soon?"

He probably genuinely means it as a joke, but even that flippant quip sends memories from their last two weeks together flickering through her brain again, igniting her senses and turning her insides to mush. The sight of Bellamy's tan skin, made even tanner from long hours of training and military exercises in the sun. The sounds he'd elicited from her with his hands and mouth. The sensations he'd sparked in her when he'd—

She clears her throat, letting the pitch of her voice drop even lower. "Well, Corporal, it appears I might have something of a vandalism streak."

"Shit, babe." Bellamy sighs, the sound distinctly strained even through the phone connection. "All I want is just to be with you right now. Why am I all the way out here again?"

"Because you love me," she reminds him with a smile, "and you love our friends, and you love your country."

"Right, right," he says, exhaling heavily. "Priority number one. Protect my family."

Tears prick at her eyes, but her smile only grows wider. "Priority number one," she corrects insistently, "protect yourself. Stay safe, and come home to your family."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, his voice soft and reassuring.

There's a long pause, the two of them hanging on just to hear each other in the faint buzz of the phone connection.

Finally, Bellamy clears his throat. "I gotta go," he says, his tone full of reluctant apology. "Get Murphy off whichever poor bastard he's torturing now."

She shakes her head, pushing off the fridge door. "Go. Text or call when you can."

"I will," he promises, and then adds, "Get yourself something other than frozen pizza for dinner?"

"I did," she says, eyes flicking to the two boxes of frozen lasagne in her basket.

"Or frozen lasagne." She can't see his face, but she can picture his raised brow, clear as day.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'll get an apple, or something."

"Good enough," he says, and then he pauses. She can't explain it, but something about the extra beat of silence just tells her that he's smiling again, comforting and warm. "I love you."

Her heart grows about three sizes bigger in its ribbed cage.