Clarke doesn't know why Bellamy's been following her around all afternoon, but she's not sure if she likes it. Sure, she likes him, even loves him most of the time, but he's being incredibly strange.

He's there when she greets Fox by the water barrels. He's there when she lectures Wick about teaching the kids science-themed pick-up lines during his morning physics lecture. He's there when she ducks into the cabin they now share to change her shirt after Monty accidentally spills a cup of his latest brew all over her (and, okay, that time she doesn't mind his presence so much because whenever Clarke's shirtless, Bellamy's always prone to doing very interesting things about it).

But, still. He's been right behind her all afternoon. It's been hours of playing mother duck to his duckling. And it's not like he's being totally unobtrusive. No, Bellamy pipes up regularly with the most peculiar of comments, and it's driving Clarke up the wall.

Now she's filing through the cookhouse and filling a dinner tray. Bellamy's right behind her, and when he observes that the color of the berry preserves is the same as her lips except, er, darker, but still pretty, she's had enough.

"That's it!" she says, and drops her plate back on the buffet. She grabs Bellamy's collar and drags him past a sniggering Murphy and a confused Harper. In the middle of winter, it's cold enough that most people will go straight from getting their food in the cookhouse to eating around the fires, so for privacy Clarke tows him toward the rows of cabins instead.

"Okay, what the hell is going on with you?" Clarke demands once they've gone far enough from the dinner-goers, whirling around and poking a finger into his (distractingly firm) chest. Bellamy's eyes shift briefly away from hers, and the scar along his temple and the freckles that bridge across his nose are shown up by the flush that touches his face.

"What do you mean?" he says lamely.

Clarke glares at him. "That weird ass berry comment? That's the seventh time you've commented on my appearance today," she reminds him. "The ninth compliment if you count your mentions of my 'nice, low voice' and my 'neat, even stitches.' What gives?"

"I, uh, wanted to make you feel…beautiful," he admits awkwardly.

Clarke just gapes at him. "...What?"

"You heard me," he says defensively, his shoulders hunching a little. "I'm sure as hell not saying it again."

Clarke can't help but roll her eyes at that. Bellamy Blake is capable of being both the world's biggest moron and the world's biggest softy.

"Bellamy," she says, "That's very, er, sweet, but I know what I look like. I don't need compliments, however unique they may be, to tell me I look good." He's looking at her funny and she hastens to explain. "Attractiveness is a spectrum with quantifiable factors, and if you fit certain criteria, there's a reasonable expectation that you're considered pretty, or hot, or whatever."

Bellamy frowns at her. "First of all, all that sciencey jargon you just spit out sounds like bullshit if I've ever heard it. Second of all, I didn't say that you look good," he says. "I said beautiful."

Clarke blinks at him. "Is there a difference?"

But Bellamy ignores her. "And I don't just want you to know objectively that you look good, Clarke. I want to make you feel beautiful."

"I-I don't think that's a very appropriate activity for the middle of camp," Clarke stutters out in an attempt to lighten the mood that's become a little strange and heavy.

He ignores it (and she's not surprised; it was a pretty pathetic attempt).

"I know you, Clarke, and while you're pretty good at acknowledging the logic of something, you're not always as good at believing in it," Bellamy says.

"That's not true!" Clarke protests. "I am so."

"Yeah?" challenges Bellamy. "Then explain last week."

"Uh," says Clarke. "What?" She tries to think of what on earth Bellamy could be talking about, but she's drawing a blank.

"Last week," Bellamy says again, "When we were in TonDC for the solstice festival, you went on and on about how beautiful the Trikru were in their fancy party paint, and how nice Octavia looked in her new cloak, and how great Monroe and Fox's braids looked. But when I told you that you looked pretty, you made that noise you make, the one in your throat, when you think someone is full of shit."

"I do not make a noise like that," Clarke scoffs.

"That noise! You just made it!"

She did? Oops. She did. Well, that doesn't prove anything.

"Bellamy," Clarke says patiently. "How much do you remember about the festival?"

He shrugs. "All the important bits. Fancy paint, fancy dancing, fancy food."

"Fancy alcohol," Clarke adds dryly. "Bellamy, that pomegranate wine hit me so hard and fast that I was drunk by the time I finished the first glass."

"So?" He's got that petulant look on his face, the one that he insists is not a pout, Clarke, honestly, I'm a grown man but it absolutely is and it absolutely makes Clarke want to kiss the look off his face every single time she sees it.

"So," Clarke says, "You know how I usually get, Bellamy. Everyone's beautiful, everything's wonderful, everybody gets compliments."

Clarke thinks this a perfectly reasonable explanation for her apparent behavior during the festival, but Bellamy's shaking his head.

"I know you're a happy drunk, but then why did you make your disagreeing noise?" he asks.

"Well." Clarke pauses. "I don't know." (Bellamy is giving her his I told you so look now, which she thinks is infinitely less adorable than his not-a-pout.) "Hell, Bellamy, I don't remember a lot of what happened at the festival––you haven't proved anything."

Bellamy shrugs and crosses his arms. "Don't care. I'm right, you're wrong, you are beautiful, and I'm going to prove it to you."

"Oh god," says Clarke.

Thankfully, it's a rare day that Bellamy has the entire afternoon off, so he lays off following her around on a daily basis. Of course, they still eat together, sleep and wake together, makes bets together about the status of Raven and Wick's dance around one another, attend Lincoln and Octavia's Trigedasleng lessons together––so Bellamy still gets in plenty of awkward but sweet compliments.

Being apart doesn't necessarily stop Bellamy's silly campaign to insist that Clarke's beautiful, though. When Clarke walks by Bellamy's classics lecture two mornings later, he's expounding loudly on the many characteristics of Aphrodite, known for being the greek goddess of love, pleasure, and beauty; incidentally, she's often depicted with curly blonde hair and, little known fact, one of her pseudonyms is 'Clarke'-–isn't that a coincidence, guys?

Another two days go by, and Monroe presents Clarke with a little set of paints the girl had made out of various gathered herbs and plants. When pressed, Monroe admitted that Bellamy had requested she do it, so Clarke could paint something "as pretty as she is." Clarke can't quite figure out if Bellamy actually said something that cheesy, or if Monroe's embellishing, but she can feel her cheeks heat up as she rolls her eyes.

(She uses the little potted paints that night after dinner. They're wonderful.)

Murphy, looking slightly murderous, stops by the medbay just before lunch the day after that. Obviously under duress of some sort, he delivers a tiny scrap of paper with Bellamy's handwriting scrawled across it.

This in itself isn't new––she's got a little satchel full of the notes he's left her here and there over the last year––but all of those notes are full of everyday things with only brief hints of the massive softy that is peacetime Bellamy Blake.

This note, however, is Bellamy's handwriting but not his own words. Once Murphy delivers the note and bolts, Clarke takes a moment to stare at the writing.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate

The sonnet continues on, but Clarke just stares at the note. A lot of pre-cataclysm literature has been lost, but she recognizes the surviving Shakespeare that Bellamy penned for her, no doubt from memory. She shouldn't be surprised, not really; she knows that Bellamy's well educated. But she can honestly say she never in her life expected to receive a Shakespearean love poem from Bellamy Blake.

What a huge, ridiculously attractive, absolutely adorable, stupidly lovable nerd.

She corners him that evening when he finishes talking over plans for a new all-weather mess hall with Miller and some of the others.

"Come on," she says, and Bellamy catches her hand.

"What's up?" he asks curiously. Once they've moved at least a little further from the loitering groups of their people, Clarke turns to face him.

"Alright," she says, waving the sonnet in front of his face, "You've convinced me. I feel more beautiful than I ever have in my entire life."

Bellamy looks from the note to her grumpy face and grins. "Are you sure? You don't look like you're feeling especially beautiful."

"Oh, I'm sure," she replies. "After this–" (she wiggles the note under his nose again) "I don't see how I could ever doubt it."

"Knew you couldn't resist my logic and charm, princess," Bellamy replies, a smug look taking over his features.

Clarke ignores him and continues. "The question I have, Bellamy Blake, is do you know you're beautiful."

"...What?" He's gone from smug to looking at her skeptically.

"This isn't a one-way street, Bellamy. Beauty is an equal-opportunity characteristic," she informs him in a conversational tone.

"Right," he says slowly.

"The thing is," Clarke says, "while your methods of convincing me were, uh, unconventional but successful, they weren't the speediest of options."

She continues talking over his protests about an uncooperative subject and not aware this was a race, princess! "I have in mind a different method of persuading you to acknowledge your own beauty."

That's got Bellamy shutting his mouth and looking at her appraisingly.

"Oh?" he says, quirking a brow at her.

"Yes." She nods solemnly. "I'm sure I will be very successful, and quickly."

"What makes you so sure?" he asks.

"Well, I'd demonstrate right now, but…" she trails off.

"Yeah?" Bellamy says.

Clarke smiles a slow, sly smile. "But my methods of persuasion are better suited for more private accommodations."

"Well," Bellamy replies immediately, "I'm sorry to say that I'm feeling particularly ugly right now, princess, so maybe we should head to our cabin?"

Clarke laughs and winds her arm through his, allowing him to lead her determinedly toward their quarters. Once there, she proceeds to demonstrate exactly how beautiful he is to her.