Chapter Text
It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the precinct. Monroe, the intelligence unit’s personal secretary, chirpily informed them that they’d just missed the Chief, and exactly what kind of bodily harm Mrs. Chief had promised anyone who dared bother them at home with office matters.
Bellamy sighed. He had no doubt Octavia would follow through on every threat she’d made, and possible invent a few other means of punishment if he were to interrupt her ‘Lincoln-time’. He’d been on the receiving end before, and wasn’t exactly eager to repeat the experience.
“It is nearly four thirty,” Clarke informed him as he mournfully watched Monroe pack her office supplies into her bag. “Happy hour?”
Bellamy mulled it over. On one hand, alone time with a possibly intoxicated Clarke, ensuring him at least a couple of hours of good natured flirting, and a generally good time. On the other hand, he’d risk falling even deeper for the young woman, a prospect Bellamy wasn’t exactly fond of, seeing as there was no chance in hell Clarke and him would ever work out. Not only because her father had recently been murdered and he very obviously was her distraction from the mess that had become her life; even in the scenarios Bellamy imagined where Clarke actually felt the same way as he did, they couldn’t be. Clarke, for all her snarky comments and loose laughs, was a richie. And riches didn’t date lowly detectives, and they certainly didn’t end up with them in the long run. No matter how much he enjoyed her attention now, Bellamy had no intention of becoming Clarke’s physical therapy, so to speak.
Rubbing his neck nervously, he started, “I dunno, Clarke, I’m pretty smashed…”
“Please, Bellamy, I…” Clarke bit her lower lip, unintentionally drawing Bellamy’s full attention to the abused flesh, “I could really use a drink after today,” she finished, looking up at him from under her lashes, and all Bellamy’s careful consideration flew out the window.
“Sure,” he heard himself say. “There’s a two-for-one offer on beer at Charlie’s,” he unwillingly continued, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care that this was such a bad idea, not when Clarke’s whole face lit up at his suggestion, the bounce suddenly back in her step.
“That sounds like exactly what we need!” she grinned. She linked their arms together and turned her sunbeam of a smile on him. “Ready when you are, Mr. Blake!”
Such a bad, bad idea.
Happy hour at Charlie’s was officially the best idea Bellamy had ever had. He was currently nursing his sixth beer, completely enraptured with a story Clarke was telling him.
“So there I was, standing in the middle of the hospital covered head to toe in sparkly confetti, while Wells was trying to pick up a very unimpressed nurse wearing nothing but the vase on his head and an adult diaper,” Clarke gestured with her hands and made a face, obviously trying to convey awkward and Bellamy laughed so hard, he spewed beer out his nose.
Seeing him trying to wipe up his beer-snot had Clarke doubling over, laughing so hard that actual tears started rolling down her cheeks. It took them both a moment to stop laughing, starting again when Bellamy had to go ask the barkeep for more napkins, please.
A while later they were standing outside waiting for Clarke’s driver to pick her up. It was a lovely night. The streets were full of life with people coming and going to and from various bars and restaurants, the faint tones of jazz music flowing towards them seemingly from nowhere.
“I had a really good time tonight,” Clarke said, her eyes hidden from Bellamy’s sight by her hair, her hands tightly clutching her purse.
“Yeah me too,” Bellamy smiled, shuffling his feet slightly. He didn’t know why he was feeling so bashful; it was just Clarke.
“Bellamy, I…”
“I wanted to…”
They both chuckled. “You first,” Clarke said gesturing towards him.
“No, no, you first, it wasn’t…” Bellamy trailed off. Clarke suddenly seemed so much closer than just a minute ago. He could see how the street lights reflected in her blue eyes, could count her eyelashes and smell her flowery perfume. His mouth felt dry. His hands felt clammy, his shoes too tight.
Clarke took another step towards him, leaving only a couple of inches between them. “Wasn’t what?” she whispered, and Bellamy could smell the beer on her breath mixed with the mint pastilles she’d eaten earlier.
“Important,” Bellamy finally managed to get out after an embarrassing long pause. A strand of hair tore itself loose from behind Clarke’s ear, and before thinking about it Bellamy had closed the final distance between them, tucking the strand back behind her ear where it belonged.
“Bellamy,” Clarke’s breath was coming in short, labored pants. For some reason it gave Bellamy the courage to look down into her eyes, a soft smile in place on his lips.
“Yes, Ms. Griffin?”
The tease appeared to have the effect Bellamy hadn’t known he had desired, because the next second Clarke’s lips came crashing into his. He couldn’t help but notice that her lips were as soft as they looked; so full and utterly bitable. How many times had he not fantasized about drawing her plump lower lip into his mouth, and now he finally had the chance to do just that. Clarke moaned when he bit down gently, drawing a small chuckle from Bellamy.
They stood like that for a while, Bellamy’s hands around Clarke’s waist, Clarke’s arms around Bellamy’s neck, just kissing. Usually Bellamy wasn’t a huge fan of kissing; it was a necessary act that would lead to the main event you were really there for. But with Clarke, kissing was just that: kissing. Slow and unhurried, lips against lips, tongues carefully caressing one another. It wasn’t even very sexual; more like learning each other, carelessly changing their relationship once again.
A car honked next to them, making them spring apart out of shock. Clarke’s chauffeur stared unimpressed at them from behind the wheel.
“I best get in before Clarence pitches a fit,” Clarke said with a giggle, and even though Bellamy was suddenly paralyzed with fear of Clarence deciding to tell Mrs. Griffin of her daughter’s scandalous evening with a lower class-man, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the image of Clarence stomping his foot and waving his fists in the air before an amused Clarke.
Clarke turned around in his arms, her eyes sparkling with mirth and something Bellamy would only later identify as nervousness.
“I guess I’ll see you when I see you, Mr. Blake?” she asked, her voice lowered to a whisper.
Bellamy couldn’t help but bend down and give her one last fleeting kiss. Color rose in her cheeks, and Bellamy silently thought that bashfulness was a wonderful look on the usually in control Clarke.
“I’ll see you when I see you, Clarke,” he replied, and Clarke’s blinding smile kept him warm all the way home.
The next morning it took him a little convincing, but in the end Chief Lincoln agreed that the missing workers and Doctor Griffin’s apparent involvement was a little too suspicious to overlook, and Bellamy got his search warrant for Jaha Coal Company’s book archive. Clarke wasn’t around today; there was no more need for her as an informant at the minute, and Bellamy found himself irrationally missing her. Just the thought of her lips on his the night before had him more awake than his usual cup of morning coffee, and a thousand times more giddy. The fact unfortunately wasn’t lost on Octavia, who simply raised an eyebrow and mouthed ‘spill’. He nodded, mouthing ‘later’, which (praise the Lord) seemed to satisfy her. For now, anyways.
Miller grabbed hold of him on his way out. “Hey, we were able to pull a fingerprint from the bedside table, too small to be Dr. Griffin’s. Could be our mystery killer. It’s being worked over; I’ll have the answer for you by the time you get back.”
Smiling, Bellamy nodded. “Thanks, Miller.” This case was starting to look up, and it really was a question of the sooner the better if you asked Bellamy. Not just because it was his job, but because of Clarke. She needed closure so she could start to properly move on. She deserved it, after everything she’d been through.
The search of Jaha Coal Company’s office went without a hitch. Mr. Jaha wasn’t even at the office, and his secretary and the rest of his staff was much easier intimidated by Bellamy’s authority than the older man would have been. Bellamy still wasn’t completely sure that Jaha actually had something to hide in the first place, but an uneasy feeling had started to take hold of him. Ever since they visited the mines the day before, Bellamy hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that whatever they found out at the office that day, he wasn’t going to like it.
He sent Murphy, his partner for the day, off to find the files on Pablo Ramirez. Going on a hunch, Bellamy asked to be directed to the financial files.
Finding the file on 1918-1919 was easy enough, but the more Bellamy read the more confused he got. The first time he’d interviewed Mrs. Griffin, she’d told him that Jaha Coal Company was having financial problems. The books spoke a different story; the numbers was steadily rising, looking very promising, even to Bellamy’s untrained eye. So Mrs. Griffin had lied. Had Clarke been correct in her accusations against her mother and Mr. Jaha then? Were they truly having an affair? If so, they could both be potential suspects, their motive to get rid of the middle man so they could be together legally, but somehow Bellamy couldn’t wrap his head around it. Mrs. Griffin had seemed genuinely in love with her husband; Bellamy had felt it during his interview with her. And hadn’t Mrs. Griffin let Clarke believe what she wanted about the affair, only mentioning finances as an alibi when Bellamy had been the one questioning her? The whole affair theory had never really felt right to Bellamy, and after four years on the job, he knew better than to ignore his gut.
He was torn out of his thoughts by a loud knock on the door. “Yo boss, I found him,” came Murphy’s sarcastic drawl from the doorway. Bellamy looked up.
“Pablo Ramirez, Latino, 32, single, has been with Jaha Coal Company for six years, currently on sick leave.”
Bellamy grabbed his coat. “Sounds like our guy; you got an address on that?”
Murphy turned his trademark ‘I’m so un-impressed with you, but also with the world in general’ stare on him. “Would I have barged in here if I didn’t?” he asked dryly.
Bellamy pushed past him and headed for the door. “Don’t be a smartass, smartass. Where are we going?”
“Around the old Spanish neighborhood; 23A Brighton St. It’s right off Saint Paul’s and Wemberly’s.”
“Well then, let’s get going.”
They never even made it to the car; Bellamy was called back into the house to take a call from the precinct before they’d even made it down all the stairs.
It was Miller on the phone. Rational, reliable Miller, but what he said didn’t make sense to Bellamy. It was all white fuss. Miller sounded so apologetic. Why was he so sad…?
And then his words registered in Bellamy’s brain. The fingerprint they’d pulled from Doctor Griffin’s bedside table had been Clarke’s. Forensics had found footprints leading away from the crime scene in Clarke’s shoe size. She’d been arrested for the murder of her father, Doctor Jake Griffin.
Bellamy dropped the phone.