"Right now she should be in the bowling alley. If you'll follow me, please."

Bellamy tried not to visibly scoff at the words "bowling alley". How much more spoiled could an only child get? He shook his head as he followed the security guard down a narrow flight of stairs. The hollow thunder of a bowling ball rolling down a polished floor reached his ears, followed by the clattering of plastic. Exhaling quickly, he gritted his teeth and pushed through the swinging door.

He'd been told earlier that the last bodyguard had been fired for failing to realize that she had sneaked out. "She's a problem child if I ever saw one," the head of the security staff had whispered to him in a tired voice. "No respect for rules, no value of decorum. Headstrong girl." the woman abruptly stopped speaking, her face pinched as if to stem the flow of disapproval. "Well, anyways, it's a good thing you're younger than the last one. Maybe you can keep up with her. But you've got your work cut out for you." Bellamy heard two of the other secret servicemen whispering out a wager behind him: would he last one month, or two? He rolled his eyes. He knew a thing or two about stubborn teenage girls. "I suppose it's time you meet her and start your work, then." The woman stepped out into the hallway, motioning for him to follow.

A small, two-lane bowling alley came into view as Bellamy stepped over the creaky threshold. The room was plain, narrow, and overwhelmingly wooden; Bellamy thought it smelled vaguely of a 1960's smoking parlor - or at least, what he imagined one would smell like. He glanced over just in time to see a bright blue bowling ball topple over two pins.

"Dammit."

She was shorter than he'd expected. Bellamy had seen pictures of her in newspapers before and on national television during the inauguration. There, she had seemed like a tall blond statue, standing expressionless and literally in the shadow of her mother, President Griffin. "The Ice Princess," one article had labeled her.

Here, Bellamy wasn't so sure he would call her that. At least, not at this very moment.

She stood at the top of the lane, her hands clasped in defeat behind her neck after watching her abysmal effort at taking down the pins. Her blonde hair was unruly, almost scraggly, and completely unstyled. She was wearing ratty gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt so worn and oversized that one side of it had completely fallen down her shoulder. Bellamy's mouth twisted when he realized she was barefoot. Who the hell bowls barefoot?

Bellamy glanced overhead at the screen and also realized that her name was the only one scored. She was bowling alone. As he walked across the floor, he noticed that she was the only one in the room that wasn't a secret service member.

"Clarke?"

the girl didn't respond as she watched for her bowling ball to pop back up in the ball return. "Clarke," the security director barked, causing the girl to jump slightly before turning around with sagging shoulders to face the rest of the room. "Come meet your new bodyguard."

She padded across the room, her bare feet making quiet slapping noises against the polished floor. Crossing her arms, she stopped a few feet in front of Bellamy, her head cocked to one side. Bellamy was briefly reminded of a golden retriever. Unconsciously frowning at himself, he averted his eyes as hers scanned him up and down.

"Clarke," she introduced herself with a slight jerk of the head.

"I know," Bellamy answered in an almost weary voice. She raised her eyebrows.

"So, do you have a name, or…?" She asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Bellamy," he said flatly, nodding at her.

"That's Mr. Blake," the security director corrected, her eyes trained on Clarke.

"I really don't care if she calls-"

"Mr. Blake is appropriate," the director spoke again, a sharp edge to her already clipped voice. "Well, now that you've been introduced, Bellamy, please escort Clarke to her room. It's almost time for her to join her mother for dinner and she needs to freshen up." A single, thin eyebrow lifted slightly as she glanced at Clarke's bare feet.

"But I said I was taking dinner in my room tonight," Clarke interjected, her mouth twisting down at the corners.

"Your mother insisted you join her this evening."

Clarke stared at the director for a few seconds in silence. "Right then," she muttered, her voice wound tight. Her eyes rolled briefly toward the ceiling. Without warning, she elbowed her way through the swinging door.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Bellamy squared his shoulders and followed.

"So they hired someone they thought could keep up with me this time, huh?" Clarke asked him without turning around as she bounded up the narrow stairwell. Bellamy had no desire to respond to this. She led him swiftly down a long, tiled hallway, glistening with marble columns and covered in plush red carpet. Bellamy had seen it all several times before in his training, but he still got distracted by the grandeur of the place. The luxury and excess of it all.

"Hurry up, it'll still be there tomorrow," her voice came from several yards ahead of him. He quickened his pace and followed her up a wider, grander staircase than the one leading from the basement. She scampered upward, ignoring the polished handrail. At the top of the stairs, she took a left turn down the long hallway and abruptly turned to the left again.

"This is me," she told him as she turned to face him, gesturing toward a heavy-looking wooden door. Bellamy looked past her to the elegantly scripted plaque on the door: The Queen's Bedroom. Bellamy attempted to repress the urge to snort and sorely failed. Narrowing her eyes, Clarke sighed impatiently.

"It's been named that since 1963, you know." Bellamy nodded at her politely. "Whatever, I didn't have a choice in rooms anyway." She fished a key from around her neck and unlocked the door, pushing against the heavy oak. Bellamy made a motion to follow her before remembering it was protocol to remain stationed outside the door. He shuffled awkwardly. Hearing his footsteps, she turned to face him again.

"I'll be back out in a second. You're staying out here, remember?" Bellamy scowled. She nodded toward the small, ornate couch outside the door. Before he could reply, the door had clicked shut behind her.

Bellamy sank gingerly onto the couch and immediately discovered that it was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. He sighed, wondering if it was too soon to regret agreeing to this position. This girl acted like the world was at her feet and she was fully aware of that fact, and he wasn't sure he had the patience to deal with that at such near proximity every damn day. Shaking his head to himself, he brushed his finger along the tassels trimming a silk pillow that matched the couch's upholstery. At least the pay was more than good, he reminded himself.

"Okay, let's go."

Bellamy glanced up abruptly. She hadn't been in there for more than five minutes. Looking at her properly, he understood why: they only thing she'd done was brush her hair back into a braid and shoved some sneakers onto her feet.

"I thought they said…weren't you supposed to-"

"There's no good reason for me to get dressed up for this, honestly," she replied shortly, shrugging her shoulders.

He stared at her for a second or two. "if you say so, Miss Griffin." She visibly flinched at the formality before striding past him into the main hall. Feeling more and more like a clingy pet, he turned to follow.

Clarke stopped at a giant pair of double doors. Her hand on the brass knob, she checked her watch and turned to look at him once more.

"Come back for me in half an hour. You should go to the kitchens and get something yourself. No later than half an hour though, okay?"

"Got it, Miss Griffin." He squared his shoulders as she began to open the door.

"Oh, and one more thing?" He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "Please just call me Clarke."

…

Bellamy returned exactly twenty minutes later, taking up a position by the double doors. From inside, he heard the muffled voice of President Griffin. Strangely, that was the only voice he heard. Either the president was talking to herself, or Clarke wasn't responding to anything she said.

Bellamy was willing to bet it was the latter.

A silence fell in the room, and a few seconds later the door swung open. "Good night, Clarke," the president's voice called from within as Clarke emerged over the threshold.

"Good night," Clarke replied in a wooden voice, her eyes trained ahead as she headed back down the hall. Bellamy followed quietly. As he looked around, something occurred to him.

"Why weren't there any tourists here today? I didn't see any on the public level when we were down there earlier. I thought tons of people came through here every day."

Clarke twisted her head around, frowning slightly at him. "No one told you during training?" he gave her a blank look. "They quit giving tours about a month or so after my mom took office. Too risky. Too many 'possibilities.'" She waved a dismissive hand in the air as she spoke. She continued down the hall, but her pace slowed. Bellamy finally fell in stride with her.

"That's odd that they didn't mention it to me. I guess it's nice though, not having to deal with all of that every day."

Clarke shrugged, crossing one arm over her midsection. "It's a big house. It should be filled."

Bellamy was mildly surprised at her answer, but he didn't say anything else. He'd assumed that she enjoyed having the place practically to herself.

Clarke's eyes shifted from side to side as she bit her lip. "I'm going to bed," she announced, backing into her room. "It's time for the night shifters to take over anyways. See you tomorrow, I guess." Bellamy nodded as the door clicked shut. Exhaling, he glanced at his watch: 6:54 p.m. He hadn't expected to have finished his duties this early. It wasn't even dark out yet, for Christ's sake. What did she do, just keep herself company for the rest of the night? He speedily turned in his gear and clocked out, eager to get out of the stuffy building.

…

"She's a brat, O," he grumbled at his phone, unbuckling his belt and yanking his black shirt out of his waistband. "I'm not sure I should've signed up for this."

"She can't be that bad, Bell," Octavia's grainy voice assured him on speakerphone.

"Easy for you to say, as a fellow brat," Bellamy teased, reaching into the fridge for the water pitcher.

"Shut up."

"Never." Bellamy grinned.

"I can't believe you actually have to wear a suit to formal events. I haven't seen you in a suit in over half a decade," she laughed.

"Hopefully there won't be many of those," he sighed, grabbing a glass out of the cabinet.

"I hope there are," she said smugly. "Seriously, Bell, do you think there's any way you two will end up friends? You could use more of those."

Bellamy rolled his eyes, gulping half of the glass down at once. He wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand and sighed again. "O, it's a job, not a social opportunity. I'm there to do what I was trained to do, not buddy up with the first daughter." He paced around the kitchen mindlessly. "Besides," he thought back to her cold behavior with her mother and her bossy voice every time she spoke to him. "I don't think we'd get along too well anyways, even if the circumstances were different."

"Well, just play nice, Bell," Octavia warned him in a resigned voice.

"Will do. Give Lincoln my best when he gets in, will you?"

"Got it, big brother. Talk to ya later." The line clicked, and Bellamy's apartment filled with silence once more.

Collapsing onto the couch, Bellamy scrolled through his phone and set four alarms for tomorrow morning. He'd hate to be fired on his second day - or, at least, hate losing the pay rate.

…

"You know, it's typical of guards to stand against the wall near the door, not sit at the table with their prisoners," Clarke said in a dry voice, breaking the stifling silence in the study.

Bellamy shifted in his uncomfortable seat across from her. "I'm not standing over there for three hours straight," he said dully, not looking up from his phone.

"Whatever, Agent Blake," she muttered with a slight toss of her head as she turned a page in her calculus textbook.

"No need for hostility, Miss Griffin," he retorted, sniffing.

Clarke narrowed her eyes at him, but returned to the problem she was solving. A few minutes of silence passed before anyone spoke again.

"So, too good to go to school like the normal kids?" Bellamy asked sourly, eyeing her stack of textbooks nearby.

Clarke glared at him. "I'm not allowed to, smartass," she snapped, clenching her teeth. "I have tutors that show up three times a week instead. Trust me, if I had any choice, I'd be in a classroom with everyone else."

Feeling reproached, Bellamy pursed his lips, wordlessly sinking further back into his chair. He checked his watch.

He'd only been in there for 37 minutes.

The two of them sat silently for another half hour, Clarke scratching away at equations with her pencil, Bellamy scrolling through his phone.

Clarke's pencil suddenly clattered to the table, nearly rolling off before Bellamy caught it. He glanced up, wary.

"I'm starving. You hungry?" He raised his eyebrows. "I guess it doesn't matter, you have to come anyways," she muttered. "Let's go."

…

The White House kitchen was absolutely cavernous. Shining pots and pans hung over a long marble countertop that was decked out with state-of-the-art kitchenware: whisks, blades, spatulas, and the like all gleamed in the overhead lights. A mouthwatering blend of spices danced in the air, and the sizzling meat that hissed from the griddle was enough to make Bellamy's stomach growl.

"You're too good to me," Clarke said from a barstool, her chin in her hands.

Monty grinned. "You forget, Clarke, tacos are both our favorites. Plus, I haven't been allowed to cook them at home ever since Harper had that little incident at El Rincon a few months back. I don't think she'll ever be the same."

Clarke grinned wryly. "Tell her I call for a rematch on those tequila shots, won't you?"

Monty shook his head. "Don't start that. You know sneaking out that night cost a man his job." Monty glanced over at Bellamy. "Unless you really hate the new guy that much."

Bellamy stole a glance at Clarke, whose face betrayed nothing.

"I'm Monty, by the way," Monty added, smiling at Bellamy since he couldn't shake hands.

"Bellamy." He nodded in greeting.

"Monty's the youngest sous chef this place has ever hired," Clarke informed him without looking his way. Monty set a basket full of tacos down in front of her, and her eyes widened.

"Which probably isn't a good thing," she continued after swallowing a mouthful of carne asada. "If he keeps it up, the press is going to start calling me 'fat' instead of just 'curvy.'"

Monty rolled his eyes as he shoved a second basket full of tacos in front of Bellamy. "Don't be ridiculous," he said dryly to Clarke, waving his spatula in the air derisively.

"Um, thanks," Bellamy said toward Monty before cautiously taking a bite, then less cautiously taking another, bigger one. Clarke hadn't been exaggerating at all.

"I would beg you for more, but I have that state dinner my mother insisted I attend coming up tomorrow night, so I guess I should go easy on the tex-mex for now." Clarke sighed, dusting her hands as she polished off her final bite. "Don't want to 'embarrass the family' with my careless appearance again." She shot Bellamy a wry look. "That'll be your first suit event, won't it?"

Bellamy narrowed his eyes, looking away. Clarke smirked.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll look better in your secret service uniform than I'll look in whatever the publicists decide I'll wear."

Clarke's phone buzzed, and her head snapped down to read the screen immediately. Bellamy realized that this was the first time he'd heard her phone go off while he'd been around her in the past two days.

Clarke bit back a smile as she returned her phone to her jean pocket. "I'm headed back to my room for a bit." She directed her gaze to Bellamy. "You can stay here and finish your lunch break, if you want."

Bellamy shook his head. "Nope. Doesn't work that way."

"I won't tell if you won't."

"Nice try." Bellamy stood up from his seat. "I'm not getting myself fired before my first week on the job is up."

Clarke gave him a long, exasperated glance. "Fine. Have it your way." She waved at Monty, twiddling her fingers in the air in a frivolous manner. "I'll be back tomorrow, Monty. You know I just can't stay away."

Monty gave a slight smile and returned her wave with his spatula.

Bellamy lengthened his strides as he tried to catch up with Clarke, who was practically jogging back to her room.

"What's got you in such a hurry?" He grumbled. He hadn't seen her this enthusiastic about anything since he'd met her. Not even the tacos.

"Nothing in particular," she replied breezily, but he could hear the smile in her voice. When they reached her door, she unlocked it quickly and flew inside, calling "see you later!" over her shoulder before the door slammed shut. Bellamy thought he heard a man's voice laugh on the other side.

The princess has a secret, Bellamy thought ruefully, and suddenly found himself hoping that the door blocked out more sound than it looked like it would. He sank into his chair, thinking that tomorrow, he'd bring a book to work to entertain himself.

…

Bellamy had nearly dozed off when the door next to him creaked open. "Hurry back!" he heard Clarke's voice call, half laughing, as a guy he'd never seen before appeared next to him, carefully closing the door behind him. Bellamy raised an eyebrow.

"You must be the new guy," the other said, extending a hand to Bellamy. "I'm Finn, Finn Collins. Senator Collins's son?"

"Okay," Bellamy said slowly, briefly shaking his hand. Finn leaned down, lowering his voice. "Hey, could you do me a favor and not mention this to anyone? Clarke doesn't get to keep much to herself, and, you know…"

"Got it," Bellamy nodded, watching him run a hand through dark hair that was uncharacteristically long for a senator's son. Bellamy couldn't help but notice that the guy seemed a little nervous. He gathered that Finn was something President Griffin hadn't been made aware of.

"Good man," Finn replied, tapping Bellamy lightly on the arm. "Well in that case, I'll just-"

"Finn!" a voice rang out from behind them, brimming with excitement. "Finn, you're back early!" A girl in dark slacks and a button-up ran forward, ripping off her headset as she jumped into his arms. Bellamy recognized her as Raven Reyes, the head of security technology, whom he'd met briefly during training.

Raven Reyes, who was currently planting a kiss on the senator's son.

Bellamy's eyes widened briefly before he could compose himself.

Raven ruffled Finn's hair. "I was just heading over here to bring Agent Blake a new radio! I had no idea you were already here!" She smiled radiantly, leaning forward to give him another kiss.

"Surprise," Finn repeated feebly after breaking away, glancing skittishly at Bellamy. Bellamy frowned, but said nothing. He didn't particularly like Clarke, but he didn't like seeing anyone get two-timed, and Raven seemed nice enough.

As if summoned by the mere thought of her name, the door to Clarke's room opened, Clarke's voice emerging before the rest of her did.

"Hey, is it okay if we-" Clarke broke off as she stepped over the threshold, her face freezing as she took in the scene in front of her. Finn was entwined in Raven's arms, who was gazing up at him affectionately. Finn, looking even more alarmed than before, attempted to pull away from Raven's grasp, but she wouldn't allow it.

"Hey, Clarke! I don't think you've met my boyfriend yet, Finn Collins? I can't remember if the two of you have crossed paths before or not."

Clarke's face remained rigid, expressionless. Bellamy's gaze flitted back and forth between the other three, wary of what would happen next.

Clarke seemed to suddenly shake herself internally, plastering on a smile. "Yeah, we've met once or twice," she said, only a trace of stiffness in her voice.

"Good." Raven smiled, patting Finn's chest. "Well, I just came over to give Agent Blake a new radio, so we'd better get going." Raven fished a small black walkie talkie from her blazer pocket and handed it to Bellamy, who took it wordlessly, still watching Finn and Clarke. "Don't break this one too, okay? Finn and I have a lot of catching up to do. You two have a good afternoon!" Raven smiled at them again before grabbing Finn's hand and walking off. Finn glanced back over his shoulder, his pleading expression directed at Clarke, whose own face had gone stony.

"Uh," Bellamy began, unsure of what to say in a situation like this.

"We're not talking about this," she said in a low, bitter voice, turning on her heel and slamming the door shut behind her.

Bellamy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

…

Clarke sat on the floor of her empty suite, unable to move. She felt sick.

The other woman. The other woman. The other woman. She couldn't get the words out of her head.

She'd been so stupid. How could she not have known? Raven worked in the same damn building she lived in.

Wait. How could Finn have been so stupid? Clarke wondered. He was the one cheating on an amazing woman in the same damn building she worked in.

Clarke knew it wasn't her fault, but that didn't make the invisible fist squeezing at her chest disappear. Finn had been something to look forward to. Now what did she have?

Anger and disappointment.

Clarke pulled out her paint tubes from the bottom dresser drawer.

…

Some time had passed when Clarke was startled by knuckles rapping at her door. Her paintbrush came to a halt against the wall, the wet, deep blue still shining in the lamplight.

"It's time for dinner." Bellamy's voice sounded tired.

Clarke paused before calling out. "I'm not going. My mother isn't even home tonight." She resumed painting.

Clarke heard grumbling from the other side of the door that she couldn't decipher.

"You can't just starve."

Clarke sighed at his persistence. "Why do you care?" She heard no reply. "Fine, I'll just text Monty to send us something up."

She dipped her brush back into the paint and continued to work.

About half an hour later, she could hear Monty and Bellamy chatting outside the door, Bellamy's voice a low, indistinct baritone, Monty's a lighter tenor. After a moment or two, the second voice faded, and Clarke heard another knock at the door.

"I'm coming in," Bellamy warned as the doorknob turned. Bellamy stopped dead as the door swung shut behind him.

"What the hell are you doing?" He stood motionless, a pizza box and a two-liter of soda in hand, as he stared at her silk, terracotta-colored wallpaper, which was on its way to being covered in night-sky paint and oversized constellations. "Both of our asses are going to be toast when someone sees that, Griffin!"

Clarke rolled her eyes. "You can't get in trouble if you weren't in here to see me start it. Besides, they'll have plenty of time to repaper this once my mother's term is up. It's not a big deal."

She glanced at him. "Bring that over here, I'm starving."

Bellamy's shoulders fell in resignation. He crossed the room and set her dinner down on the speckled canvas drop cloth beside her. As bent down, he noticed that a smudge of navy paint had found its way onto her jawline.

As he rose to walk away, Clarke elbowed his calf. "Hey, you can sit, too, you know. This is for both of us."

Bellamy hesitated for a moment before crouching down next to her and sitting cross-legged.

"I hope you like pineapple on your pizza," Clarke said as she set aside her paintbrushes and cracked open the lid of the pizza box.

Bellamy grimaced. "Are you serious? That's a crime against the culinary arts." He frowned as he picked up a slice for himself. "You're lucky I'm too hungry to care."

"I'll let you pick next time, if you're nice," She assured him, taking a swig of Dr. Pepper straight from the plastic bottle and passing it over to him. "But no black olives. Never. Understood?"

Bellamy shrugged and took the bottle from her, suddenly very aware of the lack of formality in the situation. He wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"I can't believe you did that," he gestured to the half-painted wall. "Someone's going to be furious about that."

Clarke waved a hand dismissively before licking pizza sauce off of her thumb. "They'll get over it. It'll look better when I'm finished with it. Besides, I'm the one that's stuck in here 24/7."

Bellamy grudgingly conceded that she had a fair point as he polished off his slice of pizza, tossing the crust back into a corner of the box.

"You don't eat the crust?" Clarke said in a derisive tone, her pale eyebrows climbing up her forehead. "What are you, twelve?"

Bellamy shook his head. "There is no inherent value in pizza crust unless it's stuffed with cheese or dipped in ranch dressing. Everyone knows this."

Clarke opened her mouth to argue when there was a heavy thump against the door.

Bellamy's hand immediately flew to the gun at his hip on instinct, standing up so fast there was a rush to his head.

"Jesus," Clarke muttered as she watched how quickly he went for his weapon.

"Clarke!" Finn's voice was muffled by the heavy wood of the door. "Clarke, we need to talk, just let me in, okay?"

Bellamy's hand fell away from his gun as Clarke's fists clenched. He glanced at her questioningly.

"I've got this," she answered, wiping her hands against her thighs as she rose next to him. Bellamy noticed her shoulders square up as she reached for the door. She'd only opened it a few inches when Finn poked his head around the corner.

"Listen, it's not what you think!" He said, his face a mixture of fear and supplication.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it's exactly what I think. What else could it possibly be?" Bellamy was taken aback at the stern tone of her voice, one that he hadn't heard before.

"I-I thought that Raven and I were going to end up taking a break, and-"

"Don't try to justify yourself, Finn. It just sounds pathetic at this point." Clarke crossed her arms with finality.

"Listen, you know I care about you, Clarke. I think - I think I might even-" Finn tried to push further into the room.

"Don't you dare," Clarke said, her voice deadly. "Don't you even think about it." She paused, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as her head bowed.

"You knew how I felt, Finn." Bellamy went still when he heard the crack in her voice. "You knew how I felt, and you didn't once stop to think of the consequences." Finn was silent.

"I didn't deserve this." Clarke shook her head, her voice beginning to sound a bit watery. "Raven didn't deserve this." She turned half her body away from him. "You should go, Finn."

Finn tried once more to push himself into the room. "Clarke, just hear me out, alright? We can work through this-"

"Finn, go."

"Just listen, okay? This doesn't have to end here! We can just-"

"I think it's time for you to leave." Both Finn and Clarke glanced back at Bellamy, who'd come to stand behind Clarke at the door. Finn looked as though he'd only just now realized there was someone else in the room.

Finn shook himself and trained his glance back down to Clarke. "Just hear me out, will you? There's no need to be upset about this if we can just-"

"Leave." Bellamy and Clarke were both shocked to hear their voices in unison. Finn stopped, his eyes bouncing back and forth from one face to the other. Shaking his head, he reached down to straighten his rumpled shirt.

"Fine, then. I can see this won't be going anywhere." He took a step back from the threshold.

"But Clarke," he said, his eyes boring into her expressionless ones. "Don't forget what I said before. I meant it." He turned slowly on his heel, glancing back several times as he walked away.

Clarke slowly nudged the door closed with her toe and turned around. She was surprised to find her nose almost colliding with Bellamy's chin. He hurriedly stepped back.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Stuff like this is my job, princess," he answered, carefully keeping his face neutral.

After a moment, she gave a half nod, then stepped away from him to gather their abandoned dinner.

Her eyes snapped back to him. "Come on," she said, nodding toward the door.

"What?"

"We're going to a place where I can eat my pineapple pizza in peace."

…

"I have a feeling this isn't allowed," Bellamy said as Clarke spread a blanket out on the brickwork next to a solar panel. The sun had already set, and a gentle breeze blew at their backs.

"I never ask permission first, it ruins everything fun." Clarke sank down onto the roof and snatched another slice of pizza from the box.

"I'm so getting reprimanded for this," Bellamy grumbled. Clarke patted the blanket next to her.

"Sit down, the pizza's getting cold."

Exasperated, Bellamy gave in and sat down beside her, reaching for another slice of now-lukewarm pizza.

"In case you were wondering, we're still not talking about what just happened," Clarke said around a mouthful of ham and pineapple.

"Didn't ask," Bellamy said calmly, reaching for the soda.

"Good. Don't."

They were silent for a moment before Bellamy spoke again. "He seems like a dick, though."

"Your opinions aren't part of the job description, Agent Blake."

Bellamy held up his hands. "Are you always this pleasant?"

"It's been a long day."

Bellamy smirked. "Ah yes, a long day of sitting in the lap of luxury, being waited on hand and foot, practically being considered American royalty."

Clarke's eyes bored into his. "Do you think this is fun for me? Do you think it's easy, being stuck in here all the time, never being able to leave without days of planning and a security detail? Do you think it's a good time to never be able to see my friends, or even make any outside of this goddamn house? Do you?"

Bellamy, taken aback at the seriousness of her answer, said nothing. Clenching and unclenching his jaw, he racked his brain for a way to diffuse the tension.

"Did you, uh, did you know you've got paint on your face?" Bellamy pointed to the corresponding part of his own jawline. "Here."

Clarke's eyes widened. "This whole time? Are you kidding me?" Her hand flew to touch the left side of her face. "I was sitting there arguing with Finn and that whole time, I had paint on my face like a kindergartener, and you didn't tell me?" She threw up her hands. "Then what are you even here for?" She scrubbed at her face with her fingernails.

"A little to the left," Bellamy offered helpfully.

"This better not stain," she groaned. "The state dinner is tomorrow night and I can't show up with a blue face." She paused. "One second thought, if I have a blue face, maybe I won't have to go." She stopped scraping at her cheek.

"Trust me, I'm not looking forward to it any more than you are."

They sat in silence for a moment, finishing off the last of their food.

Bellamy turned to Clarke. "We'd better go, unless you want me to have to radio in our position."

"Fine," she conceded, grabbing the empty box. Bellamy, feeling slightly guilty about what he'd said earlier, offered a hand to help her up.

She ignored it.