Half the names on the list had already been crossed off.

"This is hopeless," Clarke declared, head down on the table, so she didn't have to keep staring at the blaring light of her laptop, practically mocking her. Octavia hummed sympathetically, petting at her blonde hair. "I can't keep living on your futon forever!"

"But it would be so much fun," Octavia said. "It'd be like a sleepover every night!"

"You were literally just complaining about how you can never bring Lincoln over because Clarke's always here," Raven said, sitting down across from Clarke, and Octavia glowered at her as Clarke groaned again.

"Is it really that awful?" Clarke asked, lifting her head up to see Octavia not even bothering to cover up her wince.

"Well," Octavia began, "you know I love you, Clarke, it's just—"

"—she hasn't gotten laid in her own bed for two months, now," Raven finished, and Clarke sighed as Raven continued, "at least you're getting laid, O."

She grabbed at her laptop, and scanned the rest of the names, before looking at Clarke.

"Okay, come on. There has to be someone on here that meets all your expectations. Niylah?"

"One night stand," Clarke mumbled into her arms. "It's kinda awkward. No."

"Emori and Murphy—why are they even on this list, Clarke? You have to have standards, at least."

"Not if I want to find a room at this point, no," Clarke said, half-heartedly attempting to stop Raven from crossing their names off the list. Emori and Murphy were a last resort, really, Clarke wasn't entirely sure what "business arrangement" they had going on but she was certain that it wasn't legal.

"Why can't you get a lease with me, Raven?" Clarke asked hopefully, and Raven was already shaking her head.

"Shortlisted for that abroad thing with Sinclair, remember? I'm crashing with a-a friend."

Clarke and Octavia exchanged glances, and Raven rolled her eyes. "It's professional. We used to work together"

"Professional," Octavia said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Right."

Raven was about to start arguing, before Octavia's phone started buzzing, and she picked it up without looking.

"Helllll-o?" She asked, and then she blinked, and smiled, holding the phone out to Clarke. "Thank me later."

Clarke looked at her suspiciously, before taking the phone.

"O says you've been having trouble finding an apartment," Bellamy Blake rumbled over the phone, voice slightly tinny and faraway, "and Mbege just backed out of our lease. You can come over and look at it, if you want, but I have to get the lease signed by next week."

Clarke perked up, despite the fact that she and Bellamy argued nearly every time they encountered each other, but she was desperate. She made grabby hands for her laptop, and Raven slid it back to her. "What's the address?"

She recognized the street—it was close to their university, where the three of them went to college and Bellamy was working towards his masters in history—and thought that it was maybe the building where Monroe and Harper had been living since their sophomore year.

"When can I see you over here?"

"Tomorrow," she says, eager about the prospect of having a room, even if it was split with Bellamy, "after my classes—does four work?"

"Great. See you then." He disconnected without any warning, and Clarke immediately went to Google, plugging in the address.

"I'm not hearing the thank you," Octavia said, grinning, and Clarke rolled her eyes, kicking her half-heartedly even as she was finding pictures of the apartment building.

Clarke, huddling under her jacket against the crisp breeze, saw Bellamy before he saw her. She hurried over to him, and he just nodded at her, before showing her into the building, up the elevator, and into the apartment.

The building was nice and warm, which was welcome against the changing temperatures into winter, and the apartment was painted in neutral shades of cream and beige. The kitchen was small, the living room already had a beat-up leather couch that Clarke recognized from being at Bellamy's before, always with Octavia.

Bellamy gestured to a closed door. "That'd be your room."

Clarke nodded, and walked over, carefully easing open the door and peeking in.

There wasn't much to speak of in provided furniture in there, but there were three little windows; two against the south wall, and one against the west, leaking warm orange light from the setting sun. She could already see where all her furniture would go—desk near the two windows, bed here, cozy armchair in a corner there. Clarke nodded, and turned to him. "I'll take it."

Bellamy's face temporarily transforms with his relieved smile—his eyes crinkle up, his brown eyes warm, and his white teeth flash, his head ducking briefly, before his face settles back into the usual moue of indifference. "Let's talk rent, then."

They hashed out all the little details, sitting at what would become their kitchen table, eventually ordering steaming, greasy pizza as they duke it out over the utilities, who'd bring what to contribute to their kitchen and living room, and what the ground rules for shared and unshared food are, and decide that they'll both start moving in as soon as possible. Clarke snatched the last piece of pizza, grinning triumphantly, and he rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"Octavia'll be thrilled," he said eventually, "she can visit the both of us with just one stop."

Clarke grinned, thinking of it, and then pointed to a spot on the counter. "There for the coffee machine, you think?"

Clarke slowly and gradually starts moving all of her things out of Octavia's living room, with Lincoln helpfully doing all the heavy lifting, providing use to his car, and plying her with a lot of his homemade baked goods.

"Housewarming gift," he said, solemn, and Clarke nodded solemnly back, before immediately stuffing a blueberry muffin into her mouth.

Bellamy immediately snatched the food out of her hands, and lounged away on the couch, pointedly not helping as they cart in Clarke's things and slowly working his way through the lemon bars.

At last, once they were done, Clarke flopped down onto the loveseat, sighing in relief.

"You eat yet?" Bellamy asked, and Clarke shook her head. "Chinese food? My treat."

Clarke grinned, and agreed, and it turns out that Bellamy Blake is a notorious eggroll thief. They lounge in the living room ("just this once" Bellamy cautions) and watch football together, and they trash talk each other's teams, and Clarke can actually see this kind of working.

And it does.

Kind of.

It's nice that Octavia keeps dropping by to see the pair of them, and Bellamy's a good cook, when he actually feels like cooking. He's very timely about his rent. Their apartment turns out to be a good launching point for most nights out, and Bellamy mothering over Octavia's actually a bit hilarious when they're both drunk. Not that Bellamy seems to come out particularly much, anyways; Clarke knew he had a night job to help fund for the Blakes' tuition, but she didn't really know what it was. But that meant that most nights Clarke could sprawl out in their living room.

Living with Bellamy Blake, however, seems to be a whole lot like Clarke had expected it to be; bickering over who used up all the hot water, bickering when it turns out that their boiler is broken, bickering over who ate the last of Lincoln's treats, bickering over what to watch or order in or who had what chore what week, bickering over the stains from glitter that Clarke swore she used once, Bellamy, God.

When Clarke complains about it over a Skype call-and-drink-together with Octavia and Raven (who's somewhere in the South Americas, doing the whole abroad thing with her mentor and favorite professor, Sinclair) Raven said matter-of-factly, "Come on, Clarke. You love fighting with people. It's practically your lifeblood."

"We became friends because you were fighting people, remember?" Octavia prompted, nudging at her with her elbow, nearly sloshing her wine over Clarke's carpet.

"No, we started becoming friends when you stripped down to jump into a pool we weren't allowed to be in," Clarke said absently, "and besides, this is about your brother."

"Fine, we became friends because we were both fighting people," Raven said. "Most people have hobbies, Clarke. You have just—being ready to fight, all the time."

Clarke opened her mouth to argue, realized that would prove her point, and shut her mouth, taking a moody sip of her vodka soda as Octavia and Raven laughed at her.

After the Skype call, Clarke and Octavia curled up together in Clarke's bed, and Octavia let out a happy sigh, drunkenly pushing her nose up against Clarke's cheek, then pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

"I'm really glad you live together, really," Octavia said, and Clarke blinked at her, slow and sleepy.

"Really?"

"Really really," Octavia said seriously. "He likes you, Clarke. You're, like, the fightiest best friends."

"Best friends?" Clarke said, wriggling to stare at Octavia. "I thought we were best friends."

"You can have more than one best friend, silly," Octavia said, in a duh sort of voice, and added, "I don't know. It's like... mom and dad friends are living together at last. My favorite people under one roof, 'cept Lincoln."

Clarke opened her mouth to continue, but Octavia hummed and snuggled closer. "Night, Dad friend."

"Dad friend?" She asked, but either Octavia was already out or she just decided that she wasn't responding anymore.

She was awoken by Octavia, unaffected by hangovers as ever, banging her fists on the kitchen table and demanding Bellamy make them breakfast. Clarke smiled through her headache, and rolled over to see a glass of water and some Advil on her nightstand. She sighed in relief, taking a moment to ponder at Octavia's sudden thoughtfulness, before taking the Advil then chugging the water, before she shuffled into the kitchen, pouring herself coffee in the biggest mug they owned.

"Thanks for the Advil," Clarke muttered, once she'd drank half her mug, and Bellamy grunted, dishing out the omelettes Octavia had charmed him into making, before turning to the stove, where bacon was cooking.

Octavia nudged her, and Clarke blinked at her, before looking at Bellamy, whose back was to them.

"Oh," she said aloud, not meaning to, before she took a bigger-than-usual sip of coffee. "Uh, yeah. Thanks, Bell."

Clarke saw his nod, then he turned, pouring the dregs of the coffee into his travel mug.

"Be back later," he said. "I've got office hours—it's your turn to make dinner, then I've got work after that."

Clarke nodded, and then Bellamy left. Octavia smirked, shoving her omelette into her mouth.

"See?" She asked through a mouthful of eggs. "He likes you just fine."

Clarke rolled her eyes, and hunkered down over her breakfast.

The semester dragged on, and slowly, Clarke started to see what Octavia meant. Whenever she went out for drinks with Octavia, or Monty and Jasper, or Monroe and Harper, and came back clearly having bitten off more than she could chew, there would always be water and Advil waiting for her. He'd always asked after her schedule, and she'd always thought it was so he could figure out when she'd be out of the apartment, but she slowly started to realize it was so he knew where she was, and she did the same in kind. They overlapped for breakfast, and dinner, but she was gone for her classes most of the day and he was gone for office hours and his job in the evening. He'd prepped study snacks, to her amusement, during midterms, and waved her off when she teased him about it. (They'd come in handy, though, when Clarke was in the library after midnight. But seriously.)

When they were together, though, other than all the bickering it was... surprisingly companionable. They squawked over bad plots of horrible movies together, they tended to have the same taste in food, and Bellamy had a habit for sitting so still that he made a perfect sketching subject, so there were half-finished sketches of Bellamy dotting her sketchbooks, scraps of paper, napkins. She'd even drawn a cartoon of him, stamping on the ground with steam coming out of his ears, the time that he'd blown up over the trash not being collected for two weeks in a row that he pinned up on the fridge.

It hit Thanksgiving, creeping up on them slowly and then surprising them with how near it was, and Clarke was packing up her suitcase to go back home, to eat dinner with her mom and her boyfriend Marcus, Bellamy was the one walking around the apartment, making sure she hadn't left behind anything she needed.

"So," Clarke called, folding up the last of her laundry, "what are you and Octavia doing for Thanksgiving?"

Bellamy emerged from his room, holding the charger she'd lent him, dropping it into her carryon backpack, then vanishing into the kitchen. "Not much, probably. Might just have her over here, gorge ourselves on dinner, and end up drinking a lot of wine."

"Sounds fun," Clarke said wistfully, thinking of Octavia and Bellamy's drunken shenanigans she'd seen already, the way they fought even when their arms were wrapped around each other's shoulders, the way they tried to one-up their radical acts, how they howled along with any song that came up on the radio, even when they'd never heard the song before.

"How about you?" Bellamy called, and from the clanking in there, it sounded like he was making dinner. Clarke's smile faded, and she shrugged, even though Bellamy couldn't see.

"Just dinner with my mom and Marcus, I guess. Might visit my dad and Wells. Dinner with Jaha, at some point."

Bellamy scowled. He'd met Thelonious Jaha exactly once, when he'd come up to visit with Clarke's mom a year or so back, and it hadn't gone particularly well, but then he said, "That's it?"

Clarke shrugged again, and said, in a voice lighter than she felt, "It'll be some time to bingewatch some shows, I guess. Make some art without you complaining about paint stains."

"They're a menace, Clarke," he complained half-heartedly.

"Yeah, yeah," Clarke said, rolling her eyes, "Invest in some tarps, then."

"It's your art, I'm not paying for—for stain damage, or whatever—"

"I've gotten out the stains just fine!" She argued, and she could hear his snort. "Tell that to my hoodie, a casualty of Earth Skills/Earth Kills."

Clarke paused, considering the hoodie, which had been smeared over with green and blue paint, and she said, "You have to admit that was a really good paired piece, though." It had been her midterm project for the painting-centric course she was taking this semester, and her usually grouchy professor Anya had actually spared her a smile. Well, it had been more of a snarl, but Clarke counted that as approval.

Clarke heard their sink running, and started consider what Bellamy might be making, running the contents of their cabinets through her mind. "Pasta?" She called, as a guess, and he let out a hum of affirmation. Clarke grinned. Bellamy was actually really good at making pasta, probably because he'd made it a lot for Octavia when they were kids, and Clarke was guessing he was trying some new recipe he'd shown her online the other day.

Clarke surveyed her suitcase, figured it was good enough, and zipped it up, lugging it next to the front door, before she went into their kitchen, sitting on a counter as she watched Bellamy cook the chicken.

"Don't just sit around," Bellamy grumbled, waving the spatula towards the cutting board. "Get started on the sauce."

Clarke made a show of rolling her eyes, but she slid off the counter and obligingly removed a pan, hip-checking Bellamy lightly as she put the pan on the stove, and then started scrolling through her phone, before she nodded in satisfaction and set it down, music starting to blare through the speakers, and she bopped absentmindedly to the beat as she stirred in the ingredients.

Bellamy made a show of sighing increasingly loudly at each song, and Clarke made a show of dancing increasingly energetically. By the time Bellamy was mixing together the pasta, the chicken, and the sauce, Clarke was shimmying eagerly along, drink sloshing in her hand as she sang along, grinning at Bellamy the whole time.

"What, Bellamy?" She challenged, shaking her hips eagerly, "Not a fan of corny nineties R&B?"

He turned to the bowl, chin ducking down, but he could see the small smile on his face. "Heard it too much, that's all."

Clarke grinned, and was about to start dancing even more enthusiastically before he pressed the bowl into her hands, firm.

"Time to eat," he said, "and not dance."

"I could do both," she pointed out, and he rolled his eyes, directing her to the table and shutting off the music.

"It's our last dinner before you leave for a week, please don't mar it with your awful dancing—"

Clarke stuck out her tongue at him, and he set down a glass of wine in front of her, before settling with his own bowl and glass.

"Cheers," Bellamy said. "It's been about a month and a half and we haven't killed each other."

Clarke smirked and clinked glasses with him. "And to many month-and-a-halves more."

It turned out, as a surprise, Bellamy had smuggled in some of the specialty peach ice cream that he always stole from her and dished them up two bowls, and Clarke ran her tongue over the spoon, closing her eyes in bliss.

"Mmmm," she murmured happily, savoring the taste of peach and the bite of cold, and let out a small sigh, opening her eyes, and dug in for more, glancing up at Bellamy as she wrapped her lips around the spoon, seeing him staring at her, spoon held loosely in his hand.

"What?" Clarke asked, around a mouthful of ice cream, and Bellamy shook himself, checked his watch, cursed slightly, and started bolting down his ice cream.

"Work," he said, "soon. Listen, I might be awake in the morning, might not—"

Clarke nodded, and once he'd finished, stood up, holding out her arms to hug him. He leant down to hug her, and Clarke rested her chin on his shoulder, savoring the heat that always seemed to emanate off of him, patting him on the back and withdrawing. He absentmindedly pressed a kiss to her temple, and jogged to the door.

Clarke stood frozen, and her hand lifted unbidden to where he'd kissed her, but hesitated, as if she'd be wiping the whole experience away. Bellamy, local grump, had kissed her on the temple, like it was barely even a second thought, like he hadn't even meant to do it. That was probably it; she'd seen him do the same to Octavia dozens of times. Maybe it was just a sort of goodbye-reflex. Bellamy was a tactile person when drunk, and with people he cared about. Maybe Clarke was starting to enter that circle.

She felt the butterflies in her stomach, and purposefully quashed the feeling as best as she could.

Clarke was trying hard not to tug out the fancy twist her mother had put in her hair, squirming a little in the tights and purposefully modest dress her mother had recommended, and avoiding the searching eyes of Thelonious Jaha. She ducked out onto a balcony, taking in a deep breath of not-quite-chill-enough air, and hesitated, before removing her phone from her clutch and absently scrolling through her apps.

Nothing seemed really appealing, though, and she ended up jabbing at the phone icon, and then pressing on the first contact that jumped out at her.

"Hey, it's Clarke!" Bellamy said, after three rings, and she heard Octavia shriek over the line, and felt herself smiling, shoulders relaxing, stress melting away.

"Hey," she said, holding the phone close to her ear. "Happy Thanksgiving, you two."

"HAPPY THANKSGIVING, CLARKE!" Octavia screamed into the receiver, and Clarke laughed even more, pulling back and grimacing.

"Jeez, O, you need to break the sound barrier in California too?" Bellamy groaned, and Clarke grinned at the thought of them, dark-haired heads ducked over the phone, dinner abandoned on the table.

"So, it turns out it isn't just dinner with Marcus," Clarke said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It's actually dinner with all their political friends."

Octavia and Bellamy both made appropriately sympathetic noises, and Bellamy said, "The dinner must have been good, at least. They're a ton of rich people, they probably have caterers or some shit."

"Dinner hasn't even started," Clarke said. "I feel like I'm in The Shining, except instead of hotel hell it's just cocktail hour hell, except there aren't cocktails, it's just non-alcoholic champagne and fizzy fruit drinks in champagne flutes."

There was a horrified silence, and a pause, and then Bellamy said, "Octavia's chugging a glass of wine for you."

Clarke started to giggle, thinking of it, and told him with an edge of a laugh in her voice, "Tell her I thank her, and also tell her to eat another piece of pie for me too."

"Please don't encourage her," Bellamy said, "she eats herself nearly sick on Thanksgiving. Hey, I was thinking, when we get back, we should host a big dinner, invite in everyone."

"Yeah, that sounds... really nice," Clarke said, slowly. "Text me, about potential recipes?"

"On it," Bellamy promised, and added, "I was thinking the first weekend in December—I don't have work on that Friday, so we should have time to have everyone here."

Clarke nodded, turning her schedule over in her mind, and added, "Works for me too. Should I send out the mass text?"

"Go for it. I was thinking we bully Lincoln into making dessert."

"Brilliant plan," Clarke told him solemnly, and asked, "Speaking of Lincoln, is he—?"

"Oh, no. He went back home to visit his mom, I think, which I can't really hold against him. He's sticking around for Christmas and New Year's, though."

"Yeah," Clarke murmured, drawing her free arm around her stomach and staring out at the grounds. "I miss our apartment." I miss you, she wanted to say.

"Nothing's been horrendously broken in your absence, promise," Bellamy said. "Octavia's probably going to be sleeping in your bed tonight, though, so she might steal some of your clothes."

"Wait," Clarke said, "horrendously broken? Does that mean something has been broken?"

"Just a mug, it's fine, it's just a little chip," Bellamy said hastily. "Bit of a mishap with doing the dishes."

Clarke's eyes narrowed. "Which mug?"

He sighed. "My National History Museum one, not one of your artsy homemade ones, I swear, okay?"

"Good," Clarke said seriously. "Those mugs have serious emotional weight."

"I have literally seen you throw one of those mugs on the ground to get the right broken ceramics for one of your mosaic projects," Bellamy informed her. "I thought mosaics were supposed to be glass, anyways?"

"It was an experimental piece," she muttered sullenly. "And that was one of the bad ones."

"Clarke."

"Yes?" She said, and she was smiling sarcastically, and she could imagine him; hip leaning against the counter, rolling his eyes, a small smirk on his lips.

He paused, before she heard a voice calling, "Clarke!"

Clarke turned, seeing her mother, and she smiled at her tightly, lifting the phone. "Give me a second?"

Abby hesitated, nodded, and shut the door behind her. Clarke sighed, turning back towards the grounds, and Bellamy said, "Duty calls, huh?"

"Yeah—"

"O, Clarke has to go schmooze!" Bellamy bellowed, and Octavia hollered, "We miss you, Clarke, Bellamy just won't say it because he's a big dumb sulky baby!"

Clarke laughed. "I miss you both too! Make sure the apartment stays okay for me, Octavia!"

"I will! Love you, Clarke!"

"Love you too!"

"Miss you, Clarke," Bellamy murmured quietly, voice full of something that Clarke couldn't quite name, and felt her throat start to close up in kind.

"Miss you too, Bell."

She hung up, took a deep breath in, let it out, and went back inside, feeling suddenly less warm even with the rush of hot air passing over her.

"Bellllll-aaaa-myyyy!" Clarke shouted, banging open the door and hauling her suitcase into the house, and frowned when she didn't get a response. "Bell, you home?"

She walked into the kitchen, and saw a notepad sitting on the desk, pen uncapped beside it.

C-
had to rush to work, they needed a last minute cover. leftovers in the fridge, should be back pretty late, see you in the morning.
-B

Clarke sighed a little, before obligingly opening the fridge and staring at the neatly stacked tupperware containers, then her glance slid to a foil-covered pan in the corner. She grinned, uncovered them, and stared, wondering if they were Lincoln's brand of brownie, or Jasper and Monty's.

After eating a square, and waiting for about half an hour, she discovered that it was, in fact, a Jasper-and-Monty type brownie, and she lounged in the living room, eating lazily from the array of leftovers. She made her way to the bathroom and took a long, steaming shower, taking advantage of the removable shower head. She never really could whenever Bellamy was home—she was always worried he would hear her, so she tended to maximize on her time when he was out, or gone. She relished the long shower, and took a long, slow route to make herself come, shutting her eyes tight when her orgasm rolled over her, muffling any noises she made in her arm.

Sated, and dressed in a pair of pajamas, she made her way to the living room again, nibbling at a second brownie, letting Netflix run its way through Bellamy's history documentary-ridden queue. Her eyelids slipped lower and lower, and the drone of the voiceover lulled her to sleep.

She woke up a little when she felt a blanket settle over her shoulders, and Clarke snuggled into it without a thought, sighing softly. The light blare of the TV brightness cut off, and there was the brief weight of a hand, stroking her hair out of her face.

Clarke started to blink her eyes open, staring at him blearily.

"Bell," she murmured, and he said, "Clarke," voice hoarse and soft, and he continued, "Do you wanna stay on the couch?"

She paused, and then mumbled, "Don't wanna get up. But I should probably get to bed."

Bellamy took the blanket and folded it before trailing after her into her room, sitting on the edge of her bed as she slid bonelessly under the covers.

"Have a good Thanksgiving?" He murmured, and Clarke let out a sleepy, wordless grumble, already close to falling back asleep. Bellamy chuckled, patted blindly at what turned out to be her ankle, and leaned over to press a kiss to her hair.

"Night, Clarke. It's good to have you back."

Clarke yawned in response, and it took her until she had drank half her coffee the next morning to realize he'd kissed her again.

Time passed, and the kissing didn't really stop. After thinking on it, and Octavia not even raising an eyebrow when he'd drunkenly pressed wrapped his arm around Clarke in a moment of drunken camaraderie, then leaving a sloppy kiss on her cheek, Clarke started getting more comfortable with it, too. At the end of a long day, she'd flop down on the couch and press her cold, socked feet onto Bellamy's legs. She punched him playfully, and she tended to reach over and muss his hair or squeeze his shoulder or, yes, kiss him on the cheek, whenever she had to leave for the day.

The bickering was less of an annoyance now, and more comforting, really. They could start a fight whenever they'd had a bad day, and know the other wouldn't really take any offense to it. The glitter that somehow still persisted, for instance, was an easy, joking topic, or things like the dishes and dinner and rent, when they really wanted to duke it out. But it worked for them, even if their friends looked between them apprehensively whenever they got started.

One day, Clarke, ready for some bickering, came home to see Bellamy curled up on the couch, back to the door. There was a box of tissues on the table, a trash can settled next to it, and gross, rumbling snores.

She stopped in her tracks, and paused, tilting her head, before picking up the afghan and tucking it tightly around Bellamy, before going to the kitchen to try and see if there was what she needed, then to grab her laptop, before she ended up raiding her cabinet and then carefully maneuvering herself so she could sit on the couch beside Bellamy's head, carefully skritching her fingers through his curls.

Bellamy seemed a bit like a cat, mumbling a bit in his sleep, shifting his head so she had a better angle. He didn't seem to have woken up yet, which was a bit unusual—Bellamy was the light sleeper, between the two of them, but since he was sick, Clarke figured he had a pass.

The doorbell rang, and Bellamy blinked, sleepy. Clarke petted his hair, murmuring, "Stay there," before she went to the door, signing for the delivery, before walking over to the couch, setting the food on the coffee table and sitting down, before putting her hand on Bellamy's shoulder and levering him into sitting up.

He blinked at her, and Clarke pointed. "Soup. Spoon. You're eating on the couch, just this once. We have Dayquil and Nyquil. Take some of the Dayquil once you eat, Nyquil before you sleep. I recommend a hot shower after dinner to get your sinuses a bit cleared up, and maybe some tea before bed for the same reason."

Bellamy blinked again. Clarke picked up the carton and put it in his hands, along with a plastic spoon.

"Pre-med, Bellamy," she said. "I kind of know what I'm doing. It is a cold, right? Not flu? You've got one of those wire baskets, I figured you'd go for a solid one if you were puking your guts out. Plus I would have smelled it."

"Cold," Bellamy agreed, the first thing he'd said, voice scratchy and stuffy, at last popping open the lid, then putting his face close to the steam and breathing it in, closing his eyes.

"Aw, Bell," Clarke murmured, carding her fingers through his hair again, and something in his shoulders slumped. "How long have you been feeling sick?"

"Started feeling iffy the other night," Bellamy muttered. "I thought it would go away if I had some medicine before I went to sleep."

"You didn't go to work today, did you?" She asked, and he was suspiciously silent, instead slurping up a spoonful of soup. "Bell."

"Just TA stuff," Bellamy mumbled. "I'm off for my other job."

Clarke sighed, and said, "Well, that's something." She picked up her carton of noodles, and handed over the remote. "Sick person gets to decide what we watch on Netflix."

Bellamy perked up a little, and immediately picked out a documentary, which shouldn't have surprised Clarke. He took the Dayquil with his last slurping of soup, and then adjusted the blankets around his shoulders, sitting away from Clarke.

"I work in hospitals, Bellamy," she said carefully. "I don't think I'm gonna pick it up. C'mere."

Bellamy hesitated, and Clarke tipped him so his head was on her lap, scratching his scalp lightly with her fingers. Bellamy shuddered, and curled up tighter, grip tightening on the blankets.

"Aw, Bell," she said again, and ran her fingers through his hair again, then rested her hand on his forehead, gaging if he had a fever or not. A little one, but that was normal with sickness, temperature fluctuated as the antibodies did their magic.

She kept doing that, tugging her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp, listening to his little whines and mumbles. Bellamy kind of turned into a little kid, when he was sick, all grumbles and whining and Clarke, can you get me a blanket? No, I can't get up, I'm sick, you're practically a medical professional and you said so, you have to get used to bedside manner stuff.

But she sat through his many documentaries, long-suffering, even as Bellamy sniffles and uses kleenexes without sitting up from where his head is pressed against her lap, and she eventually pushes him towards the bathroom, for his shower, and then makes them both tea.

Bellamy ends up just sticking his face over it, inhaling steam, and then chugging it down along with his Nyquil before slouching off to his room.

The next few days go like that; Clarke makes Bellamy take his medicine, texts him reminders every couple hours to top up, makes tea instead off coffee, and lets him curl up on the couch so she can run her fingers through his hair. Sick Bellamy is a whole new experience; he wears his pajamas more often, walked their apartment with blankets wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, and increasingly nasty descriptions of how he felt via text.

Clarke kind of liked it, the role reversal; usually, Bellamy's the one who herded after her, protective and worrisome. Now, though, she got to croon over him and run her fingers through his hair and make him take medicine, let him fall asleep on her legs, her stomach, waking him up to push him off to his room when she started feeling sleepy.

A week passed in that way, and eventually, Bellamy was cheerfully breathing loudly through his nose, rejoicing in the fact that he was no longer producing mucus at an alarming rate. Clarke rolled her eyes, but she found herself looking at Bellamy's hair more, fingers twitching and aching to run through it again.

The dinner approached fast after that. Clarke started ribbing Bellamy over the fact that he'd forgotten to preheat the oven for the lasagna he was making and nearly caused the whole party to be late, and Bellamy volleying right back with he would have remembered if someone hadn't shut off his laptop, there were very important reminders on there—

"We just got here, should we be worried?" She heard Monty ask Bellamy's coworker Miller in an undertone, and Miller snorted, shaking his head.

"Yeah, yeah, anyway, dinner's just postponed a bit," Bellamy said, with an eyeroll. "We do, however, have booze, and Clarke's appetizers, so—"

Octavia went over to their counter in an attempt to live out her bartending dreams, but really mostly just poured too much alcohol into all the mixed drinks they attempted, so Clarke was pleasantly buzzed as she floated around the room, dropping in on all their friends, giving Monty and Jasper one-armed hugs and fleetingly touching Miller on the shoulder, giving Murphy a wide berth, as they had a bit of a complex history. Emori, though, grinned at her, eyes bright and wild, even as Clarke ran her mind back to make sure that she'd locked up her bedroom so that they wouldn't sneak off together at some point in the evening. She got sucked into a conversation about the people who had been evicted in their building with Monroe, as apparently there had been some situation with the tenants selling narcotics, and Monroe promised to dig down and figure the whole situation out, so she, Monroe, and Harper could gossip over mimosas sometime.

Someone (her money was on Harper or Octavia) dug up Cards Against Humanity, so Clarke was breathless with laughter as Monty, red-faced, accepted the black card from a practically wheezing Emori. Jasper smacked him on the back, and Clarke shuffled through her deck, frowning, when she heard the oven go off, and immediately turned to Bellamy, finger already on her nose.

"I was first," she said immediately.

"Was not—"

"Was too, and I made and got all the appetizers out of the oven. You can take your damn lasagna out."

Bellamy sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, "Lay down the next Black card, I'll grab it once I send in my card."

"It's gonna bu-uurn," Clarke sing-songed, and Bellamy rolled his eyes at her. Once he stood up, though, Clarke innocently batted her eyelashes at him, holding up her cup. "Top me off?"

"You are such a brat, I swear," he groaned, but took her cup and disappeared into the kitchen. She heard the oven door creak open, the thunk of the pan on the counter, and his footsteps, before her drink was pressed back into her hand, and he hauled her to her feet.

"C'mon, you said the salad. Thing."

Clarke groaned, but went into the kitchen with him, taking a long gulp of her drink before tossing the salad.

They dished up the lasagna and the salad she'd prepared, their friends cramming around the table, and on the couches, and laughing and talking and joking. Clarke sat in her usual chair at the dining table, and mostly just soaked it in, listening to Jasper and Monty talk about their latest misadventures into stilling things, and Lincoln and Octavia talk about their attempts to train Octavia into a kickboxing master, and it felt... good, to see them all together in one place. She even felt happy to see Murphy, and that was a big ask.

Lincoln brought out decadent chocolate cake and vanilla bean ice cream that had everyone singing his praises, and eventually cursing the food and the booze as they all sprawled out over whatever available surface there was, trying to stave off food-and-booze-induced comas.

That was, however, one of the last opportunities of the semester they had to assemble as a group as classes started to kick up in earnest.

Octavia dropped by their place more and more often as the semester started drawing to a close, looking for a quiet place to study where Lincoln wouldn't distract her, and Bellamy ducked down to press a kiss to both of their heads before heading out for office hours.

Octavia glanced at her. "So," she said, and Clarke blinked, shoving another pencil into her hair, making her look a bit like a startled hedgehog.

"What?"

"You and Bellamy've been living together for, what? Two months?"

"Just about," Clarke agreed.

"Going pretty well, then?" Octavia said slowly, and Clarke nodded.

"He's a bit of a neat freak, and he can be sort of weird about food and caloric intake, but yeah. It's going a lot better than expected."

Octavia grinned. "Good. I was kinda worried when I pushed you two together like that. Remember when you two hated each other?"

It had actually consisted most of their relationship before moving in together. They hadn't gotten off to the right foot, to say the least; Bellamy thought Clarke was too privileged, (she wasn't denying that part) a pampered, spoiled brat who didn't know how the world worked. He'd derisively called her Princess whenever she'd swing by with Octavia, and she'd scowl at him and give back as good as he gave. She'd thought he was... too chaotic, she thought was the best way to put it, back then, too lawless and too reckless. She hadn't seen how he connected with the man Octavia had described, the one who'd practically raised her, did in every way that counted.

Then they reached a sort of truce; Octavia had wheedled them both into that one, and they'd been through the Finn incident, when Octavia'd brought her to Bellamy's, and Bellamy threatened to punch Finn in the throat—just don't cry in front of me, Princess, I don't think either of us can come back from that. Then she'd gotten closer to Raven, and Raven had, surprisingly, known Bellamy, and Clarke later found out they'd had a one-night stand, but they'd decided they were better friends than lovers.

Then their friend groups had grown inextricably together; Emori from her ceramics class sophomore year turned out to be dating Bellamy's sort-of-friend Murphy, and Monty and Jasper had, of course, known each other all along, and everyone else snapped into place, so they'd had to be civil to each other.

A few drunken nights out with the group, and an apartment offer later, and here they were.

"Yeah," Clarke said, a little faraway. "Huh. Times change."

"That they do," Octavia agreed, turning back to her psych textbook. "You two still fight like cats and dogs, though."

Bellamy made study snacks again for the last three weeks of school, and she barely even teased him about it, too stressed about her painting class and her chemistry and bio classes, and Bellamy was drowning under grading essays, to the point where they'd sit silently in their living room for hours at a time, the only noise the clicking of Clarke's laptop, the scratching of Bellamy's pen, and the soft classical music flowing through the room from the old radio Bellamy had dragged out from his room.

The night before Clarke was due to go back to California for winter break, balking a bit at spending that long without seeing the Blakes, she heard a repetitive knocking at the door.

She blinked, rubbed at her eyes, and plodded over to the front door to see a very familiar face.

"Raven!" Clarke exclaimed happily, throwing her arms around her shoulders, closing her eyes tight, before she shivered at the blast of cold air. "Come in, come in—I thought you weren't back until next semester—?"

"Flight was a bit early, I wanted to surprise you," she said, taking off her coat, and Clarke blinked at what she was wearing.

"Did I miss a special occasion?"

She tuned in to Raven's straightened hair, the artfully smudged eye makeup, the navy blue crop top and matching baggy pants she was wearing—and Raven shooed her to her room, brace making a comfortingly familiar sound as it echoed on the ground.

"Night out, the both of us—Bellamy's not here." It wasn't a question. "Go, go, do something with your hair and your face, I'll pick your dress, hurry up—"

Clarke managed to fold her hair back into a braided, tucked sort of updo, and managed to go reasonably light on her makeup; brows, and foundation, and a bold red lip, along with dark eyeshadow that she hoped looked artfully smudged. Raven shoved a little red dress at her, and Clarke wriggled her way into the dress, turning to Raven. "How do I look?"

"Great," Raven said, and shoved a pair of heels into her hands. "C'mon, we're gonna be late—"

"Are we meeting someone?" Clarke said cluelessly, managing to shut off all the lights before Raven herded her out, and into her car, and onto the road before Raven answered the question.

"Nope, just us," Raven said, gunning it down the road in the terrifyingly precise way only NASCAR drivers tended to drive, and Clarke clung to the handle as discreetly as she could—Raven never liked it when people doubted her driving. "Just a, a. Raven-and-Clarke night out. With a surprise."

"Surprise—?"

"What's the point of the surprise if I tell you the surprise, huh?" Raven said, and actually relaxed from how tensely she'd been coiled up, smiling at Clarke. "It really is good to see you, Clarke, I just think—this is a surprise that's been a while coming, you know?"

"Okay," Clarke said, and tried to loosen up.

They spent the half-hour drive chatting; Raven told her all about South America, while Clarke caught Raven up on any drama or funny stories she hadn't heard through their almost-weekly Skype sessions. When they pulled up at their location, Clarke actually laughed.

"Oh, my God, Raven. The surprise is a strip club?"

"An upscale strip club, don't ever mistake me for cheap when it comes to strippers," Raven corrected, and they walked up to the door as quickly as they could, Raven grumbling about the cold as soon as they stepped into the club, into the pink lights, and Raven grabbed her arm as Clarke started going towards the bar.

"What?"

"Just—trust me on this one, Clarke," Raven said, and corny nineties R&B started to blare over the speakers, and she hesitated, nudging Clarke and glancing towards the stage, her dark hair throwing off the glint of pink.

"You know how you guys were wondering how Bellamy and I met?" Raven called over the thudding of the music, and Clarke felt the edge of a laugh in her voice.

"Oh, my God, is this why I've never heard this story? You and Bellamy met in a strip club?"

"Well, yeah, but," Raven said, and nodded to the stage, where two men with their backs to the audience were stalking the stage, and women screamed, waving dollar bills up at the stage. "You know how Bellamy never mentions where he works?"

The dancers turned around, and Clarke nearly fell over.

She'd sketched that smirk what felt like hundreds of times, those freckles, the messy tousle of his hair, and she had to blink, hard, a few times before what she was really seeing sunk in.

Bellamy Blake. Was performing a stripshow. And, yes, there was Miller beside him, leaning down and smirking at a woman, taking the dollar bill with his teeth, but her attention was on Bellamy, who was mussing up his hair with his hand, grinning wryly at the crowd. They both pulled up a woman, and she could see why Raven had held her back, because then Bellamy started dancing.

He casually tugged off the hoodie he was wearing, tossing it into the crowd as the crowd screamed, leaving him a cheap white tank top, leading the woman into the chair, smirking, and the dollar bills started to hit the stage.

And then he started dancing in front of her, a lot of rolls and smooth footwork, all sinuous grace and sleek power. It seemed nearly innocent until Bellamy bent his head, throwing the woman's legs apart, pressing his face against her pants and slowly bringing it up to her face, grinning and crouching on the chair, rolling his hips wickedly, before he, to put it delicately, began grinding, with a positively wicked smirk on his face.

The music switched, something softer and less poppish, and he delicately laid the woman on the ground, dancing with Miller a little bit, all swinging arms and high-fives and floor rolls, until it suddenly wasn't again—Bellamy Blake was ripping off his shirt, swirling shoulders and hips, to the shrieks and screams of the audience, and started grinding again, the muscles in his back rippling with it, smooth in his movements.

He managed to pick the woman up, swirling her around his shoulders almost casually, like it was barely any effort at all, before bending her at the waist and grinding against her again, winking roguishly at the audience; then laying her down on the ground, and the music changed, hard and intense with a strong beat, the light going red.

This was, by far, the closest thing to sex they'd performed on stage, and it made everything before seem practically vanilla in comparison; he was grabbing at the woman's hair, nipping at her ear, grinding still, rolling her on her side, thudding his hips against hers. Then she was suddenly her back, Bellamy rolling his hips up against her, strong and domineering. His mouth was open, and it was clear he was parodying his face during sex, and the sudden increase of dollar bills hitting the stage made it clear that it was appreciated. He took a moment to high-five with Miller again before dragging the woman closer and bouncing her on his lap, sweeping her hair aside, purring something inaudible into her neck, then rolling until he was grinding on her face, imitating licking at her thigh to the shrieks and screams of the audience.

And then the woman ripped off his pants, and Clarke was only slightly relieved to see that he was wearing black boxer-briefs instead of the semi-thongs she'd seen in movies, and oh, my God, he was a stripper.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Emperor and —"

And Clarke started giggling, laughing, because of course he went with that, of course he did, Bellamy Blake was a stripper who went by the name of the Emperor—

"Okay, time to sit down," she heard Raven say distantly, and felt herself being pushed into a chair, and then a drink being pushed into her hand.

"He's paying rent with his stripper money," Clarke said blankly. "Oh, my God, my roommate is a stripper. Bellamy Blake. A stripper."

"He's putting himself through grad school," Raven deadpanned, and Clarke took a sip of the drink. Maybe if she got drunk enough, this would make sense.

Except it was starting to make sense. The everpresent glitter—it wasn't hers at all, it was Bellamy's. The way he only worked nights, and mostly weekends. The way he didn't dance when they went out—the way he'd smirked about the nineties R&B—

Clarke's head snapped up at the wrong time, as she distantly saw Bellamy at the other side of the room, hand on a pole as he leaned down, grinning at the girls. She averted her eyes, turning away. "Raven, he didn't see me, did he?!"

"No, no," Raven said reassuringly, "He was busy fake-fucking that girl on stage, you're fine, he's busy getting money—"

"How do I tell him I know he's a stripper?!" Clarke hissed to Raven.

"You could always go over there and stick your rent money into his boxers," Raven suggested, and Clarke shot her a dirty look, and then Raven got serious.

"Clarke. You don't think less of him because you found out he's a stripper, do you?"

Clarke immediately opened her mouth to respond, paused, and took a sip of her drink, mulling it over.

Did she think less of strippers, generally? No, not really. Clarke was a feminist, after all, and she'd never really mulled over male strippers before, but the standards still held; if it worked for them and they were comfortable with it, then she didn't have a problem.

Was she upset that Bellamy hadn't told her? She'd never asked where he'd worked, so he'd never upfront lied to her face. But it would have been nice to know where he was going, what he was doing, and it smarted that he didn't share it with her. That must have been why her stomach was squirming itself into uncomfortable knots when Bellamy interacted with the woman hollering at him while he was on the pole, displaying a frankly incredible show of core body strength.

"I don't think less of him because he's a stripper, no," Clarke said at last. "I'm... I'm more upset he didn't tell me, especially when we started living together. And I'm... unsettled, because, well. It's Bellamy. When you think of a secondary job for him, you think, like, a café, maybe. A library job. Not, well—" Clarke flapped her hand around the club, the lights now pulsing purple and blue to the beat.

Raven smiled, and it was a soft, rare sort of smile, the sort that made Clarke think she answered correctly, and said, "Well, this is where Bellamy and I met, so, I dunno. I never really got the shock of being introduced to the other side of him like that."

Clarke blinked, and Raven rolled her eyes. "No, I wasn't a stripper too. Bartending, mostly. My old buddy's over there—Gina." Raven pointed, then waved, smiling. Gina, a girl wearing a low-cut t-shirt and a smile, waved back as much as she could with a near-empty cup in her hand.

"We just kinda clicked, Bellamy and I. He was just starting out stripping then, I think he started once he got into grad school—he used to do this godawful routine to Candy Shop, he'd take lollipops out of his pants and hold the sticks in his teeth for people to bite out, it was... well, it was kinda hot, but mostly just cliché."

The thing is, Clarke can imagine it now, Raven in jeans and a tight shirt, cackling as Bellamy held a lollipop stick in his teeth, waggling his eyebrows playfully at her.

"So, we got to know each other, I had a bit of a bad breakup—you were there, too—and we fucked once, then decided we were better as friends. Gotta tell you, though, I wouldn't mind a whole friends with benefits thing. The things that man can do with his fingers—"

"Please stop, this is more sex-related things with Bellamy than I wanted to hear," Clarke said, the uncomfortable wriggling in her stomach growing stronger with thought of Raven and Bellamy, together.

"Jesus Christ, you sound like—" Raven began, and Clarke stiffened.

"O—does Octavia know about this?" Clarke asked, and Raven was already shaking her head, eyes dark.

"Absolutely not. And no one is going to tell her," Raven added, finger jabbing into Clarke's shoulder, looking suddenly menacing. "If Octavia got word that her big brother was stripping to pick up all the bills college is putting them through, no matter how positive she seems about stripping now—"

Clarke grimaced, imagining the argument, and said, "I won't, Raven. I won't tell her, I swear."

"Good," Raven said firmly. "I told him he should tell you once I found out you two were moving in together, but, well. Considering I didn't get any panicked Skype calls, I figured he'd chickened out."

Clarke nodded, and said at last, "Can we, uh. Can we go now?"

Raven paused, sympathetically, and nodded, pulling Clarke to her feet and leading her back towards the door.

The last thing Clarke saw of Bellamy was him, legs wrapped around the pole, bent upside down, arms outstretched for balance, an oddly serene smile on his face.

Clarke didn't get the chance to talk to Bellamy before she left for the airport, which was maybe a good thing, as she couldn't quite get the whole performance out of her head. She spent the flight sketching, committing the serene smile to paper, except it's on his face when he's sitting on their couch, head tilted back, and she considered it for a moment.

She turned to the next page, and started to sketch the actual circumstances of the place she'd seen that smile.

When she was sitting in the taxi, on her way to her mom's house, she flipped between the pages, looking at Bellamy as she'd seen him; in his natural state, relaxed and boneless with it, taking a moment to breathe. But maybe he was doing that there too. She'd never seen Bellamy dance, never even assumed he'd liked dancing, but maybe (probably) he enjoyed it. She shut the sketchbook, and embarked upon a Google quest.

Three pages deep into the how do I tell my friend I know he's a stripper? results later, she arrived at the Griffin house, and she took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as the taxi motored off. She needed to put off telling Bellamy, for now. She needed to focus on her mom.

Her mom welcomed her with a quick hug, and Marcus hauled in all of Clarke's luggage, trailing after them. Clarke let herself ramble about finals, and how she thought she did for as long as the topic would carry her. Abby, in turn, told her about the latest rounds in surgery, and Marcus chimed in with a few stories with politics, and they used the small talk to float them through dinner.

Near the end, though, when Clarke would escape to her room under the excuse of unpacking, Abby cleared her throat, putting her hand on Marcus'.

"Actually, Clarke, we wanted to tell you about something," Abby began, and Clarke felt her spine stiffen.

Marcus and Abby shared a smile, before they both turned to Clarke.

"We think we're going to get married, Clarke."

Clarke blinked, mouth opening in surprise, and she caught her instinctive response of "WHAT?!" before it could escape her mouth. She laughed nervously, instead, and clenched her fists in her lap where Abby couldn't see.

"Wow," Clarke said, looking between them. "Wow, that's..."

"We're thinking of announcing it in the New Year, you know," Abby said. "We just wanted to make sure you knew about it first. And, Clarke—I was wondering if you wanted to be my maid of honor."

Clarke felt her eyes grow even wider, if that was possible. "Of course I will," she managed to say, "That's amazing, you two. Congratulations."

Abby and Marcus shared a relieved smile, and then Clarke was kept downstairs for the briefing, but she felt like she was on autopilot, like the thing that had answered had taken over for the glass of champagne and the discussion of venue and reception and size, and finally Clarke made it up to her room, sitting on her bed, trying to think things through.

This was a lot to absorb in two days. Clarke still had a lot of feelings about her dad's death, about her mother marrying anyone at all, but she shook it off, trying to focus on the news of the wedding.

She ended up taking an overly long shower, after failing to focus on the news of the wedding, and exited with her hair wrapped around her head, before she saw a message notification from Raven.

She thumbed it open, and saw the black bubble of a video, which she clicked on without a thought, but when "Candy Shop" started blaring from her phones speakers, she shut it off, a bright blush to her cheeks. She hesitated, a slightly horrible-but-funny idea blooming in her mind, and she hesitated, before she dug around for her headphones, clicking play on the video again.

She was greeted to a slightly-younger Bellamy, hair slicked back, in more of a dancing routine. It didn't feature the slick, smooth moves that she'd seen the night before, more of it blatantly sexual, and it featured more crowd participation. Clarke squirmed once the video was over, and hit replay.

Once she'd lost count of how many times she'd watched the video, an idea started to bloom in her head, and she bit her lip, considering it.

It might be funny. Maybe. Potentially. And besides, she had, like, a month before she saw Bellamy again. There was more time for another idea.

As the break went on, Clarke sketched, and painted, and picked up a couple shifts at the paint-and-bake pottery place a few minutes out from her house, which meant that there would probably be a lot more artsy, homemade mugs populating the Griffin-Blake apartment. Christmas was, thankfully, a quiet affair, and she got a lot of excited texts from Octavia about the curling wand Clarke had gotten her that she'd been begging her for, and Bellamy was already sending her passages and commentary from the book she'd gotten him, an analysis of the influences on Grecian society on the Romans. Raven was already tinkering over with baby toolkit that could fit in a purse she'd gotten her, and Clarke ached, wishing she would be there to thank them all for the massive paint and colored pencil set they'd all chipped in to get her.

Abby had gotten her stocks, and Marcus had gotten her bonds, and Clarke thanked them for it; she knew they were looking out for her with it, really, but it was a bit tough to get excited over stocks and bonds.

She missed the apartment. She missed the casual contact with Bellamy, the way he'd smirk sideways at her whenever she cracked a joke, the way he'd wordlessly press his always-hot hands to her whenever she complained of being cold, the way he griped about her leaving her socks everywhere but always made sure that she always had on a pair to make sure her feet weren't cold.

She missed his cooking, the way he would do sit-ups during commercials and try to push her to do the same, the way he fiddled with her hair when he was bored. She missed... well, she just missed him. Overbearing, fussy, protective, warm Bellamy. She wanted to go back to the apartment, because text messages and the occasional call just wasn't the same.

New Years was a similar affair to Thanksgiving; their political friends, with Clarke floundering and stuck having small talk with people that knew her as Abby and Jake's girl and looked at her more like a prize goat than a person. Clarke suffered through chatting with a lot of young men that were conveniently right around Clarke's age, and after the fourth or fifth, Clarke squirmed her way out of the room, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible.

She made her way up the stairs, to a window seat that hadn't received much attention, and sat, tugging off the sensible pumps she was wearing and wiggling her toes with a sigh of relief. She glanced at the time—11:50—and dug her phone out of her clutch.

"It's Clarke!" Bellamy shouted into the phone. "Everyone! It's Clarke!"

She heard a cheer go up, and Clarke cradled the phone in both her hands, smiling wide.

"Who all's trashing our apartment, Blake?" She teased.

"Just Octavia and Lincoln. And Raven. An' Monty and Miller and Jasper," he said, in a rush, and Clarke closed her eyes wistfully.

"Wish I was there," she murmured.

"Yeah, how is the political old people extravaganza?" Bellamy said, and Clarke grimaced.

"You seem very drunk, it's impressive that you can say the word extravaganza."

"That bad, huh?" Bellamy rumbled, and then Monty snatched the phone, and Clarke was passed around the room, before ending up talking with Bellamy around 11:59.

"You know what they say about what you're doing at midnight on the New Year, right?" Bellamy said abruptly, and Clarke glanced around at the empty, cavernous hallway.

"If it's talking with you, that bears well for our lease continuing to hold up," Clarke said, legs curled underneath her, glancing out the window to the distance sway of car lights driving past.

Bellamy chuckled. "Here's hoping, huh?"

"Yeah," Clarke said, with a sudden sort of lump in her throat, and she wrapped an arm around her stomach. "Here's hoping."

The countdown started, and Bellamy said, "Any resolutions?"

Clarke thought of the serene smile, of the old video on her phone, of the way he'd winked out at the audience. She paused, and said at last, "I should probably work on... I dunno. Making sure I'm better connected with people around me?" Bellamy hummed, and she asked, "How about you?"

"Get laid more, probably," he said, and Clarke laughed her way through the shouts of "THREE! TWO! ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Clarke set down her bags with a thump, and grinned, dashing towards Bellamy, who was turning towards her, and threw her arms around his shoulders, squeezing tight, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt a bit.

He hesitated, a little, and then his arms came up to hug her, too, and she drew back, smiling still, and the happy look on his face made her lose her breath a little, but she grinned wider in response.

"You're back early," he said in surprise. "I thought you weren't due back until next Tuesday—"

"Early flight," Clarke said, with a laugh. "They think there's going to be snow here soon, and my mom didn't want me delayed, so—"

Bellamy grinned, too, chin ducking just slightly, and said, "Doesn't she know how unreliable weather reports are?"

"Don't know, don't care," she said happily, and sighed, tilting back until she landed on their beat-up couch. "I've missed this place."

"Scoot, stop hogging," he commanded. "I was going to have a truly miserable night of getting drunk alone and ranting at inaccurate historical movies—"

"Count me in," Clarke beamed. "I want to stay here, and I want to tell you about the truly appalling thing that was said to me by some senator's nephew twice removed—"

"Do I have to go beat him up?" Bellamy said seriously, and handed her a beer, which Clarke accepted, and kicked off her shoes.

"Not requested, but you might want to—you know how I'm a pre-med major who's done work in hospitals since I was legally able?"

"It may have been mentioned once or twice," Bellamy agreed, and Clarke snuggled into his side, letting his arm drop around her shoulder. Clarke soaked up the extra contact, after three weeks of not seeing him at all, and she told him about how the senator's nephew had told her, very matter-of-factly, not only how hospitals worked, but also how periods didn't really hurt because of cramps, attempted to explain the movie she'd mentioned was her favorite, and then proceeded to make a variety of disparaging remarks about her personal political leanings. Bellamy then started to rant in response and how dare he and Clarke looked up at him, grinning all the while, the documentary left sitting unstarted even as they both worked their way through their beers.

Bellamy told her all about the New Years party, and Christmas with Lincoln and Octavia, and Clarke told him about Marcus and Abby's big announcement. They swapped information, and eventually started the documentary, when Clarke just set her head on his thigh and let him fuss with her hair as he grumbled angrily about historical inaccuracy.

She woke up without realizing that she'd even fallen asleep, and turned her head sleepily to see Bellamy, his head back uncomfortably, in a way she was sure would make him whine about his neck for the next week, and paused, squirming, carefully maneuvering him down so his head was resting on a pillow and he was horizontal. Clarke, too sleepy to really move to her bed, maneuvered so her back was pressed against his front, absently pulling the blanket over the pair of them and falling asleep shortly after.

Clarke woke up feeling safe, and warm, and happy, and she absentmindedly stirred, eyes flying open when she felt the empty air and squirming back onto the couch, and then registering the heat of a body behind her. Clarke remembered her slightly tipsy logic of not going to her bed, but just staying with Bellamy, and closed her eyes a little. His arm was slung over her, tugging her close, and he was snuffling a little in his sleep. Clarke carefully, hesitantly, gathered her hair in her hand and draped it over shoulder so it wasn't fanning back into his face, and Bellamy leaned forwards, like he was following it, pressing his nose into her neck, and with him coming even closer Clarke felt the bulge of him, pressing against her ass, and she felt herself flush a little. She hesitated, but wriggled to make herself comfortable, and resolutely shut her eyes, chasing after the warmth of sleep, of semi-consciousness.

At that moment, unbidden, a study she'd read came up in her mind. The study suggests that sleeping with a partner may promote feelings of safety and security, leading to lower levels of the stress hormone cortisol, lower levels in cytokines that can cause inflammation, and higher levels of the so-called love hormone, oxytocin, which has been shown to ease anxiety and is produced in the same part of the brain responsible for the sleep-wake cycle.

She was interrupted by these thoughts when she felt Bellamy's arm tighten around her, the puff of his breath hitting her throat, and then a sleepy hum. "Clarke?" He slurred out, and Clarke pretended to stir, too.

"Oh, Bell," she mumbled. "Hey. Guess we fell asleep."

He yawned, and mumbled, "Guess so. Here, get up so I can—"

"Right, yeah," Clarke said, wriggling, flushing when she felt the bulge as she squirmed her way to sitting up, then saying, "Hey, I'm gonna change. I'll start up the coffee—?"

"I'll take first shower," Bellamy said, tugging the blanket over his lap, and Clarke immediately grabbed her luggage, hauling it into her room. She threw on an overly-big sweater, threw her hair up in a bun, and squirmed into a pair of leggings, and she heard a low noise when she walked by the bathroom. She felt her cheeks heat up as she realized what it was, and immediately started playing the first news podcast that came up on her phone, starting coffee. It took until the pot was half full before she realized it was a conservative conspiracy theory broadcast, so she distracted herself by critiquing it, aloud.

Bellamy came into the kitchen, towel clinging to the v of his hips, and Clarke passed over a mug without pausing in her rant about why the podcaster was wrong, and Bellamy's eyes crinkled and his head ducked when he smiled at her, before immediately joining in, taking moments to sip at his coffee.

Once Clarke shut off the podcast in disgust, she leveled a look at him, a couple stubborn droplets of water clinging to his chest. How do grad students even get that ripped? She wondered, before remembering about his secondary income, and then said instead, "So, did you grocery shop at all when I was gone?"

Bellamy crossed over to the pantry, and said, "Lincoln dropped off muffins—"

Clarke immediately snatched the double chocolate one, and he rolled his eyes, taking a banana nut muffin, and they sat down together at the kitchen table, draining the coffee pot and getting seconds on their muffins.

The day passed slow, and sleepy. Clarke sketched Bellamy reading a book, her feet buried under his thighs because she was cold and he was always warm, and Clarke blurted out, "Let's go out tonight."

Bellamy glanced over at her, eyebrows lifting. "Out where?"

"Dunno. A bar. Dropship?"

Bellamy grinned, ducking his chin, hair falling into his face. "I haven't been to Dropship in forever."

"Dropship, then," Clarke said, heart thudding a little, and withdrew her feet to kick at his thigh. "I'm gonna get ready."

"Yeah, yeah," he said absently, flipping the page.

When she exited, Bellamy was wearing a blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans, tugging on a pair of boots, and he lifted his eyebrows at her. "Whoa."

Clarke smoothed her hands against her black jeans, grinning at the tight, black halter top that did, frankly, amazing things to her boobs. "Yeah?" She twirled, doing a hair-flip, too, soaking it up, and said, "You like?"

"Stop fishing," he said, jokingly, then grew serious and said, "Seriously. You look gorgeous. Like, I dunno. A modern Sandy."

Clarke laughed. "Bellamy Blake, was that a Grease reference?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "You know how much O loves Grease."

Clarke did. Octavia'd dragged Clarke up to perform renditions of "Greased Lightning" for karaoke too many times to count. They joked about Grease on their way to Dropship, and were in the depths of a conversation about the lack of consent from Kenickie during Summer Nights.

Clarke squeezed at his arm, and said, "Drink?"

"Beer."

"Boring," Clarke muttered, and Bellamy headed over to grab a table as Clarke went to the bar, making a point of ordering the most colorful cocktail that was on the menu. Coincidentally, it was also served in the largest glass, and Bellamy lifted his eyebrows at the sight of it.

"Oh, so that's how the night is going to go," Bellamy teased.

Clarke lifted her nose in the air, haughty. "Well, at least I'm not drinking beer two times in a row." She took an enjoyable slurp out of the silly straw it came with, grinning at him. "Mmmm, watermelon," she said, grinning.

The drink downed, and with an enjoyable buzz starting to get going, Bellamy went to get refills and Clarke propped her chin on her hand, watching him walk away, then realizing she was very intensely watching him walk away, and busied herself with picking at her fingernails.

He set down a different, funky-shaped glass in front of her with a thunk. "Peach Blossom, since you love your ice cream so much," he said, and Clarke hid her smile behind a sip of her drink.

The evening progressed with easy, casual chatter, and it got to the point in the evening when Clarke started bopping along to the beat of the music, glancing towards the dance floor, and then looking beseechingly at Bellamy, who was shaking his head already.

"Uh-uh. No way."

"Fine," Clarke sniffed, standing. "Sit here, like a lump. Like a grouchy, sulking lump."

"My job descriptor," he said seriously, lifting his beer towards her in a salute, and Clarke strode off, hesitating, before she told the DJ her song recommendation and jumping into the fray, into eye contact range with Bellamy.

It didn't take particularly long for the song recommendation to come up, and Clarke took a deep breath as the song settled in. She saw the slightest tensing of Bellamy's shoulders, and Clarke closed her eyes, remembering the video.

"I'll take you to the candy shop—I'll let you lick the lollipop—"

She heard a few appreciative hoots and hollers as she imitated Bellamy's moves to the best of her ability, with a few details altered for her femininity rather than his masculinity, and then, for the killer.

Clarke strutted over to Bellamy, who looked about to bolt, and took the lollipop out of her back pocket, unwrapping it with a flair, and sticking the bottom of the stick into her mouth, leaning forwards and looking out from under her eyelashes at him. He leaned forwards, carefully biting it back out, and then his hand wrapped around her wrist.

"We need to talk," he said, hoarse, sucker shoved between his teeth and his cheek.

"If this is about how you're a stripper," she said, in an undertone, and he hissed "Yes it's about how I'm a stripper, Clarke, don't go shouting it out—"

"I'm not shouting it out—"

"Outside," he said, terse, as the song finished out and something poppier started back up, and they both went out into the cold, Clarke shivering.

He rounded on her, arms crossed over his chest. "How long have you known?"

"Before break," she said. "Raven—"

Bellamy made a growling noise, and started to pace. "Raven took you?"

"Yeah, I—" Clarke shook herself, and then started forwards. He seemed to notice her shivering, and, with a clenched jaw, tore off his jacket and wrapped it around his shoulders. "Bell," she said, soft. "I'm okay with it. I—"

He let out a huff, spared a glance towards the bar, and said, "Didn't leave anything behind, did you?"

She shook her head, and they headed for the car, Clarke wrapping Bellamy's jacket around her tighter as she settled in the passenger seat, turning towards him, watched as his jaw was tight as they motored out of the parking lot.

"Bellamy," she said, voice edging on pleading. "Talk to me."

A muscle in his jaw jumped. "It wasn't Raven's business. Or yours."

"No, it wasn't," she said, and she was careful to keep her voice soft, and cautious, and as unarguable as possible. "It doesn't change the fact that I know, though."

"What, then?" He said, and his fists were tight on the steering wheel. "What do you want? To make sure this doesn't get out?"

And at that moment, Clarke registered how wide Bellamy's eyes were, the way his knuckles were white, and she realized the way he was looking right now wasn't anger at all.

It was fear.

And in a rush, Clarke could see how this could affect him; not just Octavia, after all, but his future reputation if he went into academia, if one of his students got a hold of this information and used it to—to threaten him, somehow, if the university caught word—

"Oh, Bellamy, no," she said. "Just—pull over, okay?"

Bellamy did, but he didn't let go of the steering wheel. Clarke hesitated, placed her hand on his arm, felt how tense he was.

"Bellamy," she said, firm, and he shot her a slightly anguished look out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not telling anyone. Okay? Not a word. Not to the university, not to any of your professors, not to your students. Not to Octavia."

He relaxed, incrementally, letting out a small breath. "Why?"

Clarke smiled at him, trying for comfort. "I don't tell any of my friends' secrets. Even if it's to other friends."

He blinked, and slowly started release the steering wheel. "You've never called me your friend, you know."

"Must be your charming personality," Clarke teased, and jostled her way a bit closer, ending up leaning across the armrests to wrap her arm around Bellamy's shoulders. "Seriously, Bellamy. I'm fine with it, I'm not gonna say anything, and I'm not gonna start ranting at you about the dangers and evils of stripping."

He nodded, near-clinical, and let out a sigh of relief. "I've never had to deal with someone finding out, before," he told her. "Either people meet me as a stripper first, or they don't know at all."

"Well, I'm honored to be your first," she told him seriously, and then wriggled back into her seat, strapping on her seatbelt. "C'mon, I want greasy fast food. I need to be fed, Bell."

"Yes, ma'am."

When they had greasy bags (they'd vastly overordered) sitting on their laps, Clarke absently guarding her milkshake from Bellamy's fries, she said, "So, how'd you get started? Stripping, I mean. If you want to tell."

Bellamy paused, and he shrugged. "Mostly, it came down to money. I applied to a few other places, but stripping made the most money. Dancing was... well, a bit rough to learn, I've gotta admit. And learning pole tricks beat me up for a long time—but eventually, I started to like it. And then I stripped for the first time, and doing that..." He let out a long breath, and Clarke stared at him, transfixed. "It's the biggest rush. Ripping off your clothes in front of a crowd, the crowd shouting for you—it feels like you're on top of the world.

"Stripping with people, too—Miller, and Gina, and Raven, it gives you a sort of... camaraderie? I've gotten friends out of it—well, and two exes, but Raven's less of an ex and more of an ex-hookup, and Gina's—Gina."

Clarke blinked at him, snuggled into the jacket, battering down the sudden flare of jealousy—no, not jealousy, couldn't be—and said, "You went out with Gina?"

"Mm, yeah," Bellamy said. "For about three months. We broke up around the time you moved in."

"Oh," Clarke said. "Was it... are you two...?"

"Yeah, we're okay," Bellamy said. "For a while, it was a bit awkward during rehearsals, but we're okay now."

Clarke nodded, and Bellamy took the opportunity to dunk a fistful of fries into her milkshake, and she let out an indignant noise, smacking lightly at his hand.

"Heathen," she muttered.

"Don't knock till you've tried it," he said, offering her a chocolate milkshake-coated fry, and she frowned at it suspiciously, before she leaned forwards and bit it out of his fingers.

The burst of heat and salt, met with cold and sweet; Clarke closed her eyes and let out a groan, and mumbled, "Oh, my God, that's amazing. Give me a thing of fries."

She reached out, and made grabby hands at Bellamy until he started and started to dig through the bags, passing her a medium fry, and Clarke felt a slight rush of power as Bellamy busied himself with eating his milkshake-coated fries.

"So," Clarke said, after a while, "is there anything you don't like about the job?"

Bellamy paused, and shrugged. "I don't like keeping secrets from O," he said at last. "I don't like feeling like it's something to be ashamed of. We've come a long way as a society in regards to stripping and burlesque and so on, but not as far as I'd want it to be." He paused, and Clarke shifted so she was looking at him more fully.

"I used to like—you know," he said, and shrugged. "People who'd want to have sex at the end of a shift. That used to be fun, sometimes. You remember back when we first met."

Clarke did. Octavia had wryly referred to her brother's many one night stands as a rotating carousel of options, and Clarke remembered crashing at his place once before they'd moved in together and seeing a girl do her walk of shame, heels in one hand, makeup smudged around her eyes, remembered Bellamy's subsequent self-satisfied smirk in the morning.

"But now, it's just," Bellamy began, and then he shrugged. "They want, you know, the Emperor, they want to have sex with a stripper like it's some sort of thing to tick off a bucket list. I don't think they'd be as eager if it was Bellamy, the history TA up there."

Clarke hesitated, before she reached out and squeezed his hand.

"Don't be ridiculous, Bellamy," she said, trying to keep her voice light. "I know for a fact that there are plenty of horny freshman that would love to have sex with Bellamy, the history TA."

Bellamy snorted, and said, "Thanks, Clarke."

"Seriously, though," she said, rubbing her thumb carefully over his knuckles. "People who just want Bellamy the history TA, or people who just want the Emperor, they're wrong. You're both. You're Bellamy the history TA, Bellamy the big brother, Bellamy the neat freak, and yeah, the Emperor, but you're gonna find someone someday that's going to want all of that. All the sides of you."

Bellamy's smile was close to a self-satisfied, cocky smirk, except there was something tender and cautious in his eyes, something a bit more emotional. "Thanks, Clarke," he repeated, but his voice was softer this time.

"No problem," Clarke said, and at last let go of his hand, turning back to her food and trying to clear her throat discreetly.

They ate their fill, and maybe a bit more than necessary, and they drove back to their apartment, Clarke flinging herself on their couch, kicking off her shoes, and Bellamy glanced down as his phone buzzed.

"What?" Clarke asked.

"Oh, it's just work," Bellamy said. "Roma's out, they need someone to replace her."

Clarke blinked, looking over at him. "Do you often need to replace Roma?"

"It's not a choreographed routine, it's the pole," Bellamy said. "Roma's the best of us, she's a certified instructor, but I can just cover her for tonight."

Clarke, like an idiot, then grabbed her shoes and said, "Well, I could go for a couple more drinks."

Bellamy looked at her, then his phone, then back at her, and said, "Okay, sure."

They drove to the club in relative silence, both of them drinking the bottles of water Bellamy had grabbed before they went out the door, and both entered separately; Bellamy through the employee's entrance, and Clarke through the front, where she made her way over to the bar.

A familiar girl, her curly hair bound back in a ponytail, turned to her with a smile, planting her hands on the bar. "What can I get for you?"

She started, stared at her closer, and said, "Clarke, right? Bellamy's roommate—Raven's friend."

Clarke hoped she was imagining the slight blush to her face, but she nodded, sticking out her hand.

"Gina," she continued, shaking hands, and glanced at the water bottle, then at Clarke. "I guess it's not your first drink of the night."

Clarke shook her head, and Gina tapped thoughtfully on the bar. "Just a second, then." She reached down, picking up a glass, and filled it with ice, before planting it in front of Clarke. Clarke poured the rest of her water into the glass with a murmur of thanks, and Gina went off to get drinks for a group of giggling women, before she wandered back over to Clarke, quirking a brow at her. "You eaten?"

"Bellamy and I had dinner before we came, yeah," Clarke agreed, and Gina smiled, looking relieved.

"Oh, good," Gina said, and then, "I was wondering about you and Bellamy, you know, from what Raven's told me, but it's good to know he's moved on too—"

"Whoa whoa whoa," Clarke said hastily, shaking her head. "Bellamy and I aren't—no. We're not like that."

Gina blinked. "But you're living together."

"We can live together without—" Clarke began, but then the other penny dropped. "Wait, what's Raven told you?"

"Oh," Gina said, blinking at her, and fussing with the glass she'd been cleaning, "just—that you two used to fight all the time, but you're... less angry about it, I think is the way she put it?"

Clarke laughed, and leaned forwards, grinning. "Raven says fighting's my lifeblood, so I guess that's pretty good."

Someone called, down the bar, and Gina sighed. "Just a second—duty calls, ya know?"

Clarke grinned, and ended up draining her water before chancing a glance over at Bellamy, who was offering an exaggeratedly shocked facial expression—eyebrows and nose scrunched up, mouth open in a little O, even as he was undulating salaciously to the beat—to a girl who was hollering at him. Clarke grimaced, then tried to smooth out her grimace, and ended up turning back towards the bar.

"So," Clarke started, "tell me all the sordid details about you and Bellamy. He hasn't told me anything. Especially if you've got things for me to mock him about later."

Gina leaned forwards, wiggling her eyebrows exaggeratedly. "Oh, where do I start?"

Through the night, Clarke was kept in fits of giggles as Gina told her stories in between floods of customers, and by the end of the night—really, very early morning—Bellamy looked at them suspiciously as he hopped down from the platform, stretching out his arms as he walked towards them.

"Those are faces I don't like seeing," he said, as Clarke and Gina exchanged a glance together.

"Your ex is awesome, Bell," Clarke said gleefully, fluttering her eyelashes at Gina.

"My worst fear," Bellamy said, mock-seriously. "She's horribly drunk and you've filled her head with lies, Gina. I thought our breakup went better than all that."

"What kind of ex-girlfriend of yours would I have been if I didn't exact revenge sometimes?" Gina said sweetly, and Clarke started giggling again, and Bellamy looked over at her, half-exasperated, half-fond, and said, "Well, we better get home so the lush can sleep it off. Thanks, Gina."

"Thank you for coming in on your off night," Gina said, grinning, and as they were walking out, Bellamy's hand hovering behind Clarke as she plodded towards the door, Gina called, "Don't forget we're doing lunch, Clarke!"

"Oh no," Bellamy said, trying to look disappointed, "don't tell me you two are friends."

"She's best, Bell," Clarke said happily, and he laughed. "How many more drinks did you have, anyways?"

"Few," she agreed. "Gina made me drink a lot of water, though."

"Small mercies," he said, and they stopped to grab a few breakfast sandwiches from a drive-through, and Bellamy directed her into her bedroom.

"I'm sleeping until noon," she warned him.

"Wouldn't expect anything less," he said, and yawned. "Night, Clarke."

She leaned over, and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him a little. He was sweaty under his shirt, and he smelled of musk and a little like the club, and Clarke closed her eyes as she held him. There was the faintest scent of the cologne Octavia had gotten him a couple years ago, and she sighed a little at the scent of it.

Bellamy reached up, and patted her hair, then hugged her back and repeated, "Night, Clarke."

Clarke sighed, but drew back. "Night, Bell," she said, and stumbled into her room, sleepily rubbing a few makeup remover wipes over her face, taking off her clothes, and tugging on the first comfortable clothes she laid hands on, before she flopped onto the bed and fell asleep near-instantly.

She woke up with the blankets tucked over her, a raging headache, and water and advil waiting on her nightstand. She immediately swallowed down the advil, and then the whole glass of water, and shuffled out into their kitchen. Bellamy was sitting in the living room, but she didn't pay him any mind, even as he made an odd noise as she walked past.

It took her a mug and a half of coffee before she groaned, "I really like Gina, but God, her drinks are deadly."

"Sure," said Bellamy, an odd tone still in his voice, "it's the drinks, not the amount you drank."

Clarke groaned, and took another deep gulp of coffee, before she shuffled out into the living room again, flopping down on the couch, shoving her feet onto Bellamy's lap, like she had a thousand times before.

"Um, Clarke," Bellamy said, that same odd tone in his voice, "are those—are those my boxers?"

Clarke blinked, and realized she was wearing a big, floppy sweatshirt she'd stolen from a one-night stand her sophomore year, and a pair of boxer shorts. "Oh," she said, plucking at them. "Yeah, I guess our laundry got mixed up. Boxers are comfy pajama bottoms, though."

Bellamy just nodded, and picked up the book he'd been reading, Clarke twisting so she could grab a notepad and a pen that was on the coffee table, sketching halfheartedly. She thought of the semester ahead, and scowled, twirling the pen in her fingers, staring at the notepad.

"Deep in thought, there," Bellamy said, squeezing lightly at her calf to catch her attention.

"Just—classes," Clarke sighed, and Bellamy grimaced in response.

"Just a couple more semesters for you, though," Clarke said.

"And then diving deep into the world of academia," Bellamy said, sighing. "And med school for you."

"And med school for me," Clarke agreed, then shook herself. "We need to stop thinking about the future."

"Agreed," he said, and squeezed lightly at her calf again. "C'mon, Clarke, let's... I dunno, do something we don't normally get to do during the week. Not drinking," he added hastily.

"Bellamy, that implies that drinking isn't something we normally do during the week," Clarke teased, but agreed that no drinking was necessary today.

Bellamy ended up talking her into going to a history museum.

Clarke, bundled up in a sweater, a scarf, and jeans, hair piled messily atop her head and with a third coffee clutched firmly in both hands, trailed after Bellamy as he bounced through the museum like an excited puppy. She had a little smile on her face as she listened to him, though, humming in agreement and saying things as innocently as she could, like, "What are consuls, Bellamy?" and "But I thought Julius Caesar won all his battles?" and Bellamy darted from room to room, tugging her along, explaining loudly and at length why she was wrong.

They ended up in the history museum's sorry excuse for a sculpture garden, which was mostly compromised of busts and statues of historical figures. In the winter's sun, Bellamy and Clarke sat under a bust of Lucius Sextius. Clarke was drowsily tugging her fingers through Bellamy's hair as he laid his head in her lap, and she closed her eyes in turn, enjoying the silky thickness of it through her fingers, warmed by something other than the sun, too.

"I know you're humoring me with this," Bellamy said suddenly, and Clarke cracked her eyes open, fingers stilling.

"S'okay," Clarke said. "It's fun, to watch you get all riled up over the Senate and the Republic and why Augustus is clearly your favorite emperor."

"I wouldn't say—"

"Bellamy, you named your sister Octavia," she said pointedly, and he sighed, shutting his eyes, and Clarke pulled her fingers through his hair again.

"Your hair is so ridiculous," she said fondly, scratching at his scalp. "If you cut it, I think our entire friend group's going to cry."

"Yours is nice, too," he said, eyes closed. "S'all long and blonde and pretty."

"Bellamy Blake, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Clarke said teasingly.

"Maybe I should work on saying some more, then."

"You should," Clarke agreed. "It could be your New Year's Resolution."

"Fine, complimenting me more has to be yours, too," Bellamy said.

"Maybe we could become nice, civil, boring roommates," Clarke suggested, and they both broke out into laughter at the thought.

Bellamy clunked into the apartment in his bulky snow boots late in January, stamping against the rug, and Clarke was curled up in an armchair, the article she was supposed to be annotating for some random current events class in one hand, a homemade mocha in the other.

"You probably aren't annoying the people downstairs enough," Clarke suggested, not looking up, and Bellamy stamped his feet twice more before he let out a dull "ha ha, Clarke" and then started to unlace his boots, wriggling as he maintained his balance. Clarke glanced up, sipping her mocha, and once Bellamy was just in his woolly socked feet, he plodded over to the sofa.

"So," he said, and Clarke glanced over, because he sounded serious, "I've been invited to a conference with the history department."

"Bellamy, that's great!" She said, setting aside the article and the mocha, and standing up so she could hug him; his clothes were still cold from the outdoors, but Clarke clung to him anyways as he chuckled and kissed her on the top of her head.

"Well, there's the thing," Bellamy said. "I'm going to be out of town for a week."

Clarke pulled back enough so she could make a face at him, and he laughed, letting her go. "Yeah, I know. So, I'll be calling Lincoln to make sure you're fed and walked—"

Clarke punched him lightly in the stomach, and he let out an exaggerated huff, clutching at his stomach.

"No, but seriously," he said, "I'm leaving around the first full week of February, so I've got a few days to get everything all together—are you going to be okay here?"

"I've been home alone before, Bell," she grumbled. "I'm a big girl, I can handle it."

"All right, fine," he said, and then they devolved into talking about packing, and Bellamy started to trot out shirts and pants combos from his room, until Clarke finally just followed after him.

It struck her that she'd never really been in Bellamy's room before; it was similar in size to her own, with fewer windows, and the bed was pushed into a different configuration, but Clarke ignored it to parade over to his closet, picking out all the business casual clothes Bellamy had, laying them out on his bed, and then they started bickering over which tie to pair with which shirt.

"Bellamy," she said in exasperation, "you can't wear blue checks with orange stripes, what are you, a heathen?"

"They're little checks," he said, holding the offending combination up together. "Baby checks. You can't even see them."

"Are you blind," Clarke said in astonishment, and Bellamy scowled before he started rooting around in his bedside drawer, and pushed on a pair of glasses, stared at the shirt and tie, and shrugged. "Looks fine to me."

"Take my word as an artist, and also as someone who knows more about fashion than you," Clarke said. "No. Veto. I'm locking you out of the apartment if you wear that."

"I know plenty about fashion," Bellamy grumbled. "People ask me to model at work."

"Because they want a pretty face, Bell," she said patiently, "models don't pick out what they wear on the runway, the designers do. In this instance, I'm the designer, and you're the model, and I'm putting in a veto. Don't the checks look better with this gray tie and the gray jacket?"

Bellamy scowled, but obligingly snapped a picture with his phone, as he had with the last few outfits Clarke had chosen, so he could remember them.

Once Bellamy was folding all his clothes to his exact specifications, Clarke sitting on the bed and generally making a nuisance of herself, he said, "Oh, I have to call the club and tell them I'll be out."

"Good plan," Clarke agreed, flopping back onto his pillows. "Do you want to finish off the chicken and rice leftovers for dinner tonight?"

"Good plan," Bellamy repeated, carefully placing the shirt he'd been folding into the suitcase. "In thirty minutes?"

"Thirty minutes," Clarke agreed, and went to grab the article before sitting back down on Bellamy's bed.

The only noise was the shuffling of Clarke's article, the scratch of her pen against paper, the soft thump of clothing settling into the suitcase, and their breathing. Eventually, Bellamy flopped down on the bed, and Clarke set aside her paper, and they both laid on their backs, staring up at his blank white ceiling.

"You should put posters up here," Clarke commented.

"Who am I, a pre-teen girl in a Disney movie?" Bellamy said, without heat.

"Clearly," Clarke said, and started ticking it off on her fingers. "Hair that's probably prettier than you ever notice. Little sister who's super cool and you're really close to. Overdramatic, all the time. Secret job. Quirky talents—"

"Which of my talents has ever been quirky?" He said, almost sounding offended.

"I know for a fact that you can darn socks," she said. "And that you cross-stitched that talk shit get hit pillow in Octavia's apartment. You edit Wikipedia articles for fun. You're a dancer, Disney loves that—"

Bellamy snorted. "My brand of dancing's not exactly featured on that channel."

"It'd be rated PG-13," Clarke suggested, and they both laughed.

"You wouldn't fit in a Disney channel movie at all," Bellamy said, once they'd calmed down. "I mean, you're white and blonde, so there's that, but you're way too argumentative for 'em."

"But where would I be in your movie?" Clarke said.

"The bad influence friend," Bellamy suggested. "Or, I dunno, the mysterious neighbor."

"Jerk college roommate," Clarke suggested.

"That's the one, jerk," he said affably, then rolled off the bed. "I'm gonna heat up dinner, and you are not eating in my bed."

"Fine," Clarke grumbled, and they ambled to the kitchen.

Bellamy kept packing progressively over the next couple weeks, and Clarke found herself straying into his room to watch and keep him company.

But by the time she drove up to the airport in Bellamy's car, and made sure he'd dropped off his suitcase and printed off his boarding pass, Clarke found herself wrapping her arms around herself, not quite willing to say goodbye.

"It's only a week, Princess," he said, using the old nickname that she'd used to hate, and she felt an unwilling smile quirk at her lips.

"Yeah, a week," she said, trying hard not to sigh, and opened up her arms and enfolded him into a hug. Bellamy let out a sigh, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, setting his chin atop her head.

"I'll be sure to tell you about all the stuffy old white guys I meet," Bellamy promised, rocking her a little like it was barely even a thought, "and this was supposed to be a surprise, but Lincoln's dropping off some casserole for you to heat up and he wants to meet you for an artsy hike or something—"

"Oh, my God, you actually called Lincoln to made sure I'm fed and walked," Clarke said, offended, but not offended enough to pull away from the hug, and Bellamy chuckled, rumbling in his chest, and he tightened his grip.

"But it's gonna be a fun walk," Bellamy said, "and I only get you the best casseroles."

Clarke rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see it, and he sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"This might suck, a little," he said, and added, "remember when we couldn't stand each other?"

"And then you threatened to punch Finn in the throat," Clarke said, words edged with a laugh.

"Only good things come from punching Finn," Bellamy said, and at last they separated, Bellamy's hands still hovering on her shoulders. "Maybe I should actually go and punch him, just for luck."

Clarke giggled, and said, "Raven's got first dibs."

He hesitated, glancing up as they called for a flight, and sighed, carding a hand over her hair. "Tell me about the hike, okay?"

Clarke nodded, and leaned up on her tiptoes, smacking a kiss to her cheek. "Kick some academic ass for me."

He sighed, ruffled her hair to make her scowl at him, and then headed off for security check-in. He paused, turning just before handing his ticket to the grouchy TSA agent, and Clarke waved at him, then blew him a kiss.

He grinned, and pretended to smack it to the ground. Clarke exaggeratedly clutched at her chest in hurt, and then the TSA said something to Bellamy, because he waved and disappeared into the gate.

Clarke stared until she couldn't see him anymore, then turned around and plodded back to the car, and from there into their empty, dark apartment.

Their times still overlapped mostly in the mornings and evenings, but even when Bellamy was gone, there were still signs of him around the apartment; the dirty mug in the sink, his history books stacked up beside the couch, his shoes neatly lined up on the mat next to the door. Now, there was just the clean apartment, void of his presence, and Clarke sighed to think that it would be a whole week without him there.

She was starting to see why they'd called each other during Thanksgiving.

Clarke heated up some of Lincoln's casserole for dinner, and ate on the couch, in the way Bellamy basically forbade. She procrastinated going to bed until Bellamy texted her that they'd landed safely, then told her to go to bed, he knew she had class tomorrow, and she set the dishes in the sink and, for once, did as she was told.

She did go on the art hike with Lincoln, which was through a craggy cliff near campus at sunrise, which was beautiful but taxing, as Lincoln was the sort of person to "accidentally" go for a half-marathon walk and still go to the gym later that day. She was only wheezing a little by the time they got to the top, and Lincoln handed her one of the muffins he'd packed for their breakfast as they silently sketched and painted the sun rising over the forest.

"Sorry if Bellamy dragged you into this," Clarke said, after she'd eaten two muffins. "The casserole's really great."

He smiled, dipping his brush into the paper cup of water, and said, "The food was his idea. The hike was mine—he seemed to think it was funny."

"He would," Clarke muttered, then shook herself, starting to shade the trees. "You know how he gets—he probably does the same thing for Octavia."

"He's very protective about the people he loves," Lincoln said placidly, and Clarke hummed in agreement before she realized what he said.

"Wh—no, no, Bellamy and I aren't—we're not—" Clarke stammered, and Lincoln smiled at her, gentle.

"We're not like that," Clarke repeated, firm. "It's because you and Octavia are so ridiculously happy, you want everyone else to be in a relationship too."

Lincoln was still smiling, and his face softened at the thought of Octavia, and Clarke snickered a bit at him.

"There's many types of love, Clarke," he said, and there was still a small edge of a smile as he turned back to the painting. "He cares for you, and he enjoys spending time with you, and one of you misses you when the other's gone. Isn't that love?"

Lincoln ended up piggy-backing Clarke partway down the cliff, and Clarke tried her best to shake off that particular conversation.

Did she love Bellamy? Certainly, she told her friends—Lincoln, Octavia, Raven, Jasper, and Monty, Miller once or twice—that she loved them, and she'd been gradually growing closer to Bellamy over the past year. But something felt odd about thinking "I love Bellamy" even to herself; maybe it was the fact that they were so used to bickering and insulting each other, or maybe it was the fact that they lived together and that was a tough line to cross without blurring some boundaries.

Blurring some boundaries? She thought, the kisses, and the hugs, and falling asleep together all coming to the forefront of her brain, and she shoved it away.

It took until Wednesday for her to fold, to sit on Bellamy's bed as she called him after what she thought dinner over there might be.

"Hey," Bellamy said, and Clarke smiled. "Hey," she said.

"I totally destroyed an old white guy today," he informed her imperiously, and Clarke laughed, curling up against his pillows.

"Tell me all about it," Clarke said eagerly.

A lot of the story was academic, and about the politics of academia—it boiled down to Bellamy correcting his lecture on the Battle of Bagbrades, and then eventually using that connection to demean his habit of belittling women in the academic field.

"I'm so proud of you," Clarke said, meaning to speak it teasingly, but it came out a bit more honest than she was expecting.

"Thanks, Clarke," he said, and she could hear his smile through the phone. "Is the apartment still in one piece?"

"It's not like a magazine layout, the way you like it," Clarke fired back.

Bellamy made a noise. "So I'll probably want to clean it when I get back," he said, sorrowful.

"I'm not that bad," she argued, and they devolved into chore arguments, discussing who was really the best at which chore, and when Clarke smugly proved that she was best at vacuuming, he hefted a sigh and said, "Well, I suppose you may as well do it this week, when I'm not in your way."

"Joke's on you, I vacuumed yesterday," Clarke declared proudly. "I didn't want your delicate ego bruised up by the fact that you're not thorough when it comes to vacuuming."

"How courteous of you," he said dryly, then he made a noise of surprise. "We've been talking for an hour."

"Oh," Clarke said, drawing back and blinking at the time. "Yeah, you're right. Huh."

"Uh, actually, I kind of have to go," he said. "A group of the younger students all decided that we were gonna out to a bar together, so—"

"Ooh, Mr. Popular," Clarke said teasingly, and added, "Have fun drinking with all the nerds, nerd."

"I'm the least nerdy nerd here," he protested, and Clarke said, "Okay, sure, did any of them name their sisters Octavia because that's Augustus' little sister? No. Nerd."

"We're continuing this argument later," Bellamy said.

"You should be used to losing to me by now, so that's a-okay with me," Clarke chirped, and added, "Later, Bell."

"Bye, Clarke."

She fell asleep on his bed that night, and refused to analyze it.

On one hand, it was a bit nice to have the apartment to herself; she could spread out and make art without Bellamy breathing down her neck about tarps and cleaning up immediately afterwards, she could order egg rolls without Bellamy eating all of them, she could watch the trashy reality shows Bellamy always trash-talked, she could fall asleep on the couch with Bellamy waking her up like he usually did, because he had something against her sleeping in a public space, she could drink without Bellamy stealing her drink and chugging down at least half of it.

But there wasn't the advil and water waiting for her in the morning because of Bellamy, and Bellamy wasn't around to make dinner, and he wasn't there to help her trash the reality shows, and no Bellamy to attempt to impose things like responsibility and time management, no Bellamy to help execute a plan. She would look around the apartment, ready to laugh about something she'd found online, and there was no Bellamy to laugh with her. In a way, she missed shrieking and kicking him off when he tried to steal her egg rolls, and she missed their usual bickering, and she missed the way he'd fret about her caloric intake and her being cold and her drinking and homework.

Mostly, she just missed Bellamy.

So, when it came to Friday night and Clarke was in the car, she was again refusing to analyze her actions, and pulled into the parking lot of Bellamy's strip club.

She slouched in, and sat directly in front of Gina, who blinked at her.

"Bellamy said he was out of town?"

"He is," Clarke said, and Gina blinked at her, before she smiled. "Oh. I get it. Actually, you don't have to drink alone, since—"

Gina pointed down the bar, and Clarke saw familiar dark hair, throwing off the sheen from the multicolored lights, and she grinned at her.

"Thanks, Gina."

"Don't thank me, just take these drinks for you two," Gina said, smiling a little. "You two can sulk together."

Clarke grinned, took the drinks, and dropped into the seat next to Raven, setting the drink in front of her.

"Hi, Rae," Clarke said, and Raven started, before smiling at her, posture loose and casual in a way that told Clarke she was pretty well on her way to drunk.

"Clarke!" Raven said, grinning, then frowned. "Isn't Bellamy out of town?"

"I can't go out drinking?"

"Not to his strip club," Raven pointed out, taking a sip of the drink, and grinned as she saw Gina meandering over, before taking a deep breath in, leaning over the bar, and pecking Gina on the lips.

"Hey, babe," Raven crooned, and then looked at Clarke, as if daring her to disapprove of this.

Clarke blinked at them, then something Gina said came back to Clarke. "I was wondering about you and Bellamy, you know, from what Raven's told me, but it's good to know he's moved on too—"

Too. So, it was Raven that Gina had moved on with. And, almost more importantly, Raven had moved on from the twin disasters of Finn and Wick, and Clarke found herself grinning.

"How long have you two been a thing, then?" Clarke asked cheerfully, swilling her drink around in her glass.

Gina and Raven looked at each other, and then back at Clarke, and Gina opened her mouth until a group of men started calling for drinks.

"Duty calls," Gina grumbled, and wandered off, Raven staring after her, then turning to Clarke with a shrug.

"You know the coworker I lived with before going to South America? It was Gina. So, a little after the start of school." Raven said, smiling a little, and Clarke smiled back.

"I'm happy for you two, seriously," Clarke said. "I think you two are gonna be great for each other."

Raven was brash and brave, and she was strongly opinionated and also one of the best people Clarke had ever met. After the whole... situa-finn, Clarke and Raven were fast friends. Clarke had seen the quick explosion that had been Raven and Wick, and now... Raven really, truly deserved someone who made her happy, someone who put her first. And Gina, though Clarke hadn't seen much of her, was sweet and kind, with the slightest edge of something sharper. They weren't opposites, exactly. More like complements.

Plus, there was something in Clarke that went all sappy whenever her friends were happy.

Clarke, letting herself show of that sappy something, leaned over to smack a kiss on Raven's cheek, and Raven grumbled, waving her off, but she was smiling, just a bit.

Clarke didn't drink that much; she'd driven, after all, but Raven didn't have that same reservation. Gina monitored her drinks, and gave her water whenever Raven dragged them back from the dance floor, flushed and happy, and Clarke found herself laughing and having fun, even wolf-whistling at Miller when he came out to do a routine with a female dancer Clarke hadn't ever met before. Raven became more fluid and eager about her dancing when she was drunk; she and Raven danced with each other more than paying attention to the dancers onstage, and they were among the minority, but that meant more space for them to move.

The music thrummed around them, and Clarke was feeling warm from their surroundings and, admittedly, a little bit of alcohol, but she twirled, and shook her hips, bobbing her head to the beat, beaming at Raven who was getting looser and looser, shouting along lyrics that didn't fit the songs, giggling when she got them ridiculously wrong, and Clarke mouthed along, a beat behind.

Raven dragged them over to the bar again, reaching over to give Gina a little peck, Gina flushing and waving off the people who cheered, pushing more water into their hands as they wandered off to their corner.

"So, seriously," Raven said. "Why come drinking here?"

Clarke, feeling suddenly less giggly, took a long drink of water before setting it down with a shrug. "I like Gina, and... I dunno. It's been a long week."

"Because Bellamy's gone."

Clarke scowled, about to deny it, but Raven said cheerfully, "You don't just go to drink longingly at a strip club unless whoever you're missing works at a strip club."

"Maybe I wanted to see Gina and Miller," Clarke grumbled.

Raven grinned, propping her chin in her hands. "You miiiiiiss him."

Clarke groaned, and Raven continued, "You miss him, and you wanna make out with him, and you want him to give you a private lapdance in the bedroom—"

Clarke's cheeks heated rapidly at the thought of it, and Raven cooed, poking her in the cheeks.

"Shut up, Raven," Clarke mumbled.

"You're just jealous because you have nobody to give you private lapdances in the bedroom." Raven said smugly, and Clarke glanced towards Gina, then at Raven, then made a briefly impressed face. Raven shoved her, laughing, and they ended up going back out onto the dance floor, any discussion about Bellamy was tabled for the night.

Clarke made her exit once the club died down for the night and Raven had crossed over the bar, making out Gina with an intense sort of purpose, and Clarke made her way down to Bellamy's car, driving herself home. She tugged off the dress she'd worn, scrubbed off her makeup, and fell into Bellamy's bed in her underwear, grinning as she set an alarm.

Bellamy was coming home tomorrow.

In the car, in the morning, two coffee thermoses in the cup holders as a surprise for Bellamy, Clarke realized last minute that she'd tugged on one of Bellamy's nerdy history shirts, and Bellamy's coat was hanging off of her, but Clarke could barely even care, probably speeding a bit more than was advisable on the way to the airport.

She sat parked in front of the baggage claim, wriggling impatiently in her seat like a puppy, too excited to really care about how ridiculous she looked. She paused, before she slid over to the passenger's seat, closer to the sliding door, because she'd be able to jump out of the car and see Bellamy, plus, Bellamy would want to drive, and he'd grumble and complain about the way she'd adjusted the seats and the mirrors, and steal a sip from her coffee even though he had his own.

Clarke saw him first; his hair was mussed and messy, part of it flattened like he'd fallen asleep against the window, and he was wearing his glasses, too, one hand tugging along his wheeled suitcase, the other clutching at the strap of his backpack, and Clarke couldn't really take the time to reflect on his appearance too much more because she'd flung open the door.

Bellamy grinned at her, and let go of his suitcase and his backpack in just enough time to Clarke to walk into him, the hug more forceful than graceful, and Bellamy let out a playful huff of air before wrapping his arms around her, and Clarke closed her eyes.

He smelled like cheap soap, and the cologne that Octavia had bought for him a couple Christmasses ago, and the odd, tinny scent that Clarke always associated with planes, but beneath all that, he was firm, and radiating warmth, and something in her brain just sighed Bellamy and Clarke found her shoulders relaxing.

She felt his breath hit her hair, and Clarke leaned back enough so that she could see his face, before reaching up and mussing up the flat side of his hair.

"Have fun at your nerdfest, Bell?" She asked, a little breathless, lightly running her fingers through his curls, correcting them so they evened out with the other side of his head, privately enjoying the fluffiness through her fingers.

He grinned at her. "Wasn't bad, I guess. But seriously, I was the least nerdy nerd there—"

It took a second for it to click, and Clarke started to laugh, dropping her head forwards so her forehead rested against his chest, shoulders shaking. "Oh, my God, Bellamy, could we not have two minutes?"

He was grinning as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, ducking to kiss her on her temple, and Clarke tried to act like she wasn't snuggling into his side. Bellamy turned to grab his suitcase, but Clarke dashed forwards to snatch it and heft it into the trunk, Bellamy rolling his eyes but setting his backpack in the trunk beside it.

Like she thought, the first thing he said when he slid into the driver's seat was, "Jesus, Clarke, can't you invest in some stilts to drive or something? They probably sell carseats for short adults."

"Fuck off, Bellamy," Clarke said easily, gathering the thermoses in her hands and hunching around them, "I even made you coffee, but I guess if you're being mean to me—"

She heard Bellamy's seatbelt unclick, and Clarke squealed as Bellamy surged over the center console, digging his chin into her shoulder as he scrabbled for the coffee, Clarke laughing and squawking in equal measure as Bellamy attempted to wrestle one of the thermoses away from her.

"Clarke, c'mon!" He whined, as he unfairly tickled at her sides, making Clarke squirm and giggle, nearly losing her grip on the coffee. "I've been up since four AM—"

"Should've thought about that before you were mean to me, jerk," Clarke said, trying her best to kick him.

"All right, all right, you probably don't need stilts—"

"Probably," Clarke scoffed, turning her head to bicker some more, but she realized how close they'd gotten; one of his hands was on her shoulder, the other brushing at her opposite wrist in an attempt to get the coffee, and he'd frozen, eyes locked on hers, glasses just slightly askew. There were bags under his eyes, and he looked a little worse for wear.

Clarke's eyes drifted from his eyes, over his freckled cheeks, the smile that was fading from his lips. His fingers curled, just barely brushing over her pulse point, and Clarke looked back up at him. She didn't quite know what emotion was in his eyes; all that she knew was that it was strong, and it was directed entirely at her. She was close enough to count the freckles on his cheeks, if she wanted. They were close enough to—

HONK!

Clarke jerked in shock, and both of them let out a shout as they collided, Bellamy clutching at her nose and Clarke nearly dropping the coffee to clutch at her forehead, the pair of them groaning in unison.

"Asshole!" They both shouted at the truck that was swerving around them, apparently impatient with the fact that they weren't moving, and Bellamy groaned, tugging down his visor to check his nose in the mirror. It had gone rather red, and Clarke did the same to look at her forehead, the red much more apparent on her pale skin.

"You're lucky it didn't start bleeding," Bellamy grumbled.

"God, you're such a baby," Clarke said, and whatever tension that had been there was gone, now, and Bellamy started to drive. Clarke eventually sacrificed one of the thermoses to Bellamy to stop him from complaining about his nose, and then convincing him to take them to an I-Hop as a pity breakfast for the injuries they'd grievously suffered.

Clarke grinned when her chocolate chip pancakes were delivered, thanked the woman who had dropped them at their table, and stuck her tongue out at Bellamy when she realized her food came first.

"Oh, God," Bellamy said, "have you been eating like a kid who's been left home alone for the first time this whole week? Is this what you resort to when I'm not there to make you eat your vegetables?"

"Lincoln's casseroles," Clarke protested around a mouthful of sugar.

Bellamy rolled his eyes, leaned forwards to tear a chunk out of her pancake, like a heathen. "I had him make you those casseroles. So, I was feeding you, by proxy."

Clarke half-heartedly jabbed at his hand with her fork, but he was grinning as he ate her pancake, eyes sparkling with delight and mischief and he looked almost younger like this, carefree and soft. He looked much more like the college student he'd been when they'd met, except not, because he didn't grease back his hair anymore, which made him look sleazy and weirdly teenager-y. His hair was loose and curly, his glasses settled against the bridge of his nose. And because now Clarke knew Bellamy, had lived with him, and knew that there was a protective sweetheart under the asshole exterior.

A beat too late, just enough to make it a little awkward, "So, you're telling me you were the model of health at nerdcon?"

"I was the buffest nerd at nerdcon," Bellamy argued. "I was the nerd nobody picks on because I can beat them up."

"Okay, Mr. Muscles," Clarke snickered, "that doesn't answer if you were healthy."

Bellamy pulled a face, grumbled something about a salad, and they were distracted by Bellamy's omelette and bacon arriving, and Clarke's subsequent mission to steal all of his bacon, with an inevitable mock sword fight with their butter knives.

As the semester ticked steadily onwards, Clarke found herself absorbed with schoolwork, but also by the oncoming storm of her mother's wedding over spring break, eventually recruiting Octavia and Raven, along with her mother on Skype, to pick out a maid of honor's dress. Clarke would be the only person on her mother's side, Jaha on Kane's, so the main requirement was really make sure it's this color and meets Abby's approval.

However, Octavia wrapped her arm around Bellamy's shoulders and tugged him along, so it was the four of them (plus Abby, on the phone) walking through the mall.

Clarke ended up huddling with Bellamy as Octavia and Raven grabbed every dress that was in her size and within Abby's color range, and then grimaced at the sheer number as she was nudged into a dressing room.

After three dresses (two nixed because Raven/Octavia declared you look good, but you can look better, one nixed due to Abby) Clarke ended up yanking on one with a zipper up the back, then grimaced as she squirmed, before calling it quits and stepping out. "Zipper's not done up, but I'm not sure if I'll end up liking this one," she grumbled.

Bellamy stepped forwards, suddenly, carefully pinching at the fabric and taking hold of where the zipper rested, just under the base of her ribs, and tugged the zipper up. Clarke carefully gathered her hair in her hands, over one shoulder, as Bellamy slowly dragged the zipper up her back, fingers brushing along the fabric he'd just sealed up, and once he carefully fastened the clasp at the top, his fingers brushed lightly against the nape of her neck.

"Um," Clarke said, voice a little strangled. "Thanks."

"Anytime," Bellamy said, husky, and stepped back so Clarke could twirl for the girls, look at herself in the mirror, tilting her head. "Mm," she murmured, twirled again.

"I like it," Abby said from the phone, and Clarke nodded, before she said, "I do too, but I think I'll try on the other ones before I make a final choice."

It took to the third-to-last dress, a simple yet pretty thing in a soft shade of blue, for her to step out and for Octavia to let out an eager whoop, Raven nodding in approval, and Bellamy smiling, tilting to lean against his wall, eyes soft and warm.

"This one," Clarke said, smiling, and Abby agreed, and she said over the phone, "All that's left for you to do is to find you a date."

Octavia's eyes widened, and she and Raven exchanged a look, and Clarke was not liking that kind of light in their eyes.

"You know, Lincoln and I are going to that hiking retreat," Octavia said loudly, "and Raven, you're going to that thing with Sinclair, right?"

"M-hm," she agreed, and then turned to Bellamy. "You could probably go down for a weekend to be Clarke's date for the wedding, right?"

Bellamy stuttered something about work, and Abby joined in, said that would solve quite a few problems, Marcus and I will pay for it, really, you know Marcus, don't you? He thought you were quite the remarkable young man and so it ended up that Bellamy would be Clarke's date to her mother's wedding.

After they shopped for accessories, and heels, and went out to lunch with Raven and Octavia, and were alone in their apartment, Clarke said, "You don't have to, really, if you don't want to—"

"No, no," Bellamy said, and fidgeted. "It's a free vacation, why not?"

"If you're really sure," Clarke said, and pressed, "You know how my mom's friends are, I don't want you to be uncomfortable—"

"Clarke, God," Bellamy grumbled. "Marcus was probably going to invite me to the wedding anyway, it's going to be fine."

Clarke snapped her mouth shut, because she hated the firm line of Bellamy's mouth right now, the clenched jaw, the hard eyes.

"Okay," Clarke muttered. "It'll be fine."

The time approaching spring break was nearly normal; they bickered no more or less than they usually did, Bellamy and Clarke were both busy with school, they ate dinner and breakfast together, Clarke occasionally tagged along to the club so she could gossip with Gina. But there was something odd; since Bellamy had been invited to the wedding, since he had slowly pulled the zipper up her back. They didn't do casual touching nearly as much; whenever they forgot, when Clarke snuggled into his side or when he played with her hair, they both seemed to remember at once and jerk away like they'd been burned.

Clarke knew that something was coming, that it would likely culminate during Bellamy's stay during the wedding, but she chose to ignore it as best as she could.

However, Octavia wasn't under the same unspoken agreement.

It was the Sunday a week before the wedding, the last week of class, and Octavia barged into the apartment just before Clarke and Bellamy were about to eat dinner.

"Hi, Clarke, hi, Bell," Octavia said, stretching out on the couch, Bellamy smiling at her. Sometimes, Clarke got jealous of the bond that Octavia and Bellamy shared, wistful for a sibling she'd never had or would ever have. Usually, it wouldn't take long for Bellamy and Octavia to start bickering and for Clarke to feel grateful that she never had a sibling.

"Do you want some pasta, O?" Bellamy asked, already dishing up a third bowl, and Octavia confirmed that she did, before she said, "Hey, Bell, I got you a tie that matches Clarke's dress for the wedding."

"Eat at the table," he scolded, before it seemed to sink in, and then he scowled. "This isn't high school, O."

"No, but it's cute," she chirped, holding up the tie to his eyes and nodding. "Classic white shirt, black jacket, you'll look great. Don't slick back your hair, either."

"Yes, ma'am," Bellamy muttered, and Octavia cheerfully draped the tie over the back of their couch before joining them at the table.

For the rest of dinner, Octavia was cheerful, and bright, and brought the pair of them near to tears from laughing. It was great to have her over, for the first time in what felt like forever; Octavia credited her new job, teaching martial arts in the college gym, as the reason she was so busy. Bellamy got to fuss over Octavia, and Clarke got to gossip with her about the latest things going on in their friend group, and Octavia roped them into a night of drinking the night before they were due to leave so quickly and efficiently that Clarke barely even had time to blink.

The evening drew to a close too quickly. After a dessert of hastily made cookies, after smacking kisses to both their cheeks, Octavia yelled, "Have fun at your wedding, losers!" and Clarke and Bellamy both winced as the door slammed shut.

Clarke had a test that she spent most of the week studying for, so the Friday of drinking with Octavia (and Lincoln, Raven, Gina, Jasper, Monty, Monroe, Harper, and Miller) crept up on her, in the same way that Clarke knew this odd thing with Bellamy was; Clarke knew full well that it was happening, but she preferred to look away and ignore it.

Raven, Octavia, and Gina crashed in as soon as Clarke got home from classes, crowing about how Clarke promised to let them do her hair, and Clarke surrendered herself with a sigh and upraised hands, letting Octavia weave a little crown into her hair with good humor, let Raven do her makeup in soft pinks and gentle golds, Gina pawing through her closet but mostly supplying them with pre-game drinks.

By the time Bellamy slouched into the apartment, they were all on their way to drunk, and all of them cheered when he walked into the kitchen, where they'd set up camp.

"Look, Bell, it's all your favorite women!" Octavia crooned, and Clarke blinked at her, surprised.

"What, two exes, my sister, and my roommate?" He stumbled over the word roommate. Clarke noticed these kinds of things. She took a sniff of the drink that Gina made her, and took another gulp. Whoa. Lot of vodka. Gina was not fucking around.

Octavia grabbed Bellamy and tugged him off to his room, while Raven pressed a kiss to Gina's cheek, and Clarke finished off her drink.

All at once, though, Lincoln, Jasper, Monty, and Miller all showed up together, Monroe and Harper trekking up the stairs to Clarke and Bellamy's apartment not long after, and they started debating who would drive (Miller, Lincoln, and Monroe took the fall; Miller would drive back Jasper and Monty, Lincoln would drive back Octavia, Raven, and Gina, and Monroe would drive back Harper, Bellamy, and Clarke. It was a system.)

They ended up going to Dropship, all of them crowding the bar to get their drinks, and then crowding themselves into a booth to drink and shout at each other over the music. Clarke was cheerfully jostling elbows with Octavia and Gina on either side of her, grinning wryly at Monty from across the table, and things felt bright, Clarke beaming and laughing with little provocation, ready for a week of sketching, and no homework, and lounging lazily in the sun. A piece of Clarke was anxious to be without Bellamy for the six days following the wedding, but she was ignoring that in favor for the much bigger part of her that was anxious about the wedding.

But tonight, it was just her friends, and loud music, and the slightest bite of alcohol on the edge of soda, and Monty grabbed Raven and started to twirl her around the dance floor, Miller winking at Gina and following suit. Monroe and Harper departed to get more drinks for the rest of them, and Clarke propped her head on her hand, smiling at them.

A finger tapped at her elbow, and Clarke blinked sleepily at Bellamy, who'd moved to fill Monty's seat. "You good?" He asked.

Clarke grinned at him, the stretch of it slow and lazy. "I'm awesome."

Bellamy grinned back, and the world was soft around the edges, Clarke's eyes caught on the flash of Bellamy's teeth, the constellation of his freckles. Once Clarke finished her drink, Bellamy stuck out his hand.

"Wanna dance?"

Clarke beamed, and took it, wiggling her way out of the booth, leading Bellamy out onto the dance floor. The music was soft and poppish, less club and more high school dance. He teasingly spun her in a circle, and Clarke giggled as she did, the colors of the people and the lights blurring as she moved. Bellamy caught her, an arm around her waist, tugging her in close, Clarke's hands moving to his shoulders, smile tugging at her lips.

"Hi."

"Hi," he said, amused, and oh no, a small sober part of Clarke whispered, but drunk Clarke was in control now, so she pressed her way closer to Bellamy. They were mostly just swaying, ever so slightly.

"This is a bad song for dancing," Bellamy said, head tilting back. "Irregular beat."

"Oh, you'd know," Clarke began, before she realized, wait, he would, and said instead, "So, what would you dance to, then?"

Bellamy was smiling still, and Clarke was kind of unaccustomed to seeing so much of his grin in a consecutive period of time. "You've seen me dance, Clarke."

Clarke grinned, and the song changed, and he nodded enthusiastically. "This is more like it. C'mon. C'mon c'mon c'mon."

Clarke blinked at him, and tried to think of how many drinks Bellamy had had, because he wasn't exactly the kind to eagerly pull someone out into the fray of the dance floor, but then Bellamy's hands were coursing through his hair and his hips were moving and Clarke couldn't really be bothered with counting, at the moment.

He reached out, and Clarke took his hands, twisting her hips a little. She couldn't really keep focusing, though, with Bellamy looking at her like that, pupils a little bigger than usual, smiling still.

"That's it," he said, beaming, and Clarke laughed, ducking her head.

"I'm awful," she groaned, and he chuckled, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pressing his lips into her hair.

"Nah, you just need to practice," he said into her hair, then pulled back. "I'm lucky Raven just sent you Candy Shop, I was hopeless when I first started."

"All right, then," Clarke said, taking his hands. "I need to be drunker if I'm gonna be able to keep up with you, Emperor."

Bellamy blinked at her, startled, and his smile turned lazy, and slow, and something in it she'd seen when he was onstage, something that made her knees a little weaker, made her lips part just slightly. "If you insist."

They ventured to the bar, running into Harper and Monroe, and then venturing back to the table with a variety of pitchers.

That was when Clarke's memories of the night started getting blurry.

She knew she did a couple rounds of shots with Octavia, Harper, Raven, and Gina, that she challenged Jasper and Monty to chug a cocktail drink with her, and that she danced a lot with Bellamy.

Like. She danced a lot with Bellamy.

Bellamy, pressed up behind her back, breathing just slightly on her neck, his arm sliding around her waist. Clarke paused, before she slid her hand over his, holding him in place. Bellamy, warm and firm against her back. Bellamy, hips swaying against hers. Bellamy, pausing as she ground her hips back against him before reciprocating, the smooth, slow twists of his hips. Bellamy, pressing them chest to chest, letting her dictate the pace and the amount they touched. The way Bellamy felt when she pressed up against him.

Most of her memories included dancing with Bellamy; Bellamy's hands on her shoulders, Bellamy's hands on her waist, Bellamy letting down the crown-braid from her hair, Bellamy grabbing her hands and twisting her around, the long line of Bellamy's throat, Bellamy's freckles, the way his eyes crinkled up and the way he ducked his head when he smiled, the way they yelled lyrics together.

The night was long, and wonderful. Clarke could only remember bits and pieces, but the bits and pieces she could remember were full of laughter, and music, and good food and good drinks and good company. It was a welcome group to send her off for spring break, and Clarke grimaced to think of not seeing them all for a week. When Clarke and Bellamy crashed into Monroe's car, Harper claiming the front seat, Clarke was still caught on the edge of giggling, tilting her head to look at Bellamy. His eyes were shut, and Clarke admired the way that his eyelashes brushed against his cheeks, the freckles dotting his face, the slight sheen of sweat dotting his face. Harper and Monroe were speaking softly under Monroe's weirdly shriek-y orchestral music, and Clarke reached over, twining her fingers with Bellamy's, admiring the way their hands fit together.

Bellamy's eyes slid open, and he looked at his hands, then at her, and then he smiled like that again, and Clarke found herself squirming a little closer, only stopped by her seatbelt.

The drive to their apartment seemed to take both too long and not long at all; on one level, Clarke was aware of the looks Monroe kept shooting at their hands through the rearview mirror, of the intense violin music, but on the other, she was holding hands with Bellamy, who was smiling at her like that, something in his eyes dark and full of want, and Clarke could feel herself turning more and more towards him, like a flower to the sun.

At last, Monroe parked, and Clarke didn't let go of Bellamy's hand; she slid out of his door, still clinging to his hand.

"See you after break," Monroe said, and went to open the door for Harper, and Clarke managed a "see you" before Bellamy tugged her hand, pulling her to the apartment.

Clarke didn't let go of his hand as they went up the stairs, or when Bellamy unlocked the door, and she didn't let go of his hand when they walked into the apartment together.

He grinned at her, bright and silly, and said, "Holdin' your liquor okay, princess?"

Clarke beamed, surged forwards, and pressed her lips against Bellamy's, twining her free hand into his hair.

The kiss was more about enthusiasm than skill; Clarke pressed herself against him, sucking at Bellamy's lower lip until he opened his mouth so she could press her tongue against his, then running her tongue along his lip. She was eager to taste him, the beer and mixed drinks that still lingered on his breath, a taste that she was realizing was Bellamy, and she sighed into it.

She could feel the smirk fade from Bellamy's lips, and she drew back, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Is this okay?" She breathed out, and Bellamy blinked at her, dumbstruck, mouth opening slightly, and Clarke shifted, staring at him expectantly.

"I take birth control, and I'm clean," fell out of her mouth before she could even really know what she was doing, and Bellamy nodded, quick and decisive.

"I'm clean too," he said. "I might have condoms in my bedside drawer if we want to be extra safe, but—"

Clarke swallowed his complaints with another kiss; her heart thumped faster, I'm going to have sex with Bellamy dancing around in her head, and at last they released their grip on each other's hands; Clarke's hands cupped his cheeks, and she felt dazed, short-circuited, warm and fuzzy and like everything was focusing on this moment.

I'm going to have sex with Bellamy.

Bellamy deepened the kiss, his hands tugging at Clarke, pulling her closer. Clarke felt the familiar warmth ignite, low in her stomach, and she gave into it, gave into the sensation of being wrapped up in Bellamy's arms, her hands in Bellamy's hair, and kissing him was so much better than she could have imagined—but she wanted more.

His lips slide from hers, pressing a kiss to her chin, then sucking at where her jaw met her neck.

"Bellamy," Clarke choked out, as he started trailing a line of kisses and bites down her neck, the swirl of his tongue and the nip of his teeth preoccupying her thoughts other than the primary thought of sex, with Bellamy, and his hands framed her hips, thumbs pressing up against her, and Clarke jolted a little in surprise.

He drew back, just slightly, so that he could tug off her shirt, and Clarke was glad that the only bra that worked with this shirt was a cute, lacy one, and Bellamy groaned "fuck" as he stared at her, before tugging off his own shirt, and Clarke reached forwards, palming at him through his jeans.

"Fuck," Bellamy said again, except his voice went deeper and scratchier, a noise that shot straight through her, and Clarke unfastened his button, slid down the zipper, and slid her fingers through the belt loops, slowly tugging down his jeans, stepping back so he could step out of them and she shucked her own jeans, before stepping back forwards and kissed him again, soft, hands resting against the planes of his chest.

"Clarke," he breathed out, and then his hands were against her ass, hoisting her up a little before she landed on the couch, Bellamy sucking kisses to her breasts, down her stomach, to the inside of her thighs, mumbling praise when she gasped and moaned.

He tugged off her panties, Clarke lifting her hips, and he barely even dropped them on the floor before he goes for it, licking over her, the edge of his tongue pressing up against her clit, making her gasp, tangling her fingers into his hair.

He pressed his tongue flat against her, and Clarke's hips jerked, her legs hooking around him, as if to ensure that he couldn't get away.

He dropped smooth, slow kisses to the inside of her thighs, his hands scratching idly at her legs, and he was nipping but immediately licking at her, as if to soothe the pain, and then sucking.

"Bellamy," she begged, but he smiled against her thigh, pressing a near-chaste kiss to her mons.

"I'm gonna make it so good for you, Clarke," he murmured, and he bent to suck at her clit again, Clarke's back arching at the warmth, his tongue, breathing hard.

He began to circle around her clit, unhurried, making Clarke breathe faster and harder even so, fingers tugging at his hair in an attempt to make him move faster.

"Bell," she choked out, "Bell, please, I need to—"

"I know," he murmured, and licked, over folds, arduously slow, an unhurried path to her clit, where he sucked against her.

"Bellamy, please," she gasped, and he pressed his tongue up against her, inside her, and Clarke moaned as he made a torturous circuit from her clit to her entrance. He sucked at her, and then he pressed two fingers inside her, the other moving to press lightly at her hip, holding her in place, and Clarke shuddered, moaning again.

His tongue was making sloppy circles around her clit, his fingers thrusting in and out, at a slow pace that was intensifying with every moment. He sucked against her clit as he slid his fingers in and out, curling occasionally to rub against that spot, and Clarke lost track of nearly everything—the way bellamy bellamy bellamy was spilling out of her mouth, the way her hips jerked against him, against his hand, her fingers twisting in his hair.

She was clenching around him, and she forced herself to let go of his hair so she didn't pull to hard, instead grabbing at the couch and digging in her nails, hips rolling as she lost herself, the world narrowing down the Bellamy's mouth and Bellamy's fingers. She felt, distantly, the hand that had holding at her hip trace a line down a bone in her arm—ulna, her brain would supply later—then push his fingers into her hand loosely, letting Clarke squeeze and dig her nails into his hand.

He sucked at her clit at the same time he crooked his fingers to brush against that spot inside her, and that's it, Clarke's coming, so hard it felt like it was lasting forever, a moment of blissful nothing. She didn't know if she cried out, but it echoed through her even after she came down, panting, squeezing Bellamy's hands.

"So good," Bellamy mumbled, and Clarke jerked a little, oversensitive, when he withdrew his fingers, levying himself so he hovered over her, grinning.

"Quit looking so smug," Clarke slurred out, and Bellamy smirked.

"Can't help it," he said, and bent, pressing his nose against her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead that felt oddly chaste and sweet.

"To bed, princess?" He offered, and Clarke moved to her elbows, meaning to walk with him, but he grinned, instead moving, and Clarke remembered this move from seeing his shows, but it was a different situation entirely to be the one actually being carried over his shoulder.

Clarke stared at Bellamy's bare back, his ass right there, and Clarke reached and squeezed, feeling the muscle through his boxers, felt Bellamy jerk in surprise, and Clarke nipped at his back, sucking shortly after.

"Clarke," he gasped out, and then, "are you giving me a hickey on my back?"

Clarke hummed, and he set her down on his bed. Clarke leaned back, and surveyed him; she was in only her bra, and he was just in his boxers, and Clarke leaned forwards, tugging lightly at the waistband of his boxers, staring at the bulge that tented them, lips parting.

"Time to get even," she said, and Bellamy's pupils went wide, and she tugged him down to the bed, pushing on his chest to make him lay down.

"Clarke," he said, hoarse, and Clarke smiled. She was good at this, liked going down on people, and she tugged Bellamy's boxers down, staring. He's thick, and a good length, and Clarke gave him a slow, soft stroke with her hand. Bellamy shifted a little, so she could sink down, between his thighs, and she leaned forwards, pressing a kiss to his hipbone, then laying her tongue flat and trailing it to just above where she intended, settling one hand on his hips like he'd done to her, the other taking him in her hand and slowly guiding him into his mouth.

"Fuck, Clarke," he groaned, and she saw his hands spasm, grabbing at the sheets. Clarke settled herself in, and then started on a smooth, slow rhythm, sucking just at the head, her other hand sliding up and down his length. She looked up at him, his eyes squeezed shut, the long lines of his body tensing, and she slowly moved forwards, sinking down, watching as he made a choked-off noise, before she took a deep breath in through her nose. It had been a while since she'd done this, but—

"Clarke," he moaned, as Clarke slid lower and felt him at the back of her throat. "Fuck, Clarke, s'good, so good—God, your mouth—"

Clarke eased back, and then forwards again, tapping lightly at where his hand clenched in the sheets, guiding it to her hair.

"Fuck," he said, breathless, curling his fingers tentatively into her hair, and Clarke hummed around the length of him, looking up at him through her lashes, sliding her mouth up and down, using her hand when she drew back to focus on the head, sloppy and wet. He groaned, and Clarke took that as a cue to bring him in deeper, suck harder, and his hips stutter, and he gasped out, "Clarke, Clarke, stop—wanna fuck you—"

Clarke paused, before she withdrew, letting him slide out of his mouth with a wet, sinful pop, and he groaned as Clarke leaned over him, reached into his bedside table to pull out a condom.

Clarke carefully rolled it onto him, and he swallowed back a moan, before he tentatively put a hand on her hip as Clarke put a knee on either side of her hips. She took him into his hands, and slid carefully down.

They moaned in unison, and Clarke rolled her hips, still feeling a bit sensitive, but this was so much different from his mouth. He groaned again, and so she did it again, pressing a hand down on his chest for balance. He covered it with his own, and the other hand went to her breasts, still covered by her bra, squeezing lightly. She ground her hips in a slow, careful movements, the heat building up again, and Clarke wanted both of them to enjoy this; the angle she's at made him push up against her clit, the noises they both made seeming to drive each other crazy.

He's good, he's so good inside her, and she told him as much, and he let out a breathy laugh.

"Better be," he said, and Clarke grinned, too, and he sat up, then, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest, and Clarke dropped her forehead to Bellamy's shoulder, wrapping her arms around him too, hugging him close, wrapping her legs tight around his waist.

The pace was slow, still, grinding and the heat like waves, their bodies wrapped up together and Clarke enveloped by Bellamy's warmth, feeling him inside her, felt herself clench around him, her breath coming faster and faster.

Clarke gasped out, "Bellamy, I'm so close."

"I know, Clarke, I know," he murmured, and drew back from the hug, staring at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear even as he was thrusting up into her. It felt oddly intimate, romantic and soft, and Clarke hesitated before she leaned forwards and pressed her lips against his, simple and gentle, and she felt herself come, Bellamy following short after, Clarke's eyes squeezing shut as she felt the heat roll over her again, whispering his name.

When she came back to herself, they both leaned forwards, panting, pressing their foreheads together. Clarke was smiling, lazy and sated, and closed her eyes. They breathed in silence, waiting for both of their heart rates to settle. Clarke felt better than she had in ages; head fuzzy from the alcohol, body warm and relaxed from the orgasms, content from Bellamy's arms around her, his forehead against hers, and she felt her cheeks start to ache from smiling.

Eventually, Clarke rolled off of him, back onto Bellamy's bed, and found her eyes sliding shut as Bellamy went to throw away the condom.

She felt the mattress shift when Bellamy sank down again, and Clarke found herself worming closer, pressing herself against Bellamy's back; he'd put on boxers again, and she slung an arm over him, pressing her nose against his neck.

"G'night, Clarke," he mumbled, and Clarke pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck.

"Night, Bell," she murmured.

Clarke woke up to a pounding headache and the truly obnoxious noise of Bellamy's alarm, and she groaned, leaning forwards to shut it off, only to find herself pressed up against Bellamy's chest.

Bellamy's bare chest.

In a rush, the night before came back to her, and Clarke felt her cheeks heat up, even as Bellamy groaned, his arm tightening around her waist.

Clarke grabbed Bellamy's phone, and her eyes widened at the time.

"Bell, wake up," she said, smacking at his arm, "we're gonna be late, get up!"

Bellamy's eyes popped open, and he let go of her fast, like she'd burnt him, and Clarke wriggled over him and to her room, quickly packing up all her toiletries and getting herself dressed, flushing again at the sight of the hickies along the inside of her thighs.

She squirmed into leggings and a t-shirt, brushing her teeth and washing her face before throwing the supplies into the bag, emerging to see Bellamy burst out of his room, glasses perched on his nose, grabbing Clarke's suitcase and hauling it outside, telling Clarke to grab some granola bars and hurry up.

Clarke dashed to the kitchen, doing as he said, and then made sure to shut off all the lights, and then to the car, tying her shoes as Bellamy peeled out of the parking lot.

She waited until they got onto the highway until she started with a weak, "So, uh."

Bellamy's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Uh. Yeah."

Clarke swallowed, her stomach tight, and said, "How are you feeling? About it?"

Bellamy looked at her, then back at the road. "We were both drunk," he said carefully. "It's... been a while. For both of us. So, I mean—"

Clarke swallowed again, something tight in her throat. "Yeah," she agreed, quiet. "So, um. One-time deal?"

"One-time deal," he agreed. "I... don't want to make things awkward. Between us." He glanced at her, then at the road. "We're friends, and you're Octavia's friend, and I don't want to mess that up."

Something was twisting in her stomach, sharp and awful, and she nodded. "Right," she agreed, quietly. "You're one of my best friends, Bellamy. I don't want to mess that up."

Because she didn't. She didn't want to mess that up. She didn't want to mess up her friendship with Bellamy, or with Octavia. She didn't want to lose either of the Blake siblings. She didn't want to mess up the Griffin-Blake apartment. She didn't want to mess up the casual touches with Bellamy, the way they worried about each other, the way they worked as a team. She didn't want to lose any of that.

"Friends," Clarke checked, and Bellamy nodded. "Friends."

Clarke ignored the sinking sensation in her stomach, and instead looked out the window, breathing out slowly.

It was for the best.

They couldn't sit together on the plane, and Clarke felt grateful; she needed some space, at the moment. She curled up, facing the window with her biggest don't talk to me headphones on, listening to a playlist full of loud, distracting music.

Friends. Of course Clarke and Bellamy were friends; ever since the Finn fiasco, maybe even before, they'd been friends. But now that Clarke knew what having him felt like—to add in sex, along with their casual touching, the way they worked as a team—she didn't want to go back to that. Well, that had been good. But this—this would be better.

But it wasn't what Bellamy wanted.

They managed to meet at the baggage claim, Clarke feeling exhausted and strung-out, and they got their bags in relative silence.

She was thankful when it turned out Marcus was waiting just outside the baggage claim, and she hugged him perhaps a little tighter than necessary.

Marcus carried them through the car ride back to the Griffin home with small talk and inane chatter; he asked about Bellamy's conference, and asked Clarke about any potential internships for the summer. Marcus then talked about the wedding, his work, and how exciting spring break must be.

Clarke breathed out a sigh of relief, as Marcus pulled into the driveway, and they both went to grab their luggage and pull it inside.

Abby, beaming, pulled Clarke into a hug, and Clarke closed her eyes, before smiling as she pulled back.

"I was thinking we could go to get our nails done, have a bit of a girl's day," Abby said, and Clarke let out a little sigh of relief, and Abby turned to Bellamy. "You'll be fine, here with Marcus?"

Bellamy nodded, and Clarke lost herself in their busy afternoon; they got their nails done, (blue for Clarke, a very light pink for Abby) and Clarke saw the venue, a little garden in a park that was teeming with roses, and got to try little samples of the cake and see the bouquet she'd be carrying, and mapping out the plan of attack for the next day, seeing the tables and learning the menu, Clarke polishing up her speech that she'd make at the reception.

Bellamy had always been better at speeches than she had; he could whip up a room of mostly apathetic college students who were there to fulfill a history credit into passionate defenders of history, had been able to whip up a bar into a frenzy, ready to go to war. He'd helped, but mostly left Clarke to write the speech on her own.

"It would show," he'd said, hair rumpled from sleep and glasses perched on his nose, about to take a sip of coffee. "If I'd helped. Besides, Princess, you're plenty good at persuading people, too."

Clarke found herself wishing that she was better at persuading people, but shook that off. She just had to get through the wedding, and then Bellamy would be gone, and she'd have a week to recuperate.

Dinner was fine, on the surface, but Clarke was all to aware of her feet kept close under her chair, not straying out to kick Bellamy like she would have done, the way they didn't meet eyes or shoot each other knowing grins.

Bellamy excused himself to unpack once dinner was done, and Clarke went upstairs, soon after, the whole house saying that the wedding preparations would start early the next morning.

Clarke sat on her bed, picked at a loose thread, and listened to the dial tone.

"What's up, Clarke?" Raven said, voice tinny through the phone.

"I fucked Bellamy."

The words seemed to hang in the air, and Raven said slowly, "You don't sound like this is great news."

Clarke shrugged, even though Raven couldn't see. "We said that we were drunk and that we'd stay friends."

"So, you're both idiots about it, awesome," Raven said.

Clarke wormed her thumb under the thread, wiggling it, widening the gap. "He said he doesn't want to screw things up with the apartment, or with Octavia."

"And you?"

"I agreed," Clarke said, quietly.

Raven let out a loud, huffing sigh. "Clarke. You are both incredibly obtuse so I'm going to have to spell it out for you. You and Bellamy have been in love with each other, at least since you two moved in together."

Clarke blinked, blinked again, and finally said, "What?"

"You and Bellamy are in love, Clarke," Raven said. "We've been waiting for months to hear that you'd both gotten your heads out of your asses. Octavia already knows what flavor of cake your congrats on the sex with my brother, please never talk to me about it she's going to make Lincoln bake. Harper and Monroe were telling us all that you'd finally managed to stop being idiots about it—"

"Who's—who's us—?" Clarke sputtered, feeling her face heat up.

Raven heaved another sigh. "Anyone with eyes."

Clarke felt her mouth open, then shut, and at last she said "Oh" very quietly.

"Do you want my brand of romantic advice or stuff that's actually helpful?" Raven asked. "Warning, it also comes from a person who's slept with Bellamy."

Clarke twisted around the thread, and said at last, "Is both an option?"

"Like in all the other areas of your life," Raven said, and Clarke huffed an obligatory laugh. "Okay, I'm gonna get Gina."

"Raven says you're having a crisis," Gina said, voice warm.

"I slept with Bellamy," she said. "And we said we were just friends and it was a one-time thing."

"And you don't want it to be a one-time thing."

Clarke swallowed, and admitted quietly, "No."

"So. What do you want?"

Part of Clarke could think of their easy companionship, and part of her was thinking of the way he'd held her, the way he'd stared when her shirt was off, and she said, "I want what we had before, but... more. I want us to be together. I want... the cheesy relationship stuff. We already live together, but I want to add in the—" Clarke could feel herself burning. "The sex. The kisses before we leave. Making out on the couch. I want—"

"To be his girlfriend, not just his friend and roommate." Gina finished quietly. "Just saying, though, based off how you guys acted earlier—you weren't far off, I think."

Clarke tugged more at the thread, and said, "So what should I do?"

Gina hummed quietly. "Talk to him. When neither of you are drunk. Tell him how you feel."

Clarke swallowed, and, even quieter, "What if he doesn't feel the same way?"

"Then I'll give you free drinks all night, and I'm sure Raven will help if you want to move out," Gina said. "But, Clarke? He does. He absolutely does."

Clarke swallowed, and nodded jerkily.

"Okay?" Gina checked.

"Okay," she agreed, and let out a slow breath. "Thanks, Gina."

"Hey, from two Bellamy exes to his future relationship, no problem," Gina said. "Have fun at the wedding."

"I will," she said, and hung up, before eventually tugging the thread loose.

Talk to him. Tell him how she felt. Right. Because Clarke's strong suit was emotions.

Clarke resigned herself to a night of poor sleep, and changed into her pajamas. She brushed her fingers hesitantly over the hickeys on her inner thighs. She laid back in the bed, thinking of barely twenty-four hours ago, when she'd been in Bellamy's bed.

She thought of Bellamy, then. His curly hair, the freckles dotting his face, his tan skin. The way he occasionally burst into Tagalog, or Latin. The way his brow creased when he graded papers. The way he held her to warm up, or wrapped her up in a blanket, or found a pair of fuzzy socks. The way he always ducked his head when he smiled, when he was happy, as if to hide it and maintain his gruff, badass reputation. The way he moved onstage, the way he moved when they'd danced together. The way he had started slowly absorbing her into his tiny social circle, the contrast between his asshole-ness and the way he practically adopted anyone with help.

She thought of the way she hugged him, the way they'd held and hugged and kissed at each other. She thought of the small burst of jealousy at the mention of Gina, the way that Raven had exasperatedly told her that everyone with eyes knew the way she felt. She thought of Lincoln, gentle and kind, telling her about the different kinds of love, the way her stomach twisted. She thought of them falling asleep on the couch together. She thought of the way he'd held her when they'd woken up in the morning.

Her bed felt suddenly expansive and cold.

Clarke was jolted awake by her alarm, and she groaned, before she remembered what day it was, and jolted out of bed, throwing on a t-shirt and jeans and jogging down the stairs.

Abby was already preparing coffee, entirely too still, and Clarke reached for her shoulders to give her a hug.

"Hey," she said, soft, and Abby smiled at her, nervous.

Clarke smiled back, and said, "Excited? Nervous?"

Abby sighed, twisted her fingers together, and said, "Both."

Clarke nodded, decided not to mention her father, and said instead, "Well, focus on the excited part. Everyone's nervous, or so every movie tells me."

Abby nodded, and poured the cups into to-go thermoses, before turning to her. "Well, we'll meet up with the stylist at the hotel, I figured we could order room service for breakfast. I'm sorry you couldn't spend much time with Bellamy here, honey—"

Clarke forced a laugh, and said, "We see enough of each other at home, Mom. It's your wedding day. Weekend. Whichever."

Abby peered at her closely, before she nodded, and Clarke went to get her dress, before climbing into Abby's car.

Abby was fraught with nervous, near-unnoticeable tension as the stylist carefully twisted back Abby's hair into a fancier version of the twist she usually wore, and as Clarke's hair curled into soft, gentle ringlets. Clarke talked about her medical courses, her art courses, attempting to distract Abby from her nerves.

They drank mimosas, and had frittatas and fresh fruit, and by the time someone was running a fluffy brush over Clarke's eyelids, Abby seemed to have settled into a state of calm that Clarke had seen in her in the emergency room; like she was ready to take on a disaster, or an emergency, but was certain it would turn out for the best.

When Clarke opened her eyes, Abby was blinking, unused to makeup. Abby wearing makeup was a rare occasion; she didn't bother at work, or at home, and so only wore makeup when it came to campaign dinners and public appearances. But the way she looked now; soft, and, as cliché as it was, radiant—Clarke found herself beaming, reaching over to squeeze her mother's hand.

"Oh, Mom," Clarke said, something sticking in her throat, "you look beautiful."

Abby smiled, carefully, as if she was afraid of the lipstick smearing just by moving her mouth, and squeezed back. "So do you."

Clarke smiled, and didn't quite know what to say then; she was saved from any further emotional turmoil from the makeup artist fluttering over, holding Abby's dress. Clarke gave her mom a reassuring smile, and stepped out of the room, checking her phone.

please never tell me about u or bell being sexual ever but u do have my blessing xoxo, from Octavia, then also lincoln says he called it but 1 he's too nice to say so and 2 we all did

Monty sent her a link to the best brunch places in their town and then the staring emoji. Raven sent her the brand and size of condoms she thought Bellamy had used back when they'd hooked up. Thankfully, right when Clarke felt like she was about to combust, she got a picture of the latest baking endeavor from Lincoln, and also three videos of the kittens his sister was fostering, and then a link to an ASMR paint mixing video.

Clarke spent the rest of her time being sucked into an ASMR paint mixing playlist, sending a thank you to Lincoln and ignoring everyone else. Bellamy could wait until the reception, after she'd made her speech.

She was ushered back in for the wait, and came to a stop, blinking.

Her mother was... gorgeous. Clarke pressed her lips together, feeling her eyes get warm, and Abby laughed wetly, pressing her fingers under her eyes carefully.

"Not you too," Abby said, and Clarke laughed wetly too, before walking over to give her a hug.

Clarke could not deny the complex and rollercoaster-esque history of her and her mother's relationship. The highs of her and her mother bonding over medicine, the lows brought with her father and her father's death, along with her mother's involvement. But they'd gotten to the point they were at now: with her mother in love with Marcus, and Clarke and Abby functioning fairly well with distance, and they rarely fought anymore. They had reached the point where Clarke was nearly brought to bittersweet tears, more sweet than bitter, at the sight of her mother getting married again. They had reached the point where Abby had stopped fighting her on her dual major, and had even expressed some cautious enthusiasm about art. They had reached the point where Abby recognized Clarke as an adult, and Clarke recognized that Abby wasn't trying to restrain her or shape her in Abby's image, and they regarded each other on a near-equal footing.

She'd known it coming in, and had known it her whole life. She didn't expect it to overwhelm her as much as it did, at the sight of her mother in her wedding dress.

Clarke sniffed, and pulled back, brushing her hands lightly over Abby's shoulders, looking at her dress. It was modest, and simple, and utterly in Abby's taste; it did the job, and it didn't have unnecessary decoration or frivolity. It suited her, and it worked for her well.

"You look beautiful, Mom," she said, voice cracking. "Really. I just—you look so you, Mom."

Abby laughed, and said, "I hope that's a compliment."

Clarke nodded, thinking of when she'd played dress-up as a kid—Jake had indulged her in pretty, soft things, Abby had opted for more career things. But Abby had smiled when she did Clarke's makeup for the first time, for a dance recital when she was seven, and she remembered looking up at her mother in awe as a little kid.

Clarke smiled, squeezed her shoulders. "It is."

Thankfully, they didn't have to dwell on the emotional talk long before the photographer came in and hustled them out to the rose garden. Clarke would take pictures with her mother, pictures with her mother and Jaha, pictures with Marcus and Jaha, and—Clarke looked over to her mother at the last one—pictures of Clarke by herself.

Abby smiled, slyly, and shrugged. "You never get pictures taken."

"I will get you back for this someday," Clarke said, almost darkly. Except, that same sappy part of Clarke couldn't quite muster up the threat.

So, at first, Abby had the photos—Clarke, Jaha, Clarke and Jaha, ones of her by herself—and then the photographer waved Clarke over as Jaha offered his arm to her mother, murmuring something in her ear. Abby nodded, and took his elbow.

"Meet you back in the dressing room, honey, Marcus'll be out in a minute, apparently." Abby said. Abby wasn't a superstitious woman, and Marcus was, a little. It was Marcus' mother, Vera, who had insisted on Abby and Marcus not seeing each other on their wedding day. Clarke liked Vera, thought a bit that she'd turn out to be like her when she was old, except less spiritual. Vera, mostly, was brutally honest with people, and essentially gave zero fucks.

Clarke hesitated, but did as the photographer said—lots of things like smile, think of something funny, look over here—but then Clarke saw someone walking close to Indra, dark-curled head bent close to hers, and Clarke felt her jaw drop.

Bellamy. It was Bellamy, at a distance, obscured by hordes of roses, but Clarke knew Bellamy's silhouette like she knew her own shadow, like she knew her own reflection.

"Yeah, keep looking, just like that," the photographer said, and Clarke blinked, snapping out of it, before shaking herself and directing herself to hold the bouquet as he directed.

Marcus emerged, after a while, looking a bit disheveled and quite a bit like he'd been pacing, but he smiled and greeted Clarke with a hug.

"You look beautiful, Clarke," he said warmly, and then set a careful hand on her shoulder, guiding her over to where the photographer gestured. Marcus was, it seemed, intrinsically paternal—when he'd been introduced to some of Clarke's friends, his response had been to immediately gather them under his wing. He'd offered Murphy a potential internship, somewhat stern advice for Octavia, a careful offer as a confidant for Bellamy, and he had invested massive amounts of interest into Raven's latest project.

Clarke figured there were worse men for her mother to marry.

The photographing went more quickly this round—Clarke just took a few photos with Marcus, a couple with Jaha, and then one of them all together—and she was off to the dressing room. She might have walked a bit more slowly than she usually would have, craning her neck, hoping for another glance of Bellamy, but no luck.

Guests were starting to arrive, then, which meant it wasn't long until the wedding's actual start. Abby was tearing up a paper napkin, because the stylist would make warning noises of she went to pick at her nails, and Clarke sat beside her mother, not sure what to say.

"It'll be fine," Clarke said at last. "People always get nervous on their wedding day."

"I have been married before," Abby said dryly.

"Well," Clarke said, "Marcus hasn't, think of how much he's freaking out."

Abby hesitated, before she glanced up from the shredded bits of napkin, and asked, "How was he doing?"

Clarke shrugged. "Nervous," she said. "I think he was pacing. And he kept trying to mess up his hair. So, you're both in the same boat."

Abby nodded, and moved to tear up more of her napkin. Clarke paused, before she got out her phone, sitting close to her mother. "Want to see some videos of Lincoln's sister's kittens?"

Abby laughed, nodded, and they sat side-to-side, heads bent over the phone as soft, squeaking mews emerged from Clarke's speakers, the kittens bowling each other over and pressing their faces against the screen. Clarke watched out of the corner of her eye as Abby's face smoothed over, then softened, and she set aside the napkin, folding her hands in her lap.

After that, Clarke hunted down some puppy videos, and then some with puppies and kittens, and then Indra opened the door and nodded at them solemnly.

Abby and Clarke exchanged glances. Clarke turned her phone off, and set it down with her purse, before heading out to the hall.

Marcus was already inside, waiting at the end of the aisle; the door to it was shut in front of them. Indra was an usher, and would walk Clarke down the aisle before sitting with Vera, which Clarke was aching to see. Then, Jaha would walk her mother down the aisle, and then the actual wedding would start. Clarke's job was to stand there, looking supportive and pretty, not necessarily in that order.

Indra offered her arm to Clarke, looking solemn, as if Indra ever looked anything but solemn or angry. Clarke nodded, and wrapped her arm around Indra's elbow—Indra was wearing a suit, without a bit of leather in sight, which was slightly jarring.

She and Indra nodded at each other, and the doors opened.

There was a scraping noise as people stood and looked back. Clarke wasn't quite prepared for the abundance of faces, staring at her, but she tipped up her chin—regal Princess, Bellamy would tease—and stepped forwards, in sync with Indra.

But then she saw Bellamy—second row, towards the aisle, behind Vera—and she swallowed instinctively. His lips parted, and she could almost hear him whisper Clarke over the music, and Clarke swallowed again, trying to focus on walking without tripping over her feet, and also trying not to look like she'd been hit over the head with an anvil.

She tried to fix her eyes on Marcus, but she couldn't help her eyes dart over to Bellamy's with what felt like every other step—he looked a lot like she felt, which she thought was probably a good sign.

When they passed, their eyes met, and she nodded at him, just slightly, and saw him return it before she was steered over to her mother's side, Indra clasping Marcus' wrist before she went to sit with Vera.

Then, almost everyone turned back to look at her mother, and Clarke took the moment to take a breath. Except Bellamy's eyes were still fixed on her.

Clarke made herself look back at her mother—who was getting over being startled and settling into the same sense being a surgeon had given her, I will make everything work—and then Clarke glanced at Marcus.

Marcus looked absolutely gobsmacked, like his jaw was about to drop and cartoon hearts would explode from his eyes at any second. Clarke felt her lips twitch at the image, and glanced at her mother again. Jaha had his head bent towards her, murmuring something that made her let out a singular laugh, and then Jaha was taking her mother's hand off his elbow and into Marcus' hand, and moving to stand at Marcus' shoulder.

Her mother laughed once, breathless, and Marcus murmured something so softly even Clarke couldn't hear, and her mother laughed again, wetter, sounding a bit like she was going to cry.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered together today..." the officiant began, and Clarke tightened her grip on her bouquet, staring at Marcus, her mother's back.

She tried her best to pay attention, but she couldn't help but sneak a few glances at Bellamy, who was still staring. She kept trying to remind herself that Bellamy could wait, would wait, until the reception, after all of Clarke's duties were done with, but she couldn't help it.

But the wedding was happening right now. She could look at Bellamy all she wanted at home. So she forced herself to limit her glances in her direction, and instead watched as her mother and Marcus exchanged rings, and said their vows, and exchanged a chaste kiss to the applause of the audience.

Abby walked out arm-in-arm with Marcus, Clarke and Jaha following closely behind. They waited outside as people congratulated them on their way past, on their way to the reception—most of the attention went to Abby and Marcus, but there were several of their political friends who complimented Clarke on her appearance, squeezing her hand and kissing her cheeks.

When Bellamy walked out, though, he moved immediately to Clarke.

"Congratulations," he said in a low voice, and Clarke nodded, before she reached out and fixed his tie—the one Octavia had bought him, the same shade of blue as her dress. She tightened it, smoothed her hands over his shoulders, and Bellamy was looking at her like that again, intense brown eyes and slightly furrowed brow. Clarke paused, before she reached up and smoothed out the crease with her thumb.

"Smile, Bellamy," she said, voice soft, carding her fingers through his curls, unable to help herself. "It's a wedding. People are supposed to be happy."

The corner of his lips twitched, just slightly. "Not yet," he said, cryptic, and then moved to shake hands with Marcus and chit chat with her mother before she could say anything else.

She watched as he walked away, towards the building where the reception would happen, and swallowed, just slightly. Not yet, he'd said. What did that mean, not yet?

She didn't get much time to think about it, because it was time for more photos—photos with her mother, Marcus, and Jaha, photos with them and Indra and Vera, and Clarke was left to fret more about the way she was standing than about Bellamy and the future of the Griffin-Blake apartment.

By the time she, Indra, Jaha, and Vera were let go, the sun was close to setting, and Clarke barely had time to get a flute of champagne and be guided up to the table (Bellamy was sitting on the other side of Indra, for reasons Clarke couldn't entirely ascertain) before she started quietly panicking about the speech.

Jaha leaned over, holding notecards for his, and said, "You'll do great, Clarke."

"Thanks, Theolonious," she said, mouth dry, and took a gulp of water, wiping her sweaty hands on her napkin.

Then, Abby and Marcus came into the room, arm-in-arm, and the room started to applaud as they came up to take their seats—Abby next to Clarke, Marcus next to Abby, and Jaha next to Marcus, and then they were served their dinners.

Clarke had gotten the chicken plate, and she remembered Bellamy joking about the time she'd gone to a different function with her mother and ordered the salmon, then ended up throwing her guts up the next two days. She glanced over at him. Vera was animatedly discussing her bonsai-tree shaping hobby to Bellamy, and Clarke met eyes with him, quirking her lip into a careful smile.

Bellamy smiled back, just as cautious, and then returned his attention to Vera.

The dinner was dying down, and Clarke was twisting her fingers in her lap anxiously. Too soon, entirely too soon, the officiant said, "And now, speeches from the maid of honor, Clarke Griffin, and the best man, Theolonious Jaha."

Clarke tried for her best smile and nod, took the microphone when offered, and stood, shuffling her speech cards in her hands. She glanced around the room, to the people who had expectantly set down their knives and forks and were looking at her with interest. She glanced over—and Bellamy nodded at her, once, a quirk of his eyebrows that said you can do this, and Clarke nodded back, before turning out to the crowd.

"When I first sat down to write this speech," Clarke began, "I really didn't know where to start. My birth, which is technically the first time I ever met my mother? Or the variety of childhood memories I have, of my mom taking me along to the hospital and signing me up for every science camp I wanted to attend? Do I start with my college applications, where I think my mother was more stressed than I was about attending a good pre-med program? But then, I figured, I should start with the other person in the relationship. And that's Marcus."

Marcus straightened a little, and Abby smiled at him, laying her hand over his.

"The first time I met Marcus Kane," Clarke said, "I think I was about twelve or thirteen years old. Before meeting him, all I knew about him was that my mother disagreed with his policy, that she thought he was putting his own interests above those of the people, and that she was going to side against him for what felt like the rest of time. To be honest, when I was told I was going to meet Marcus, I thought he was going to look like some sort of hunchbacked version of Ebeneezer Scrooge, cackling about with-holding funding from my mother's project."

A quiet chuckle swept through the room. She saw Abby tilt her head towards Marcus, and Marcus smiling wryly at his plate. Clarke smiled a bit before she continued.

"This is a rare confession from any Griffin, but as you can all see, I was wrong. When we first met, Marcus looked a lot like he does now, but without the beard. The first thing he did was shake my hand, and compliment the piece of art I'd made for my mother to auction off for charity, and then ask if he could get a painting of a bonsai tree for his office, to remind him of his mother. As you can probably guess, I was pretty thrown off, but I ended up working on sketches for him while my mom and Marcus yelled about budgetary restrictions in the background."

Another chuckle. Clarke was settling into this, and her shoulders straightened, and she let out a soft breath before she continued.

"Eventually, though, my mom won him over, and Marcus became a sort of an odd family friend. He and Vera would come over for dinners, we'd see him at functions, but that was about it. I did end up giving him that painting, though, which is still hanging in his office, if any of you want to see a bonafide Clarke Griffin piece. But, for a long time, those were the kinds of interactions I had with him; he would ask about school, and art, and the fact that I wanted to be a doctor and an artist when I got older."

Clarke paused, swallowed, and said, "Most of you probably know that my mother and I haven't had the easiest of relationships, but it's been what makes us stronger, in the end. Though she's come around on the subject, the people who originally supported me following two dreams were Marcus and—and my father."

A quiet swept over the room, and Clarke cleared her throat in an attempt to break it.

"My mother and I have a complex relationship," she said, and then, "Well, I think most mothers and daughters do, but there was a lot that added to it. My father died when I was sixteen. Wells—" she felt herself choke up, and forced herself to move forwards. "My best friend, my godbrother, Wells Jaha, died a little less than a year later. Then there were college applications, where I was trying to decide if I wanted to go after medicine, or art, or somehow make both work, like Marcus and my father told me I could. We didn't have the easiest relationship, in the wake of that. We had to work to sit down at dinner together, and talk about colleges. And believe me, I know how cliché this sounds, but I think that's what pulled us through. The fact that we had to work at it."

Clarke swallowed, and continued. "We fought a lot, I remember that. But I've been told by a lot of friends, recently, that me fighting shows that I care. I got that from my mom. So, when we were fighting, I couldn't help but think about the worst case scenario, or the best case scenario. And truly, what made us better was time, and effort. Things got better, and then they got better than before. We started to understand each other, and listen to the criticisms the other person had to say, and it made us both better. Or, at least, I like to think so.

"I also remember coming home one break for my mother to tell me that she was dating Marcus, and that it wasn't quite serious yet. But that she wanted it to be. And I'd never forget the way she looked at me, then, like she expected me to start yelling and throwing things. To be honest, I did want to, a little. But then I thought about the first thing that Marcus had done was shake my hand like I was an adult, and how he always listened to what I had to say, like I was an adult. The fact that he took me at my word, and the fact that he had cried at my father's funeral. The way he had talked me through my hopes and dreams, and never once asked if I had a backup plan if I decided to go into art. I thought a lot about them together, and I decided, you know what? That it wasn't going to be too bad."

Clarke smiled, reached for her champagne glass. "As I said earlier, this is a rare confession from a Griffin. But I was wrong, and I couldn't have been happier to be wrong. As I stand here tonight, I know that Marcus and my mother have had to work at their relationship, too. They've come a long way from arguing over budgetary restrictions. And I'm very happy to say, that this is much more than not too bad. So," she said, lifting her champagne glass, the room filled with scraping of chairs as people did the same, standing.

"To Marcus and my mother," she said. "To working at things, to being wrong, and to not too bad. I genuinely wish you both the best. To Marcus and Abby," she said, and the room echoed "To Marcus and Abby!"

She turned, and saw that her Abby was pressing a napkin under her eyes.

"Oh, Clarke," she said, and hugged her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, and Clarke closed her eyes, hugging her back. Abby was just slightly taller than her, and she smelled a bit like the antiseptic had clung to her, like the fancy perfume she used on special occasions, and like the men's shampoo that used to be Jake's.

"Love you, Mom," she mumbled, voice shaky.

"Love you too, Clarke," she said, letting her go at last and wiping under her eyes. Marcus stepped forwards and hugged her too, and Clarke said "oh!" before hugging him back, too.

"Thank you," Marcus said, looking a little choked up himself. Clarke wanted to run her fingers under her eyes, even though she knew she wasn't crying, but the sight of Marcus and her mother brought to tears made her want to cry, too. At last, everyone sat down. Theolonious was passed the microphone, and he said, "Well, I certainly don't know how I'm supposed to live up to that," and then continued with his speech, a lot about how he met Abby and Marcus, their budding relationship. Clarke let out a shaky breath once she knew everyone else was looking at him, and someone took her hand. She looked over, expecting to see Vera.

But no. Somewhere, in the midst of the toast and the hugging, Vera had swapped seats with Bellamy, and Bellamy's eyes were warm, careful, his thumb rubbing over her knuckle.

"You see, Princess?" He said, his voice a quiet rumble. "Told you that you were pretty good at persuading people."

Clarke smiled at him, feeling the heat in her eyes, and Bellamy scooted his chair even closer to hers, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pressing a soft, tender kiss to temple. Clarke could have cried. It was among some of the first casual, soft touching they'd had since they'd slept together, some of the most touching since they'd started acting weird after the airport incident, and she hadn't even realized how much she'd missed it until she had it again.

He kept his arm wrapped around Clarke until they had to stand for Thelonious' toast, and then Abby and Marcus went to cut the cake. Bellamy's leg was pressed up against hers as they ate, and he reached over to wipe some frosting from her cheek with his thumb, absentmindedly sticking his thumb in his mouth. Clarke stole a bite of his cake. It felt astoundingly normal.

Then the music started, and Abby and Marcus went to the dance floor. Their dance was more sway than choreography, but people applauded when the song ended, anyways, and Bellamy stood, offering his hand.

"Let's see if you can keep up," he said.

"Maybe not your usual brand of dancing, here," she said wryly, but took his hand and followed him out to the dance floor.

Bellamy immediately led her into a twist, the same he'd done that night at the bar, and Clarke followed along the best she could.

"You remember," he said, pleased.

"Yeah, well," Clarke said. "That night's a bit tough to forget." There was a pause, and she added, "Considering it was, like, two days ago."

Infuriatingly, Bellamy apparently knew how to waltz, tango, and dance in a classy way that didn't make them look like idiots, and that was just within the first three songs.

"Why are you so good at this?" She grumbled, trying her best not to step on Bellamy's feet.

"Roma," he said. "You know, the po-uh, I mean, dance instructor. She knows more than just her, um. Specialty."

Oh, right, Roma, Clarke remembered her. She could do things on the pole that made Clarke's thighs ache in sympathy and also made her kind of want to try making out with Roma.

"So, what," Clarke said, "did she just teach you that on the side, or do you go to dance classes and I've somehow missed out on that?"

Bellamy chuckled, and said, "No, just on the side. It's come in handy a couple of times." He twirled her, as if to demonstrate, and Clarke found herself smiling.

The song changed, though, and as much as Clarke wanted to pull Bellamy off to the side, to talk to him, there was more Clarke needed to do. She was pulled off to dance with her mother's coworkers, old family friends, and whenever she looked Bellamy was with Vera or Indra, and Clarke ached to go over, to talk, but she couldn't. Not yet.

She got a couple more dances in with Bellamy, but spent most of the night chit-chatting and accepting compliments for her speech, spending time with her mother and Marcus, along with all the people they spent time with.

It was fun, in pockets—when she danced the Cha-cha slide with the children in attendance, when she got the rare dance with Bellamy, when she heard actual, genuinely funny stories. But the night seemed to stretch, an hour for each minute, and she felt herself grow more strained as the night plodded along.

People began to leave, in short, subtle waves. She was acutely aware of the flocks of threes or fives that left at once, but when she turned to the dance floor, she was a little surprised by how few remained.

Including Bellamy, who stood from where he'd claimed a chair, and jerked his head out to the dance floor. Clarke followed, and they met in the middle. They clasped hands. He put the other at her waist, while she put hers on his shoulder, and they moved in steps of one-two-three, one-two-three, familiar and untaxing.

"Thank you," Clarke blurted out, and Bellamy paused for just a step, before continuing.

"For what?" He asked.

"Everything," she said, softer. "Coming here, with me, even when things were... awkward. Trying to teach me how to tango. Getting me water and advil after I drink too much. Trusting me with your job. Letting me win when we wrestle, sometimes. Buying me fuzzy socks because I get literal cold feet. Being careful with my art. Letting me take care of you when you were sick, that one time. Fighting with me when I need to let off steam."

Clarke was ready to continue—she was pretty sure that if he let her, she'd continue until she was thanking him for his arm muscles, his freckles, his smile—but he pulled her closer as the song changed to something softer, and slower, and said, "You don't have to."

"I want to," Clarke said. "I need to, Bellamy. You don't—you need to understand—"

"Clarke," he said, voice almost unheard under the music. "I understand. I do."

Clarke was shaking her head, even as he pulled her closer, taking her by the wrists, holding her arms to his chest, and Clarke bent her head, trying to breathe. "You don't," she said. "You don't, but you need to, and I don't know how to—" She laughed, humorless, and said, "You're the one who's good at persuading people but this time I need to, and I don't want to mess it up—"

"Clarke," he said, soft, so soft, and it barely sounded like Bellamy at all. Bellamy was loud, and grumpy, and soft was rare, nearly unheard of, for Bellamy Blake.

"I love you," she said.

For a moment, the whole world seemed to stop. No music, no reception hall, no wedding aftermath. Just Bellamy, eyes going wide, freckles more pronounced, lips parting, looking more shocked and taken aback than she'd ever seen him. His grip on her wrists was slackening.

"I," he began, and Clarke rushed on.

"I know that you—I know that you said casual, one-time thing," Clarke said, "but I don't think I can—do that. I want the whole thing. I want to kiss you when you go to TA, and I want to be there when you come back from work. I want to sit on your lap when we watch Netflix. I want to be able to turn from wrestling into kissing without either of us panicking about the emotions involved. I want us to be able to sleep in each other's beds, and text each other weird romantic shit, and I want to be with you. And if you—"

Bellamy let go of her wrists, and cupped her cheeks, leaning forwards to press his lips against hers, soft. Their kisses before had mostly been hungry, and eager, and those had been fantastic, but this was simple, and soft, and a stop, Clarke, it's okay, and Clarke shuddered in relief.

He pulled back, pushed her hair behind both ears, and said, "Clarke." Just her name. But it was enough.

Clarke nodded, and moved forwards, pressing her forehead into his chest, wrapping her arms around him. He enveloped her, arms, pressing their bodies close together, and Clarke could feel that he was hiding his face in her hair, before he pulled back.

"I love you too," he said. "Just for the record."

Clarke laughed, a broken, relieved thing, and she said breathlessly, "Oh, good. So we're on the same page."

"Yeah, same page," he said, and tried to joke, "I want all the sappy relationship stuff, too. Might even add a little heart emoji next to the crown one in your contact name. If we really wanna go high school, we can make it official on all sorts of social media. You can buy out a billboard, if you want."

"Why me?"

"Princess," he said, long-suffering, "you're the rich one."

Clarke giggled, and reached forwards to push her fingers through his hair, just because she could.

Bellamy grinned, and leaned forwards, murmuring, "You know, your mom and Marcus are staying at a hotel before they go off for their mini-honeymoon, so I've got the keys to Marcus' car. If you can take off."

Clarke jerked like she'd been shocked, and glanced over to where her mother and Marcus were standing. They were very blatantly staring at them. Abby lifted her wine glass, and Marcus waved at them.

"Okay," Clarke said, and turned back to Bellamy.

"Yeah?" He said, trying and failing to look like he wasn't excited.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," he said, and they were giggling together, holding hands because they could, and ran out together to get to the car.

Bellamy drove like a criminal trying to cross over a state line, and Clarke clung to the handles but was stuck still giggling while he did—nothing could touch her, tonight, because everything was golden and happy and bright. Because Bellamy loved her, and she loved Bellamy, and they were actually together, and that was almost better than the thought of having sex with him.

"Oh, hang on," Clarke said, when they pulled in to park in the driveway. She took out her phone, kissed Bellamy on the cheek, and snapped a selfie of it, before sending it without a caption to the group chat of their friends—just titled with the 100 emoji.

"Mute your phone," she told Bellamy, before sliding over the console and into his lap, and Bellamy choked on his own tongue.

"Suave, Blake," she said dryly, before bending forwards to capture his lips. She kissed him slow and deep, twining her fingers in his hair, her dress hiking its way up her thighs, and Bellamy carefully set his hands on her hips, tugging her close. She rocked her hips against his, and felt him tense, hold his breath, and Clarke sighed. She ran her hands down the planes of his chest, before forcing herself to pull back.

"Inside," she said, panting, and he nodded dumbly, taking her hand when she offered it and following her into the dark house. They tripped and stumbled in the darkness, giggling, using their hold on each other to stay standing, to stay steady. Finally, though, they managed to get into Bellamy's guest room, and Bellamy reaches forwards, running a hand along her side, and Clarke felt her breathing go a bit funny at the look on his face. He looked reverent.

He knelt down, planted a kiss to the inside of her knee, before slowly taking the hem of her dress in his hands and carefully tugging it up, over her head, leaving her just in her jewelry, and in her underwear. He was careful and gentle as he undid the latch of her necklace, placing a kiss to the nape of her neck, then unfastening her earrings, placing them carefully on the bureau, turning to lay her dress over a chair.

"Neat freak," she murmured fondly, before she reached forwards and began to fumble with his tiny little buttons as he shrugged out of his sports jacket, loosened his tie. She carefully eased off his oxford, running her hands appreciatively down the muscles of his arms, and then reached forwards to unbutton and unzip his pants. Bellamy stepped out of them, tugged off his socks, and they were both in their underwear.

"Want to, uh," he began, and she said, "We could just start with making out?"

"Yeah," he agreed, sitting on the bed. "Yeah, okay, that sounds pretty good."

She wasn't entirely sure who leaned forwards first, but she was smiling into the kiss, wriggling until she was sitting on Bellamy's lap again, the position intensely familiar, and Bellamy's soft moan seemed to reflect that. Clarke's fingers scratched lightly at Bellamy's shoulders, wriggled against him until she was comfortable, letting the kiss grow increasingly urgent, and she kept shifting, wriggling.

"You're so impatient," Bellamy muttered, their lips barely a hair apart, and Clarke wriggled again, and asked, "Well, what are you gonna do?"

Bellamy grinned, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She thought she was going to be pulled into another kiss when he shifted his weight, and her back was against the bed, Bellamy grinning as he moved to try to pin her down.

"Bellamy," Clarke squealed, and wriggled, shifted, trying all her best tricks to get out from under him, except not really, because she wanted to be under him, and gave up much faster than she usually would have, tilting up her chin. "I declare defeat," she said, breathless, blinking her eyes at him innocently.

"Huh, really?" He said, grinning, levying himself so his face hovered over hers, hair falling over his forehead. "I should probably get a prize or something."

"Yeah," she said, suddenly intent, thinking of something that she hadn't done that night, "yeah, you should."

She wriggled, freeing up her hands so she could tug down her panties, kicking them off, and then moved to unfasten her bra, but Bellamy's hands got there first. They sat up, just a little, and Bellamy carefully unfastened it.

"Fuck," he said, hoarse. "Fuck, Clarke, you're so—"

Clarke moved forwards, fingers tugging lightly at the waistband of his boxers, and he squirmed to help her, kicking those off, too, before they laid back again, giggling.

"Love you," she said, and he said, "Love you too," and it was just about the easiest thing in the world, to lean up and kiss him then, to run her hands down the plane of his back and rest them on the roundest curve of his ass, kneading just slightly, and his hips jerked at first, bumping himself against the inside her thigh with a groan.

"You're so—" he began, and Clarke pressed lightly, and he groaned.

"So what?" She said, grinning, and he said "soft" wonderingly, running his hand up the inside of her thigh.

"Well, thanks," Clarke said. "I moisturize for a reason."

He grinned, and they kissed until they both went soft and pliant, their kisses less about urgency and more about familiarity, until they reached the point where Clarke didn't want them to be soft and pliant. She arched up underneath him, then, pressing their chests together and wrapping her thighs loosely around his waist, and he drew back, pupils blown wide.

"Impatient," he teased. "We've got all night, you know."

"See, there's this thing people with vaginas can do, Bellamy," she said, "it's multiple orgasms, which is awesome, and incredible, and I'd really like to experience that right now."

"Huh, really?" he said, grinning, before he moved to press a kiss to the hollow of her collarbone, and then to her lips. "Well, I may as well do my part to lessen the orgasm gap."

She closed her eyes when he began to rub circles around her clit, breathing out a sigh of relief.

"Do you know how long I fucking wanted to do this?" He murmured into her throat, his breath hot against her, and Clarke whined as his other hand moved to cover her breast, the triple sensation making her squeeze her eyes even tighter. "God, I dreamed about this, watching you fall apart around my fingers, because of my mouth, my hands, get you so desperate that you'd shout out my name."

"Fuck," Clarke whispered, breathless. His fingers were circling her clit slow, lazy, drawing it out, and she said, louder, "Bellamy, fuck, I—"

"What if I did that tonight, hm?" He murmured, brushing his nose along her throat, thumb rolling over her nipple, pressing hard against her clit so she let out another moan. "Spent the whole night just like this, just us, just my fingers."

Clarke let out an embarrassingly noisy whine, and he grinned against her throat, nipping lightly, scraping his teeth up against the tendon of her neck, and she started to rock her hips in rhythm with his fingers.

"Nope," he said, and removed his hand, taking her wrists loosely in his hands, pinning them over her head, looking at her carefully, eyebrow quirked in a question. Clarke nodded, and arched up, pressing herself against his thigh, closing her eyes, grinding against him, trying to get some friction.

"Jesus, Clarke," he mumbled, then pressed his thigh against her firmer, so Clarke let out a little noise and grinded against him even harder, hips bucking. He stared at her, which made her feel a bit self-conscious so she closed her eyes. The friction was just what she needed, and Clarke made a choked noise as she pressed up against him, just the way she needed, but not the way she wanted.

"Bellamy," Clarke breathed out, and suddenly he let go of her wrists. Clarke groaned, reaching for him, but he adjusted himself so he was more on his side, and he started to rub at her clit again.

She tilted his direction, so she was facing him more fully, and parted her legs so he had more access, running a hand down his arm, squeezing his bicep.

"Are you feeling me up?" He asked, and she choked on a laugh that turned into a moan when he slid two fingers into her.

"The sounds you make, Clarke, fuck," he said, breathless. "I fucking got myself off daydreaming about the sounds you'd make. I could listen to you all damn day."

He was pumping his fingers slowly in and out, and Clarke tried to focus herself, to breathe, and Bellamy's other hand brushed a thumb along her cheekbone, along her jaw, touching her breast and tracing over the lines of each rib. He pressed his thumb, soft and insistent, against her clit again.

Clarke's heart was pounding faster and faster, her breathing getting shakier and faster, and she could feel herself clenching and tightening around his fingers.

"I'm close, Bellamy," she gasped.

"God, I can tell," he mumbled. "You're so fucking gorgeous, Clarke, God, we can do this whenever we want, now, fuck—"

Clarke was surprised when her orgasm snuck up on her, arching her back and letting out a soft cry as she came, letting it roll over her and course through her, and she distantly felt Bellamy slip his fingers out of her, roll onto his back, and Clarke closed her eyes, hazy, letting her heartbeat calm and her breathing slow.

"Good?" Bellamy asked, soft.

"Should've known you'd be a talker," Clarke murmured, fond, and rolled so she was just laying on top of him, propping her elbows on either side of his head, knees on each side of his waist. "Last time, your mouth was kind of preoccupied."

He grinned, dopey at the thought, and Clarke snorted before she leaned forwards, kissing him until their breath was short, and Clarke's toes were curling, and she felt Bellamy's heart thudding under her hand. She took a moment to feel it, entranced, and he stared up at her.

"Love you," he said, and Clarke grinned, giddy. "Love you too."

Her next kiss was possessive, encompassing, try to make Bellamy breathless, and this time they rolled, wrestling half-heartedly, until Bellamy was on top, pinning her wrists again.

"What are your thoughts on bondage?" Clarke said thoughtfully, tilting her head, and he practically choked on his own tongue.

"Christ, Princess—"

"—because I've never really tried, but I think maybe handcuffs could be a thing, if you wanted to. I like touching you, though."

"Yeah," he said, dazed. "I like you touching, too—I mean—you know what I mean."

Clarke laughed, and he grinned, letting go of her wrists to reach over to his bedside table to grab a condom, before Clarke caught his wrist.

"Birth control," she reminded him. "And we're both clean."

He grinned again. "Right, yeah," he said, and took a deep breath, before he leaned forwards and kissed her. Just a press of their lips, really, but Clarke felt her lips part with a near-silent sigh as he slid inside her, let out a little noise at the sensation of it, still sensitive.

She canted her hips up, dug her heels into the dimples of back, and she let out a quiet, satisfied sigh as he set a slow, steady pace. Clarke ran her hands up and down his back, before pressing on his shoulders, wriggling a bit.

"Hang on," she mumbled, and then arched her neck, putting a hand on Bellamy's head to tilt his neck. He got the picture, immediately, and Clarke began to suck, and bite, and lick.

"Clarke," he said, something rough on the edge of his voice, and Clarke reached, carded her fingers through his hair. His head began to drop away, so she cupped his cheek, making him look at her.

"Hey," she said, soft, and he looked at her, eye to eye, looming large in her vision. There was something in his eyes, bare and raw, a side to him she'd never seen. Something that took her breath away, and made her want to curl up around him, wrap him up in a hug and never let him go.

She cupped both of his cheeks, and said, "It's okay. I'm right here. And I'm not going away any time soon. Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice still rough, "yeah," and then he started to move. Clarke settled her hands on his back, leaning up to kiss him as she liked, but she found herself breaking away to gasp and moan before they could really focus themselves on any one kiss at a time, breaking them into pieces, into dozens.

Their pace was slow, a little like it had been the first time, but now instead of going slowly to savor it they went slowly because they knew they would have time: time to go fast, and sloppy, and desperate, weeks and maybe even years down the line. But now, with the room dark and Bellamy lit by the soft yellow glow of a far-away lamp, with the night spreading expansive and wide all around them, with the heat between them growing and with their start-and-stop kisses, they went slow, and careful, and wonderstruck that this was happening, this was happening at last.

Bellamy came with a soft, choked cry, and he reached down to rub against Clarke's clit until she followed after.

Bellamy rolled off, settling on his back, taking a couple moments to breathe. Clarke rolled to her side, cushioning her head on her arm, the other tucking up between them, watching him.

Eventually, once his breathing calmed, he rolled over, too, mirroring her posture, smiling, soft. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," Clarke whispered back. It felt bizarrely clandestine, and Clarke thought of the sleepovers she'd had in the past, the pillow talk she'd heard from lovers past: the sense of sanctity to it, the unspoken promise to maintain their secrets. "So, just double checking," Clarke said. "This is a thing, that's happening. Us two."

"Triple checking, really," Bellamy grumbled, but he was still smiling. "Yeah, we are. This is happening."

"Cool," Clarke breathed out, and Bellamy huffed a laugh, before his fingers drifted forwards, to her face, tracing just under her chin.

"Your lipstick's all smudgy," he explained, voice still soft. "Is it all over my face?"

Clarke, blinking, noticed a soft print of pink on his neck, and touched her fingers to it. "Not your face," Clarke murmured, and rubbed at the spot lightly with her thumb. She looked at Bellamy's face, his chest when she did; the splay of freckles dotting his skin, the tan skin, the muscles of his arms. She rested her hand on the curve of his bicep, edging closer, conscious of the stickiness between her thighs. "You okay?"

Bellamy paused, ducked his head, and said at last, "It's, uh. I don't know. I feel like this—" he gestured between them, "has been building for so long. I didn't—I don't—want to mess it up again." He took a deep breath, let it out, and Clarke shifted even closer, a breath away.

"We both messed it up," Clarke said. "We both aren't good with emotions. I didn't want to touch you after the airport, because I was afraid of messing up, too. And we both messed up just after the first time. But, I mean. What matters now is what we do with it, right?"

Bellamy paused, nodded, and Clarke leaned forwards, touching her nose to his.

"On the night you took me to the club," she said, soft, "you told me that people used to just want Bellamy, the Emperor. And I said that someday, someone would want Bellamy, the—the everything. And... Bell. I want that. I want Bellamy, the everything. We can work through the rest."

His smile was slow, growing from one that was already there, and Clarke stared in his eyes, entranced. Bellamy tended to emote most from his eyes—Octavia would joke that if you ever wanted to know how Bellamy felt about a person, don't listen to his words, look at his eyes.

His eyes, looking at her, had been soft and kind and gentle, for a while now. But now, it was radiant, and delighted, and it felt private, Clarke almost wanted to look away.

She didn't. She stared back, feeling a smile grow in kind, and he reached forwards, brushing her hair out of her face, grinning, boyish and charming.

She'd think of this smile when she'd wake in his arm for the third and loveliest time, when they had to part for six agonizing days apart, and during the phone calls and phone sex. She'd think of this smile when Abby asked about their relationship, when the rest of her friends interrogated them. She'd think of this smile when she'd come back home, and be the only participant in a private Emperor strip show. She'd think of this smile when she missed him. But most of all, she'd see this smile so many more times: during that show, when they snuggled together, when they filled out their lease for the next year, whenever he felt particularly fond. This smile, her favorite Bellamy smile, with soft eyes, and a soft heart, and a rare look at Bellamy being tender and gentle and loving.

It was like watching the sun rise.