Archive of Our Own

 One thing everyone knows about Clarke Griffin: she’s incredibly competent.

 One of those people that will either inspire you to be better, sharper and stronger or make you feel like a complete failure with nothing but one pointed look.

 She’s always the person with the straighter back in the room.

 But one thing people don’t usually know about Clarke Griffin? She used to consider herself happy.

 Sure, her days were long and hard more often than not, but what of it? She had all the boxes of her success checklist ticked: Well-respected lawyer at the young age of twenty-six, proud owner of her own place and of a sweet cat named Olivia (ok, maybe sweet is an overestimation, but at least cute).

 Not financially dependent of Abby Griffin, that’s for sure.

 Really, she was happy in her own way. Clarke woke up every morning, watered the potted plants in her tiny winter garden, made sure Olivia had something to drink. Then, she worked.

 This was a calm sort of happiness, one that didn’t make her dependent on many people. Or any people. Work was thrilling enough, the rest of her life could afford to be placid. It suited Clarke just fine.

 It was enough that she was in good terms with her colleagues, managed to speak with her mother civilly now, even grab dinner together sometimes or attend a couple of charities.

 Clarke hasn’t dated since Lexa, but thought she was honestly all the better for it. She didn’t need no one making her lose her mind, reach new unheard heights only to have her heart plunging down to be broken right after.

 She was happy enough just like this.

 It was tempered; a perfectly controlled environment, mild.

 And then she met Bellamy Blake.

 They start out with the wrong foot: the tiny trip on a rocky terrain that inevitably preceded the hard, potentially-lethal fall.

 Clarke’s been rooted in her office for twenty hours straight, still, she refused to budge until something gave and so, kept her nose buried in the cases’ files and read everything carefully, all over again, as many times as needed.

 Evidently, Clarke never got in the game to lose.

 The knock on her door went mostly unacknowledged, nothing but a faint background noise. She’s been staring at the same paragraph for hours -- something about that witness testimony wasn’t making sense.

 So of course, she jumped in her seat, startled and already scowling, when someone cleared their throats with unnecessary force from the other side of her table.

 Someone who just let themselves in, she thought bitterly.

 Clarke looked up and her eyes fell over a dark man with broad shoulders, inky black curls and a disdainful smirk. She’s taken aback for approximately half a second.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was pitched low, smooth as silk as he spoke very deliberately, like he couldn’t muster any fucks to give if he didn’t look repentant at all, “I didn’t mean to scare you. Clarke Griffin, right?”

 Her first impulse was, of course, to make a cutting come back, twice as sarcastic and three times as sharp.

 But Clarke learned to get a hold of her impulses a long time ago. With schooled features, she ran an inquisitive eye over him – black, well-fitting, if a little on the cheap side, suit, untamed hair, intense brown eyes – before staring at his face, expressionless.

“Yes. And you’d be…?”

“Bellamy Blake.” The way Bellamy says it makes Clarke realizes he thinks she should know who he is and, later on, she’d be willing to admit the name did have a certain familiar ring to it. Right then and there, though, it meant nothing for sleep-deprived, single-minded Clarke. “I’m going to be working with you.”

 Clarke felt herself furrowing her brows at his slow tone.

 She did remembered Marcus saying something about hiring new blood. But Marcus was always saying some thing about other somethings and Clarke loved him, she really did, but sometimes you just had to tune the man out.

 Great.

“Alright,” she forced herself to keep her tone neutral, “do you want a welcome to the team party? Maybe some cake? Or can I get back to my actual work here, now?”

Bellamy’s jaw muscle jumped; the effort of keeping his mouth shut clear. He narrowed his eyes at her and, for a minute, Clarke believed he was going to throw professional courtesy out of the window and just tell her to go fuck herself.

(Not that she didn’t deserve it. Even as antisocial as Clarke tended to be, real bitch wasn’t a thing people used to say about her outside courtrooms)

When he spoke again, however, his voice was just as mellifluous as before, sarcasm and bitterness dripping from his tongue like honey droplets; a pomegranate-sweet kind of venom.

The deep, electrifying plunge of the fall. Lethal.

“I’d never want to hold you back from such important matters, princess.”

  After that first memorable day it became common knowledge at Kane & Griffin that Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin were not to be kept in the same room for long periods of time. Or even short periods of time, if one could help it. The ideal situation was to keep them at opposite sides of the building at all times.

 Such a shame their offices faced each other, though.

 Clarke regretted her behavior at first. Maybe all Bellamy wanted was to introduce himself and she hounded him like an angry dragon. He was no wallflower either, but.

 She even tried to make amends – Clarke brought him a double expresso from her favorite coffee shop around the corner – but the disdainful look in his eyes when she placed the Styrofoam cup in his table kept her from uttering a single word of apology.

 Until this day Clarke wonders how she kept herself from actually dousing the steaming liquid all over his face, to be honest.

 After that, it became -- history. Apparently, there wasn’t a single thing they could agree on in the entire world.

“Basing your defense on Walter versus the State was a terrible idea, Blake,” she’d say, breezing past him to refill her mug with awful instant coffee. “It had so many holes I’m actually surprised Ackles didn’t use it as fishnet thighs.”

“I love it when you tell me how to do my job, your highness.”

 She pinned him with a condescending look.

“Use Abraham versus Cage. Much solider, considering your arguments.”

 Or they’d attend meetings and whenever Clarke and Marcus happened to interact, he’d raise a caustic, dark eyebrow and mouth princess at her. His eyes didn’t seem to leave her during the entire time of those meetings and it made Clarke’s skin itch like crazy. At those moments, it was like having her last name tattooed on her forehead and burning.

 If Clarke left late at night, Bellamy was the first to criticize her (don’t you have a life, Griffin?). If she came in after ten, he’d be the one to suggest she had liberties, (there are certainly perks to having a job at daddy’s firm, huh?).

 Not that everyone agreed. Raven, the IT senior and Clarke’s friend since college, actually told Bellamy to go fuck himself more than once, but she was also friends with him so it didn’t really count.

 Whenever they were both in, Bellamy’s eyes seemed to follow her, judging every single move Clarke made until she wanted to rip the skin off of his face with her fingernails.

 It didn’t help matters that his office was right across the hall from hers and that firm’s policy determined doors should be open at all times with very few exceptions:

1. when with a confidential client;
2. when on a call; or
3. an extremely difficult or sensitive case.

Unfortunately, none of that covered “when you absolutely loathe your coworker”.

 Clarke couldn’t point out what exactly about Bellamy Blake made her act like a five-year old, but it was incredibly easy to fall into a routine where she exchanged badly-concealed snide remarks with him every day.

 If his aim wasn’t so deadly and he didn’t dislike her so blatantly, Clarke thinks it could’ve even be fun. Well, her kind of fun, anyway.

 But it was and so, when the day was fucking exhaustive and crazy, she could always count on having Bellamy’s gaze on her, heavy and glinting while she buried her face in her hands and sighed.

“Long day, Griffin?” His casual tone was almost worse.

“You enjoy that, don’t you?”

“I do, yeah.”

  Like clockwork.

 His contempt was reassuring, in a very strange way. It made her furious, but also meant she was still alive to see the next day.

 If her mother was having another one of her fundraisers and pressuring Clarke to go, she knew Bellamy’d be there to call her out on her rich parents or her looks or literally anything else about her.

“Oh, all these parties and fundraisers we have to attend. These damn diamond shoes.” He gesticulated flamboyantly, “Tell me, princess, how is it to be a KKK member’s wet dream?’

 At some point they did end up losing all professional courtesy, so she just stared him straight in the eye and said:

“I guess the same way it is to be their dirty fantasy when they’re masturbating and there’s no one else around to judge.”

“Gross,” he scoffed and looked away, almost as if tempted to laugh. Of course he didn’t, Bellamy could only laugh at her; it was a talent. “I’m going to file an official HR complaint.”

“Do it, I’m already writing mine.”

 People took to leaving the common areas when they arrived. Except from Miller, who wouldn’t care if a nuke fell over his head, and Raven, who was unapologetically amused by their dynamic, no one in the office could tolerate their hostility. Not even Kane – and Kane was a peacemaker bred and true.

 So, after ten months of withering looks, outright cruel remarks and shouting matches (including the one their colleagues named The Second Fall of the Roman Empire, that ended with Clarke smashing her favorite mug against the wall right beside his head and creating a small fire in the expresso machine, hence them having to change it for a nespresso one), they were assigned to a case.

Together.

“Now, I know these are –” Kane struggled for the correct word to address their newfound situation “unideal conditions,” he settled at, “but I need my best people on it. And you’re it.”

 Neither Clarke nor Bellamy complained to Kane’s face; both of them merely stared stubbornly ahead while Kane explained things. At some point, Clarke had to bite her lip to physically keep herself from remarking at something, but if Bellamy was keeping quiet, she wouldn’t be the first to break.

 Kane looked from Bellamy’s clenched jaw to her furrowed brow, uncertainty written clear as day in his face.

“This is a very important deal to Kane & Griffin. I’ll ask you to put your personal issues aside and work as the fully-capable professionals I know you two can be.” He straightened his face, looking serious and stern like he did only once in a blue moon. More like the man he was when Clarke was a child and her father was alive. It made her sit with her head held higher and shoulders squared. “I won’t tolerate immaturity.”

 Their tongues are rolling before the door hits the frame behind them.

“Guess I’ll have to carry all the dead weight on this one,” Bellamy says.

“Have you ever gone to a psychologist? Your narcissism is finally rendering you insane.”

“My narcissism? That’s very rich coming from you.”

“Take the stick out of your ass, Blake. You’re not all high and mighty. Stop fooling yourself.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot who’s got blue blood here. How is our dearest councilwoman doing?”

 Her muscles tenses the way they always do when Bellamy mentions Abby and he notices. He always does. A self-satisfied smirk curves his lips upwards and Clarke entertains the idea of punching him square in the nose.

(She can almost hear his mental tally: One for Bellamy Blake, nil for Clarke Griffin)

“My mother fares very well, quite differently from me. She’s not the one being forced to work with you.” Despite the anger boiling in her blood, she keeps her voice frosty. It does nothing to diminish his smugness. “I’m very much looking forward for you meeting our client, though. Bet you’ll love each other.”

 Bellamy laughs, humorless, but it’s even drier than usual.

“I know how to act professionally, Griffin. Do you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I already know him.” Bellamy narrows his eyes at her. “Rich people, right?”

 She shoots past him, doing her best not to stomp like a child.

 The thing is: Roan Prince is the exact type of person Bellamy would hate and Clarke knows it.

(If there’s something that grates on Blake’s nerves, Clarke definitely knows about it)

 Rich being the understatement of the century; Roan was born in the most secluded part of the Upper East Side of New York and raised with constant back and forths between the family penthouse and their swiss estate. He drives only fancy sports car and makes it his business to go to luxury clubs with beautiful woman. Could’ve been an olympic champion of winter sports, but he chose not to, allegedly because training would be too “intense”.

 Worst of all, he strives to never look like he’s taking anything seriously.

 Clarke can practically hear Bellamy’s neck vein throbbing before they even arrive at their meeting.

 All in all, he’s an asshole, but at least he’s an asshole Clarke knows. Has known for her entire life, in fact.

“I know you never liked Nia,” she begins as soon as she and Bellamy enter Roan’s office, “but I figured that, if you ever tried to kill her, you’d at least be successful.”

“Isn’t that all the proof you need that I didn’t?” He asks, clearly amused. His icy blue eyes sweep over Clarke and Bellamy and, whether he sees the tension radiating off them or not, something about them seems to please endlessly. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

 It takes a few seconds to become clear he’s not going to introduce himself first.

“Seems that Clarke’s manners are slipping,” Bellamy comments, light and friendly. Teasing. It makes Clarke wants to scoff, but she merely rolls her eyes. “I’m Bellamy Blake and I’ll be working with Miss Griffin to defend you.”

“Are you already convinced that I didn’t try to kill my mother?”

“From what I read about her so far? Not particularly.” Bellamy smiles and Roan chuckles, hoarse.  “I don’t need that to convince the jury anyway.”

 “You have your hands full with this one,” Roan says to Clarke.

“Oh, no, Bellamy’s the easiest,” she quips back, with a sweet smile, batting her lashes at the man in question. Bellamy doesn’t grimace, but he clearly wants to, and that’s enough for her. She regains her composure and turns to their client again. “Are you ready to discuss the case now?”

“Is there any –” Roan pauses at the emphasis to rake his eyes dramatically over Clarke and doesn’t lose the way Bellamy’s frown deepens, “way to convince you to procrastinate a little more?”

“No.” She deadpans.

“Clarke has always been like this,” he says to Bellamy, conspiratorially, “business first and no fun at all later.”

“Oh, I bet she was.”

 True to her predictions, Bellamy hates him.

“You should marry the guy, Griffin.” He says the minute they hit the street. “He’s definitely your soulmate. Congratulations.”

“Maybe I will. Imagine how wealthy our kids would be.” She says and smiles, blinding. “Not to mention gorgeous.”

“With some luck he’ll want a stay-at-home wife and I’ll stop seeing your gorgeous face.”

“Don’t worry, I’d call you for dinner every Thursday.” She smirks and Bellamy glares at her. “Well, here is where I say goodbye to your awful company. Good riddance.”

“You’ll go back inside? Never pegged you for the naughty type.” He seems to eye her pantsuit critically, “Quite the opposite, really.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” Clarke keeps her saccharine-sweet smile on: “Go to hell, Blake.”

“Isn’t your company it, Griffin?”

“Please die and find out.”

 Unfortunately, there’s a reason why Kane assigned them to this case together. And the reason is that everything – evidence, background, alliby (or lack thereof), testimonies – points to Roan as prime suspect. Nothing concrete, nothing to enough grant a conviction, but coupled with the public knowledge of their feud, Bellamy and Clarke had their works cut out for them.

 Anyone who ever met that family knows that there’S no long lost love between Roan and his mother. Those who never met them, read it on the news.

 Nia Icelands cut him off when Roan was nineteen; in her own words to teach him a lesson.

 The plan backfired when he inherited a fortune from an uncle long removed from the rest of the family and tripled it in two years, selling stocks like if it was child’s play.

 They had reconnected for appearances sake, but. There are some wounds not even time can heal.

 Now, someone wanted her dead and Roan Prince would be the one to benefit the most. The case was a ticking press bomb about to explode and Bellamy and Clarke needed a plan. Right now.

“It doesn’t mean that, like, fifty other people don’t want her dead.” Clarke reasons. “She’s awful.”

“Good work, Sherlock. We won the case.”

Clarke glowers at him, but refrains from responding right away. She heaves a deep sigh. “We need another viable suspect, Blake.”

“No, we need to discover who did this.” Bellamy grounds through clenched teeth. “These other people that hate her? They’re employees. I’m not going to throw someone under the bus to make our playboy client get away with it, especially not someone poor.”

“One of them probably did try to kill her. It isn’t your job to find out who did this, it’s your job to make sure to convince a jury your client didn’t.”

“That’s a beautiful line of thinking you got there, Griffin.” Bellamy glares at her, clearly disgusted, and Clarke glares right back. “Inspirational. You should write speeches.”

“Look, I don’t like this, ok? I’m not saying we should incriminate someone else, just to make clear Roan wasn’t the only one who had motive and opportunity. To be honest, I don’t even blame anyone for attempting to murder her, I’m just sad they weren’t more competent.”

“And how are you so sure pretty boy didn’t do it?” Bellamy sneers. “Know him that well?”

“I’ve known the guy in forever. Roan may have hated her, but he wouldn’t try to kill her. He was crushed when she disowned him.”

“All the more reason to kill her, if you want my opinion.”

“I don’t. I never do.”

 Their matching scowls clash and Clarke drops the heavy file over the center table of his office.

“Jesus, you’re that big of an asshole, aren’t you?” She gets up and paces, grasping for any resemblance of calm, “He’s your client, Bellamy. No matter what you think of him, if he claims he’s innocent, than that’s what you’re trying to prove here.”

“I’m sorry, am I in court and didn’t realize?”

“It’s impossible to even talk to you!”

“Well, you’re no pleasure either,” Bellamy retorts, bitterly.

 Before Clarke can say anything else – no doubt something along the lines of pure profanity by now – her phone starts vibrating against the table. The familiar face shining on the screen.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s exactly what I needed right now, thanks.” Clarke mutters to herself, pressing her eyes shut for a moment before picking up. “Hey, mom.”

 She can almost hear Bellamy rolling his eyes.

“Clarke, I’m so glad you picked up. Kane said you got Roan’s case.”

“I did, yeah. Me and Bellamy.”

“Oh, that boy too?”

“Yes, mother. Kane wanted the best and, to be honest? Roan needs it. If we can’t do it, no one else can.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I’m glad he has you.” Abby concedes, “Will you be able to come to the charity dinner on Friday?”

“I don’t know, I’m so busy with –”

“I know, dear, but Kane is coming and I told him to invite the whole office. I think it’ll be good, Roan will be there and it’ll attract the press. You know how it is.”

“Fine, I’ll go.”

“Ok, see you on Friday then. Can you tell Bellamy?”

“Me?”

“Honey, if you’re going to work together, you need to learn how to deal with him.”

“I know how to deal with him. Set him on fire and grab some popcorn,” Clarke scoffs.

“Just not on my dinner, ok?”

“Ok. Talk to you later, mom.”

“I love you, honey.”

“Love you too.”

 When she turns back to Bellamy, he has a calculating look, as if he’s putting a puzzle together.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“Did you just defended me to your mother? And said I was the best?”

“No, I just told my mother I am the best. Get over yourself, Bellamy.”

“Ow, Griffin, no reason to be embarrassed. It was cute.”

“I hate you,” she declares, narrowing her eyes and forcing herself to assume a professional posture. “Let’s go back to this.”

“All business with lovely Clarke,” Bellamy mocks, echoing Roan’s earlier words.

 The week flies by them amidst liters of bad coffee and thousands upon thousands of files.

 There are stacks of paper everywhere in both their offices and they practically blocked the corridor between them with everything from newspapers to profiles to company’s organograms and financial statements. They’re working until well past midnight every day, arguing over absolutely everything under the sun, but, miraculously, things start shaping up.

 Clarke coordinates better than Bellamy does; Bellamy’s research skills are unparalleled, and, slowly, they find a pace that works.

 It doesn’t mean it’s not the worst week Clarke’s had in years. Bellamy’s always awful and in a sour mood, as if spending time in her company is dreadful and he’s hell-bent in making the feeling mutual.

(He’s alarmingly successful at that)

 The worst part is: He’s good. Like real fucking good.

 Clarke knew he was intelligent and capable before, but the reality of just how brilliant the guy is feels like a punch to the gut.

 She also finally takes notice of how he acts with everybody else – Bellamy’s not all sunshine and daisies, but he seems somehow softer around the others.

 How he keeps a watchful eye on Raven, who stubbornly overworks her bum leg every now and again, and makes sure there’s always soy milk for lactose intolerant Miller in the fridge. Bellamy makes sure to buy Monty some snack when he forgets to eat and always notices when someone’s going home too late.

 Seems like she’s the perpetual thorn on his side and it’s --

 It makes her hate him even more.

(Not that Clarke wants him to be softer with her. It’s just offending how much he hates her, that’s all.)

 So when Friday finds Clarke sandwiched between Bellamy and Raven in one of Abby Griffin’s dinner, she’s understandably at the end of her rope.

 Raven’s pretty much her usual. Which means insanely hot; red silky dress contrasting with her honey-colored skin, bright smile and even brighter brain that makes it impossible not to notice her. She found a great listener with sharp wit in Clarke’s oldest friend Wells Jaha and hasn’t been paying attention to anyone else all night.

 Bellamy, on the other hand, couldn’t be farther away from his usual self. It’s like someone flipped a switch and turned the charm on like a light.

 Everything about his demeanor is sleek in a way that make Clarke’s skin crawl, makes her want to shake him back to his surly self. Right now he’s making polite conversation with politicians and public figures as if that’s all he’s been doing for the past three decades of his life while Clarke is sitting in her assigned chair, sulking like a child.

  This night is going so great.

 The waiter has already memorized her and comes by with a new flute of champagne in regular intervals, but not even the alcohol is doing it for her.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” Bellamy mutters under his breath when Senator Dante Wallace finally leaves their table. “Is that why you’re always so irritable? Were you perpetually damaged by attending this stuff?”

“You seemed like you were having quite the good time,” Clarke gestures vaguely at where Wallace was standing.

 Bellamy rolls his eyes and smirks, all disdain and condescension.

“Feeling threatened, Princess?”

 Before Clarke can answer, a light hand touches her shoulder, snapping her attention from Bellamy.

 Standing there, with trademark curly, untamable hair and enigmatic smile, is Luna.

“Hello, Clarke.”

“Luna, what a nice surprise,” Clarke recovers enough to say, just a tad breathless “long time no see, huh?”

“Indeed.” Luna’s clever eyes survey the other people in the table and she nods her head politely. Wells greets her and Raven smiles, but Bellamy has a calculating look on his eyes, one that fits him a lot more than the easy charm he was dolling out five minutes before.

“Luna, you know Wells. This is Raven Reyes and Bellamy Blake, they both work at Kane’s. This is Luna Paes, she’s – an old friend.”

 The pause is barely noticeable at all, but of course Bellamy notices. Clarke drags her attention from him, refusing to let him get to her in that moment.

“Nice to meet you,” Luna says, as undisturbed as ever. They make shallow, perfunctory small talk. “How are you, Clarke?”

“Much better,” Clarke smiles. “You?”

“I have been doing good, thank you.”

“How are the kids? Your non-profit doing ok?”

“Yes, actually,” Luna laughs, the act animating her whole face. “Abby didn’t tell you what she’s fundraising for?”

 Clarke feels herself blushing. Luna has always been nice enough – if a bit unnerving – but she was still Lexa’s cousin. Clarke would like to look at least a little composed.

“Oh, it’s –”

“We’ve been very busy with a case. Clarke has barely left the office these days.” She thinks her eyes must widen to the size of saucers when Bellamy chimes in, smoothly, and covers for her sudden inability to speak.

“It’s true…?” She agrees, tossing a inquisitve glance at Bellamy for a brief moment.

“Still overworking yourself?” Luna asks.

“I learned from the best,” Clarke replies with a lopsided smile. Luna’s face remain cryptic, but her gaze turns gentler.

“I guess you did. She asked me to send her regards, by the way, when I told her about the fundraiser. I didn’t know if I should mention it before.”

“I’m surprised she’s not here herself. This is very much Lexa’s scene.”

“She didn’t think she should. With everything.”

“Oh, I understand. Well, send her my best wishes too.” Clarke assumes her most polite tone and can practically feel Bellamy’s scrutiny burning holes on her back. He was going to have a field day with all that information. She forces herself to add through gritted teeth: “To Costia too.”

Luna nods and carries on, but doesn’t stay much longer after, excusing herself to talk with some potential sponsor.

 Clarke wills her lungs to work in an acceptable rhythm and herself to look unfazed. Easy tasks, really, she tells herself firmly, she does that every day. In her line of work, she’s required to have the best poker face. She’s got this on lock.

 The reality, though, proves to be a little harder to manage.

 Lexa’s still a fresh wound. One Clarke can hide under bandages and pretend it’s gone, but one that hurts when touched nonetheless.

 When it becomes clear her emotions are refusing to stay under control, she quickly excuses herself to no one in particular and dashes from the table.

 Clarke ducks through unused halls until she’s halfway to the storage room in the back. Then, she finally gives in.

 Her knees buckle under her and Clarke slides down the wall. There’s no controlling the hectic puffs of labored breath or the fact that her eyes sting like crazy.

 She’s crying before she even knows it. Maybe she’s been crying ever since she got up, who knows.

 The whole thing is ridiculous.

 Lexa happened a lifetime ago. A time when Clarke painted in her free time and dreamed of living in Paris and dining by the Senna with her girlfriend. A time when she hadn’t learn yet that being so damn passionate is a weakness. That wearing your heart on your sleeve would someday kill you.

(It all changed when Lexa bypassed Clarke to get a junior position in a Law firm in Paris, apparently because Clarke wasn’t ambitious enough)

 That time’s been over for a while now. Clarke’s a whole new person.

 A happy person.

 A very happy person with her job and her cat – even if Bellamy fucking Blake seems so determined to ruin everything for her. It’s just a little hard to remember that when something as silly as running into Luna makes her crash and burn like a forrest fire.

 Clarke doesn’t need to turn her head to know who followed her when she hears footsteps approaching.

“I know seeing me like this must be a true pleasure,” she starts, rubbing the tears off her face forcefully, “but can I be alone for one fucking minute?”

 Bellamy doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t back off either. Instead, he keeps walking towards her, cautiously.

 He slides in the empty space beside her and Clarke keeps her eyes fixed ahead, refusing to look at him even though she can feel his dark eyes roaming.

 They stay in silence for a few moments, but Clarke’s unable to keep her tears at bay for so long. Bellamy hands her the cloth napkin wordlessly.

“Seriously? Did you filch it from the dinner table?”

“Is that what you’re going with?” He sounds almost amused. “Or is that Clarke for thanks?”

“I’m not thanking you,” she says, stubborn, “you’re just here to enjoy my misery. What is there to be thankful for?”

“Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy closes his eyes and sigh. It’s a good thing because then he can’t see how her eyes snap right to his face the moment he says her name. No Griffin, no Princess, no derision at all. “Is that really what you think? That I’d come after you to kick you when you’re down?”

“I don’t know,” she blurts out. “You hate me, never made any effort to hide it. Seems like something you’d do.”

“Flattering.” He snarks somewhat bitterly, but doesn’t move from his spot.

 The napkin quickly become overridden with marks from her running mascara. Clarke knew this damn dinner was a bad idea.

“For what’s worth,” Bellamy says, almost too casually, “I don’t hate you.”

 Clarke scoffs and he gives her a hard glare.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re a pain in the ass and I like annoying you. That’s not hate, Clarke.” There’s a softness in his gaze completely in contrast with the roughness of his tone that disarms her.

 Silence falls over them once again and, this time, they let it wrap itself around them like a safety blanket.

 Clarke’s still angry he followed her, disbelieving of his words, mad at herself for being this affected after all this time and confused as hell, but she’s also oddly comforted by his presence. It’s uncanny.

“Will you really just stay here?” She asks, aggravated.

“That’s the plan, yeah.”

“Fine,” Clarke huffs, “you’re insufferable.”

“Now that’s Clarke for thanks, I’m pretty sure.”

 When Clarke gathers her bearings enough to leave the alcove she and Bellamy have been in for the last twenty minutes, it’s to find a mess going on at the front doors.

 Raven’s looking for them, angry eyes narrowed to thin slits:

“Where the hell did you guys go? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“I wasn’t feeling alright,” Bellamy replies without missing a beat, “Clarke was helping me.”

 The frown in Raven’s face deepens.

“Helping to poison you, I’m sure.” Before any of them can say anything to that she rolls her eyes impatiently and press on, “It doesn’t matter. Roan’s at the door answering questions from about half a thousand reporters, basking in the attention like a fucking puppy. I thought you’d like to know, since your client is an idiot.”

 Bellamy curses under his breath and Clarke pales.

(Awesome moment to have a mental breakdown, Griffin, a voice that sounds suspisciously like Bellamy’s echoes in her head)

 They exchange a glance, a plan forming between the two in a heartbeat.

“I’ll drag him away,” he starts, “you do damage control. I’ll find out how much he screwed us up.”

“Alright, let’s do this.”

 They all but run and, sure enough, standing in front of several microphones, videocameras and flashes, is Roan, looking as unpreoccupied as ever. He’s smiling slyly at the reporters and answering them in a low tone.

 Clarke wants to strangle him.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” she plasters her best politician smile on and clasps her hands in front of her body, “but we’re going to need to cut this little rendez-vous short.”

 On her peripheral vision she can see Bellamy’s hands closing a vise grip around Roan’s arm while he hisses something that gets lost in the racuous noise. Next thing she knows he’s guiding Roan inside.

 Part one: Removal of the idiot, done.

 Part two: Damage control, to go.

“Miss Griffin,” a beautiful brunette propels herself in the front, thrusting the microphone closer to Clarke’s face, “Mr Prince declared that you and Mr Blake have found another suspect and have material evidence of their connection to the attempted murder. Is that correct?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re not sharing any details of the case right now.”

“So you haven’t?” The woman presses on, eager. Clarke does her best to look appeasing.

“Mr Blake and I are very confident in our strategy. Mr Prince is innocent and there’s no doubt in my mind we’re going to prove it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to leave you. Thank you.”

 Clarke turns on her heels and went back inside despite the numerous voices calling after her as the security strained the protective circle around the front door.

 She stops by the table to get her phone from her purse. As expected, there’s a text from Bellamy.

BELUGA BLAKE: I’m outside in the car with the idiot.

She types a quick answer and heads to the back.

As soon as she shuts the door, the car is moving.

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

“I knew you were going to overreact.”

“Roan, this is serious,” Clarke scolds, harsh, “You screwed your case bad here. We’re still looking into other possible suspects, but we have no solid evidence of someone actively trying to kill Nia.”

“So you think you’re not going to find it?” He raises an eyebrow, between insolent and amused. “I didn’t do it, so it is out there.”

“It doesn’t matter if I think we’re going to find it or not. You fucked up.”

“I don’t think you should be talking like that to your client, Clarke.” Roan says. He glances at Bellamy, who’s silent and glowering in the other seat of the limo. “Huh, seems like the two of you finally agree on something.”

 Clarke throws him the dirtiest of looks and shuts up before she’s the one charged with first degree murder.

 The perfect weekend after Friday’s debacle would involve curling up with Olivia and watching endless reruns of Daredevil, but there’s work to be done. So, instead of delving into her utter humiliation in front of Bellamy Blake and her less than ideal reaction in front of Luna herself, Clarke does what she does best: Throws herself into work.

 It’s hard enough to remember to drink something other than coffee and sleep enough hours with the amount of trouble Roan’s statement caused, let alone feel embarrassed.

 She burries herself in the same testemonies and alibies, investigate word-choice closely and sends several messages to Raven, trying to find something that could do exactly what Roan said – place someone in the perfect position to try to kill Nia Icelands.

 If this was Roan’s plan all along, she had to admit the genius of it.

(Lately her hate-list has been growing big, Clarke thinks, as she resolutely adds his name to it)

 She avoids Bellamy like the plague and he doesn’t try contacting her either. Apart from the detached messages they exchange about the case – usually between the hours of two and five a.m. – he doesn’t bring up what happened.

 Clarke’s too wary to be thankful, so she’s suspiscious instead.

 Still, there’s little to no success on either of their parts to finding someone new. They have a short list of viable suspects, all of whom had easy access to Nia and plausible motivation to try to kill her – her personal assistant and a handful of her company’s employees besides Roan himself. It was never said to be a great list.

 Everyone had alibies for the estimated time of the posoning, but. They’re their best bet so far.

“Raven, just tell me, could any of it be fake?” She asks first thing on Monday morning, plopping herself in a chair besides the other girl’s desk.

“They seem pretty solid. I’ve found some security footage that places Echo where she claimed to be that night, so she’s probably out. The police’s going to find it sooner or later. Her niece was live-posting a show on instagram before she went to the office to drop some files and found Nia on the ground.”

“Couldn’t she be doing it afterwards, just to have an aliby?  I mean, they did it on How to Get Away with Murder, right?”

“Sorry, Clarke, the festival started in the morning. The medical exam placed the time of the poisoning between five and seven in the evening.”

“Still,” the girl insists, “it’s just too weird. Why would anyone go drop files on their job after attending a festival? She must have been dead on her feet.”

“Well, that’s true, but she does work irregular hours. And Nia also says they have a wonderful relationship.”

“Yeah, I know her too. Snotty little creature, that one.”

“Anything new?” Bellamy’s voice pipes in as he approaches them, hair still wet from the shower and crisp white shirt. He looks like the first breath of fresh air in the morning, as always, but Clarke can see slight bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Not really.” Clarke tells him, then to Raven: “Please tell me if you find something.”

“I’ll keep looking into it,” Raven promises and turns to her computer, clearly not interested in dealing with Clarke and Bellamy at the same time.

 Clarke stops by the coffee machine and they retreat to her office in pregnant silence.

 Her mind is running every possible scenario and she doesn’t know what seems worse. She keeps asking herself when is Bellamy going to bring it up. It’s not like the whole thing didn’t give him tons of material to use, but his tired words keep coming back to her – is this really what you think of me? – and, while the answer would undoubtedly be a sound yes any day before this one, Clarke’s not so sure anymore. Of course, this brings her to her next issue: What if he tries to be nice? What if Bellamy pities her so much he thinks he has to? She just might kill him with a stapler.

 But he does none of those things.

 Instead, he keeps mum, which is its own form of torture and Clarke just wants to shake him and demand answers.

(Although she’s not desperate enough to go around shaking men she’s definitely not friends with and asking what do you think of me now?, so she keeps it in her imagination only)

 Bellamy sits in front of her and analyzes her thoroughly.

“What?” She hisses when it’s been going on for too long.

(Too long for her, anyway)

“You’re so – rumpled. Seriously, it’s like you just rolled out of bed.” He remarks, somewhere between contemptuous and amused, “Honestly, Griffin, I didn’t know you could look this dishevelled. And not in the good way.”

 Indignation courses through her.

“Do you know you look like your hair has never seen a comb in your entire life, right?” Clarke jabs back.

“Yeah, but in me it looks charming.” Bellamy grins smugly. “Besides I’m not you. I’m not all prim and proper.”

 Clarke snorts.

“Neither am I.”

“Well, not today, obviously.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Blake,” she adopts the haughty tone of voice Clarke knows grates in his nerves like nothing else, “I don’t think my appearance matters, just the quality of my work.”

“Not if your appearance is a reflexion of your work.”

“That does it, I’m going to file an HR complaint.”

 She’s pissed, yes. Bellamy Blake Asshole Extraordinaire is back like he’s never been anything else in his life. Clarke scowls at him and throws one of her books none-too-gently in his direction.

 Still, some deep, hidden part of her wants to grin like a downright loon.

 Bellamy’s scornful of her color coordinated marks in the reference book they’re using and, for a moment, everything feels normal.

The animosity between them, however, feels lighter. Their arguments turn into something closer to bickering and the cruel remark become less and less recurrent.

 Bellamy’s still the single most infuriating person Clarke’s ever met and makes a point of confirming this sentiment every day, but without the feeling she has to hate him, Clarke catches herself finding him funny occasionally.

 It still takes her a while to notice his disdain is mostly just sarcasm. He’s a bitter ass, but not necessairily such a hateful one. Clarke feels like the world has tilted on its axis.

 The workload doesn’t diminish, though, so they’re thrown together for increasingly long periods of time. The friction that sparked their fights begin to serve to more useful ends when they learn how to work around each other and mix their ideas, instead of competing with them.

“Seriously?” Bellamy asks her, hands shoved deep in his worn out jeans, teasing glint in his eyes. “Is that what you call casual attire?”

 Clarke briefly looks down to check her own clothes – an oversized Pink Floyd shirt with paint stains and equally comfortable yoga pants – before quirking an eyebrow.

“What, you thought I wore pantsuits to the supermarket?”

“Actually, yes,” Bellamy smirks and she hits him. They go in to buy ingredients so Bellamy can cook dinner, since it’s Saturday and they’re still working. It almost seems like friends hanging out. However, their only excuse is that the office is under repairments and they need somewhere quieter, so going home was the logical choice. “I definitely didn’t picture you like this.”

“Stop judging my clothes! They’re great.” Clarke throws her nose in the air and stomps away.

“Hey, calm down, Debby Drama.” Bellamy actually chuckles and Clarke’s glare darken further, “Your clothes are nice. I was just surprised.”

“I don’t know who you think you are to criticize me. You’re wearing dorky glasses.”

“You always say I’m a dork, Clarke.” He calls her out with an eye-roll.

“Yeah, but I never thought you’d admit it.”

 They work and work, meet with Roan and go through catalogued evidence. Nia gets well enough she can leave the hospital and the press has a field day when she claims she’s certain her son tried to do it. Frankly, it’s all exhausting, so when everyone at Kane & Griffin’s gape at her and Bellamy laughing together, blatantly shocked, Clarke barely has the energy to shrug, let alone question it.

 They’ve been on Roan’s case together for almost a month when realization downs on Bellamy.

 Well, what he’d call realization.

 Clarke would rather call it what it is: Complete, utter madness.

 It’s been pretty much a regular day so far: they had a hearing a few days prior and they had just found a disgruntled ex-partner who tried to buy stocks of Nia’s company through fake corporations, but she found out. He had a meeting scheduled with her that day, but supposedly never showed up.

 The fact that this wasn’t brought up until Raven – maybe slightly illegaly – hacked into the deleted appointments of her personal calendar, was extremely unsettling to Clarke. Someone must’ve known.  But both her personal assistant, Echo, and Ontari – the dreadful niece – claimed they weren’t aware of the appointment.

 Still, it was someone who had motive and opportunity. And was supposed to be on the crime scene just before the apropriate time. They could work with that.

(Nia’s words keep on repeat on her had though, I’m heartbroken to say I’m convinced my own son did it. It’s a jagged puzzle piece that doesn’t fit the sweet, motherly picture she’s been trying to doctor as of late)

 Clarke’s been muttering curses about repetitive lawyers who liked to hear their own voice while doodling along the margins of her casebook when she notices Bellamy’s puzzled gaze focused on her.

“Why aren’t you reading?” she scolds.

“I’m trying to figure out something.”

“You should be trying to figure out a way to win this case.”

“C’mon, Griffin, now that we have a true viable suspect you’re worried?” He teases.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Yes,” Bellamy answers promptly, but clearly not meaning the same thing as her, because he doesn’t stop staring. There’s a crease forming between his eyebrows, deepening the more he seems to think something over and Clarke wants to smother it with her thumb, it’s so annoying.

“Now you’re being purposefuly obnoxious,” Clarke bites out, “more than the usual, I mean.”

“You hate it.” He replies, as if that’s the answer to all her questions.

“What are you babbling on about now?”

“You truly, deeply hate it.” Bellamy repeats, a hint of wonder infiltrating his voice. “You’re so good at it I didn’t see it before, but –”

“Bellamy, are you going out of your mind?”

“Maybe.” He grants easily, and Clarke’s own frown deepens. “All this time and I’ve just– I’ve never—”

“What?!”

“You hate being a lawyer. It makes you miserable.” He finally says, still a mix between awed and confused, but with such conviction Clarke physically recoils. “I knew there was something off before, but I thought – well, I had a couple theories, but none of those involved you hating your job.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t hate my job.”

“You do, actually.”

“C’mon, even you must see how moronic this is.” Clarke counters, feeling her cheeks flush, the flare from the primal instinct to defend herself lighting up her chest. “All I do is work, you said so yourself. More than once, if I must remind you.”

“I know. That’s why you’re always so…?” When his dark eyes find her again, Bellamy seems even more puzzled, bordering on worried. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“I’m not doing anything!” Her voice sounds shrilly even to her own ears, but it only serves to make her angrier. Rationally, Clarke knows she’s blowing this way out of proportion, but she can’t stop. There’s this thing about Bellamy, the way he always strikes a chord inside her that makes her see red. Of course his nonsense would make her angry – Clarke’s happy, she doesn’t need Bellamy Blake approving anything about her life. “Look, I don’t know what you think you just figured out, but you’re wrong. I love my job, I fought very hard to be where I am. I’m happy.”

“Do you want to try again, but this time with conviction?”

“For fucks sake, back off.” If nothing else, this seems to get to him. Bellamy considers her for a few moments, then drops his eyes back to the file in his lap. Clarke takes a deep breath.

 Bellamy’s just messing with her, Clarke reasons, he has to be.

 He doesn’t speak much for the rest of the night and some part of Clarke is grateful.

She pretends the other part of her isn’t hurt and a little ashamed.

Bellamy doesn’t bring their conversation up again and Clarke focus intensely in her work until there isn’t any space left in her mind for personal matters.

 Things between them grow frostier, however, and Clarke finds herself noticing. It’s not like they revert back to the way things were before he extended her a metaphorical olive branch, all those weeks back at her mother’s fundraiser, but suddenly he’s aloof again, barely registering her presence aside from work-related issues.

 It makes Clarke itchy and uncomfortable.

 She doesn’t want to consider Bellamy Blake anything close to a friend. If anyone asked her before, Clarke wouldn’t even say they were on the path to becoming such a thing.

 But in hindisght – well, in hindsight she misses his teasing, the way his smirk curls upwards when she says something clever, misses the coffee he sometimes buys her when he goes for a smoke and knows they’ll have a long day ahead still.

 Well, fuck.

 Besides that tiny detail, her life is completely normal. She’s overworked and, when she’s not living inside her office, she’s either feeding or petting her cat, taking long showers or watching baking shows, but it all feels too quiet. Stifflingly quiet.

 It gets harder to feel all that happy when you feel so lonely.

 She doesn’t allow these thoughts to linger for long, anyway.

 It’s Sunday afternoon and Clarke’s – predictably enough – working on her couch when her doorbell rings.

“Jesus fuck, Griffin,” Bellamy says, with a quirk of an eyebrow, as soon as she opens the door, “have you moved at all since Friday?”

 His eyes are scanning her living room – a mess of books and scattered notes, two empty pizza boxes and her throw afghan – before he shakes his head.

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t die, I guess.” He rolls his eyes and pushes past her to come inside, toeing off his shoes to leave them where she usually leaves hers. “Have you at least had something to eat?”

“You don’t need to scold me, I’m not a child.” Clarke says, crossing her arms petulantly over her chest. Bellamy just keeps glaring at her until she relents: “I did, didn’t you see my pizza boxes? They’re right there.”

“Anything with nutritional value, Clarke.”

“Hey, pizza is—”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He cleans a space in her center table and sets the bags on it. When he opens them, Clarke’s hit with the delicious smell of thai food. She’s suddenly salivating. Bellamy chuckles, clearly amused. “Go get us plates and cuttlery, princess.”

 She gives him a dirty look before doing as he asked and tries to ignore the warmth spreding through her chest.

 It’s not until they’re almost finishing their meals she speaks again.

“Will you tell me what you’re doing here now?” There’s a teasing, if cautious, smirk dancing on her lips.

“I did tell you,” Bellamy turns to face her, “I came to make sure you don’t work yourself to an early grave.”

“But –” Clarke cuts herself when she realizes she’s about to ask Bellamy why would he do that. She falters only for a moment, settling for teasing instead, “I know you’d love to see me gone. Imagine having all the glory for you after you win this case.”

“Nah, I hate funerals and it would be bad press for me not to go.”

 Clarke gives him a tentative smile. Tentative, but genuine. Something with a dash of an apology for lashing out, just on the curves, and Bellamy’s responding one is equaly wiry.

“Well, as long as you’re still being a self-serving jackass.”

“Trust me,” he says with a lopsided grin and heavy gaze, “my reasons are all selfish.”

 There’s a strange energy in the air surrounding them that makes Clarke fidgety. As if she were to light a match, her entire apartment would immediately combust.

 She sets for collecting the dishes for something to do with her hands.

“What did you do with your weekend?” Clarke asks, trying to defuse the tension.

 Bellamy doesn’t answer for a second, staring at her like he wants to say something else. She turns to him, blue eyes pleading silently to let go, so he sighs.

“Visited my sister and her family.” He says, gruff. “She has two boys, two and four years old, and they’re a handful. I go over whenever I have the time.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Well, you’re the only one. Everyone else just wants me to shut up about her.”

“Big brother much?” Clarke teases and Bellamy ducks his head to hide a grin.

“Just a little.” He follows her to the kitchen to help with the washing. “I don’t know if you heard but we grew up dirt poor and I practically raised Octavia.”

“Oh God, now you’re gonna smother me with stories aren’t you?”

“You bet your ass I will.”

 They dig and argue and build the case as solidly as they possibly can. The day of the audience whith Pike, Nia’s former associate, rolls around and Clarke’s pretty confident in their ability to bury the DA’s case. Bellamy and her crafted and sharpened every edge of every question, they’re ready.

 And it goes brilliantly, at first.

 Pike doesn’t truly hide his disgust for Nia, doesn’t have a sound aliby, and – as Raven found out for them – used to be a chemist in the beginning of his career. It also turned out Nia stole from him years back. All in all, he’s even more of a suspect than Roan and that’s all Clarke needs to nail this case shut.

 Except there’s been a crease between Bellamy’s brows since they entered the courtroom and his eyes keep darting over to where Nia is. He’s unsettled and out of pace; it keeps distracting Clarke.

 She’s barely three questions in when Bellamy anounces firmly:

“No further questions, your honor.”

 Clarke’s head whips to him so fast it gives her whiplash, but he’s staring stubbornly ahead.

 It makes absolutely no sense, they had no time, --

 Then it dawns over her: he’s throwing the case.

 He’s throwing Roan under the bus and Clarke alongside him. Cold dread turns quickly into boiling anger she has to fist her hands to keep from spilling.

“Actually,” she starts, mind racing, “the defense would like to reassemble, your honor, if you’d be so kind.”

“Don’t you think the defense had enough time, Ms. Griffin?”

“I do, your honor, but something unexpected came up.” She says through gritted teeth, trying her best to keep her temper in check.

 The judge seems inconvenienced, the corners of her mouth looping down in a grimace, but after a beat, she nods.

“Alright then, meeting adjourned. We’ll reconvene here tomorrow at 11:00.”

 Clarke holds it in while they file out of the courtroom; holds it in while Roan lashes out at them on the hallway, finally looking genuinely distressed over the whole thing; holds it in until there’s only Bellamy and her behind the closed doors of the elevator.

 Then, she turns to him:

“What the actual fuck, Bellamy?!” He merely has the time to bring his eyes to her face before she barrels on. “Are you seriously throwing the case? After everything we did, after everything we – Do you know how much I worked for this?”

 He’s still infuriatingly calm and Clarke feels like slapping him.

“Clarke—”

“Don’t you Clarke me, I know what I saw, I know you, asshole.” She spits, venomously. “Or thought I did. Traitorous was not something I expected of you.”

 She can see the muscle in his jaw tick – one of the tells his temper is rising – and all Clarke can feel is a wicked satisfaction.

“Now you wait a second—”

“Why would you do that?” Clarke half-shouts over him. “Do you have any idea what that would mean? To Roan, to me, to my father’s firm? This is my life’s work, Bellamy, it’s all I have, I’m not going to let you—”

“It’s all you have because you push everything and everyone else out.” It’s Bellamy’s turn to cut her off, roaring. “Don’t give me that shit now of all times.”

“Are you seriously playing indignant? That’s fucking rich.”

“Will you just fucking listen, already?”

“I don’t have to listen to anything you say.” Clarke bites. “To hell with you.”

“For how long have you been looking for an excuse to tell me that?” He asks, humorless smile twisting his face, betraying everything but amusement. His eyes glisten and his impassive mask breaks. “How long after you realized you actually liked me have you been trying to cut me off?”

“I’m not trying to cut you off, you just threw my case.” Clarke throws her hands up and marches out of the elevator as soon as the doors slide open. “And I don’t like you, I could never like someone like you.”

 Clarke turns around when she realizes he’s not behind her anymore.

 Bellamy’s standing, not three steps out of the elevator, face set in a stone-cold mask of expressionlessness again.

“Fuck you too, Clarke.”

 He pivots on his heels and goes back inside the lift.

 Clarke stays rooted in place, refusing to give in to the prickling behind her eyes, her harsh breathing the only sound echoing in the garage.

 Fucking asshole.

 She goes home and soaks in the bathtub for two whole hours and an entire bottle of pinot noir. Then Clarke curls around Olivia – for once subdued and affectionate – and tries to convince herself everything is fine, she can revert this.

 It’s all about the case and she can still win this.

 (Tries to convince herself what she’s feeling isn’t her heart breaking)

 It’s barely even dawn when Clarke’s phone starts ringing, the shrill tone echoing through her room. She reaches for it with a groan, opening a single eye to check the caller ID.

“What, Raven?”

“Why is Bellamy not answering my calls?”

“How the fuck would I know?” She bites, more venomously than necessary and immediately feels bad. Raven doesn’t have anything to do with her anger. “What’s going on?”

“He asked me to look into something yesterday, but I’ve been trying to call him and he won’t answer.”

“Maybe because it’s six in the morning.”

“Bullshit, he always picks up. It’s about the case.”

 Clarke sits up at that, clutching her phone tighter.

“What about the case?”

“His hunch was right and I found material evidence of it, we need to meet and figure things out –”

“Wait, what hunch?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what, Raven?”

“Bellamy figured it out, Clarke. It was Nia.”

“You’re making no sense.”

“It does, actually,” Raven quips back impatiently, “Roan doesn’t have any heirs. If he gets sentenced for life, she becomes the sole controller of all his assets. That’s why no one mentioned Pike before, they knew it would shift the focus off Roan. Nia took the poison willingly only a few minutes before Ontari came to the office. Plenty of time for the paramedics to rescue her.”

“How—” Clarke’s mind is spinning, way out of control. “That’s why he threw the hearing yesterday?”

“Of course. What did you think?” Raven says like it’s obvious.

“I thought – I didn’t know. Why didn’t anyone told me?”

“Bellamy asked me to look into it yesterday morning, I only found something about five minutes before the damn thing. I suppose there was no time.” Raven sighs, then asks: “Wait, what happened? How did you not know any of this?”

“We fought. I might have jumped to conclusions.” Clarke covers her face with her free hand, reliving all her words from the day before. “Where is he?”

“That’s what I wanted to know! I thought he might be with you.”

“Raven, it’s six in the morning, why would he be with me?”

“Wait, are you trying to tell me you guys are not fucking?” Raven asks, incredule. “For fucks sake, Clarke!”

“Of course we’re not fucking, we hate each other.”

“For all you’re brilliant, sometimes you’re an idiot, Griffin. That guy’s head over heels for you.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Yes, he is. But can we let the life-changing realisations for later? We need to find Blake and get both your asses over here in time to prep for this audience.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“—and I know I fucked up, but honestly I had no way of… Nevermind, just be there in twenty. Please.” Clarke presses her eyes shut after leaving another message on Bellamy’s voicemail. Alright, the third, but who’s counting?

 She went inside the coffeeshop, phone still clutched tightly between her fingers.

“Bad morning already?”

 Clarke’s eyes snapped up to Lincoln’s friendly face.

“More like a bad week.” Lincoln is by far the biggest reason she keeps coming to Grounders instead of the Starbucks in front of the firm. “Can I get my usual, please?”

“Of course.”

 His baking goods are fantastic and the coffee is always fresh and just strong enough for Clarke’s taste, but that’s not why she keeps coming. The truth is Lincoln is kind. Friendly in a way Clarke craves. So she allows herself to come, find a friend in the warm owner who’s always nice to her.

She does realizes she’s pathetic.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” He offers while working the expresso machine.

“I don’t even know where to start.” Clarke gives him a weak smile. “I just – messed up. Big time.”

“Something at work?”

“Kind of. Something with – well, something with a friend, I guess. I misjudged him and might have gone ballistic over nothing.”

“Why don’t you apologize, then?”

“We’re really not the –” Saying they’re not the apologizing kind of friends sounds wrong, even to Clarke, so she lets the words die on her throat. “Yeah, maybe I should.”

 Lincoln smiles, understanding, and keeps on working on her order.

 Clarke doesn’t exactly feel better, but she doesn’t feel worse, so it’s a win, really.

“Here,” he places two styrofoam cups in front of her and a bag of pastries. “something to help you with the apologies. I’m told I’m a half-decent baker.”

“You’re the best baker in town.” Clarke clenches and unclenches her fists before taking the cups and brown bag, swallowing down the swell of gratefulness she doesn’t know what to do with. “Thank you, Lincoln.”

“You’re welcome, Clarke.”

“Bellamy –” She all but runs after him after giving Roan one last hug, heels clacking against the tiled floor.

“Don’t, Clarke.” His tone is hard and cold, cutting in a way Clarke doesn’t think she ever heard before.

“I just want to talk to you.”

“Well, this time it’s me who doesn’t want to talk to you, princess.”

 He doubles his stride, storming down the corridors towards the elevators. It’s hard to try and match his pace without fully running and the courthouse is still way too populated for doing that.

 It’s not like she’s giving up, though.

“And I get why you wouldn’t,” Clarke finally manages to catch up with him and loops a hand around his arm, “but I really think you should.”

 That gets him to whip around and face her, eyes dark and glowering.

“Why is that? What the fuck do you want?!” She doesn’t flinch when Bellamy steps right into her space, ragged breath fanning her cheeks, just keeps her eyes leveled with his. This Clarke gets. Biting, belligerent, angry Bellamy Clarke knows and is fully equiped to deal with. “I showed up, didn’t I? Didn’t even throw your case. Roan fucking Prince is free of all charges and your precious career is intact. Can you fuck off now?”

“No. But I am sorry.” Clarke can see Bellamy’s not expecting her to come right out and say it, so she does, takes the time to appreciate the way the muscle in his jaw works while he swallow his surprise. “I should’ve listened to you before I bit your head off. But honestly I had no way of guessing what was going on.”

“You really think that’s my problem? That you misinterpretated something?” Bellamy laughs without a single trace of humor, frees his arm from her grasp to run a rough hand over his face. “You’re really something, Clarke.”

“Bellamy –”

“Don’t you get that you always do this? It’s the same shit, like at the fundraiser. You thought what, that I would fuck up the case on purpose? That Nia was paying me to?”

Clarke can feel the heat rising from her neck to her cheeks, shame flooding her stomach, because it did cross her mind.

“It seemed logical. I mean, why else woud you –”

“Fuck up your career, not to mention my own?” He asks, dry.

“I wasn’t thinking that straight! But you hated me and then suddenly you were all nice and then I thought you were throwing our case, what did you expect me to think?!”

“Don’t you know me at all?”

“Bellamy, we were actually civil to each other for a couple of months, tops, after a year of you goddamn hating me.”

 His hands come up to grab her arms, firm like steel, but not tight enough to hurt.

“I told you that already. I never hated you.” He mutters, low. Something in his voice makes shivers erupt all over Clarke’s skin. The elevator dings behind her, metallic doors sliding open.

 Clarke steps back at the same time Bellamy steps forward until both stumble inside and her back is pressed against the cool wall.

 Raven’s words fill her head - that guy’s head over heels for you – and the skepticism inside her is mixing dangerously with the heat that’s coiling low in her stomach.

 It’s hard to convince herself she doesn’t want him to be when her hands find their way up his shirt and fists the fabric in a white-knuckled grip. Bellamy’s staring at her – heat and exhasperation in his eyes, lips so close Clarke feels like angling her head higher and licking inside his mouth, finally finding out what all his anger and all his softness taste like.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Clarke echoes what she said that first time, but her voice is husky.

“I’m not so sure.” His beseeching gaze rove all over her face and Bellamy presses impossibly closer, until it feels like he’s physically stealing her breath, body flush with hers. “I think you do know, Clarke. I think you’re scared.”

 It’s not like she plans on kissing him.

 But Clarke was never one to back down from a challenge.

“Why don’t we find out?”

 One minute she’s spitting the words, half angry half eager, and the next she’s not thinking at all, numb to the entire world except for Bellamy Blake.

 Bellamy’s lips land on hers with all the grace of a tempest – hard and unyelding, battling her for every inch of dominance – while his hands slide up from her arms to cradle her jaw and seep through her hair, tilting her face to gain better access.

 Clarke knows she’s lost the moment her tongue finds the seam of his lips, invading his mouth before he has the chance to. The hands in his shirt pull him against her and her skin’s prickling everywhere from the pressure. One of his knees ends up between her legs and, when she moans, he sinks his teeth harder on her bottom lip. A praise or a reprimand or even a reflex, Clarke doesn’t know, but it sends shudders down her muscles.

(Clarke Griffin 1, Bellamy Blake nil, her mind provides)

 With deft movements, he hoists her up, bunching her pencil skirt high on her thighs when it proves too tight for her to wrap her legs around his waist, and hits the emergency button, effectively halting their descent. Everything about his kiss is desperate and raw with want and Clarke finds herself equally as frantic.

 The proverbial dam is finally broken and it quickly becomes clear that this, right here, might burn her worse than his anger ever did.

 And fuck all if Clarke doesn’t love it.

 One of her hands leaves his shoulder to run her fingers through the thick, inky strands of his hair, and she eagerly eats up his groan when her nails scratch his scalp. Bellamy’s hands press harder on her hips, and it’s her turn to mewl softly.

 It’s a competition, she realizes, just like everything ever was with them. Clarke presses her breasts against his chest and Bellamy mouths along the column of her throat. She pulls, he pushes back.

 The elevator comm is buzzing in the background – probably someone trying to see if they need help, if there’s anything wrong with the lift – but Clarke can’t force herself to care.

 She can feel him getting hard under her and presses her center down, rocks against him, half desperate for friction, half vindicated when he lets out a soft fuck against her shoulder and presses back.

 The comm buzzes again before the elevator resumes its way down.

“Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy repeats, seeming all too reluctant to put her back on the ground, “we can’t do this here.”

“Seems like we were already doing it here.” She snarks back with a teasing smirk and Bellamy huffs a breathless laugh.

“Yeah and I might kill the person who just interrupted us.” He braces his arms against the wall behind her, taking in harsh gulps of air that tickles the hair on her shoulders. “Let’s go somewhere else. My place, your place, I don’t care. If I don’t touch you soon I think I’m going to combust.”

 The way Clarke’s gut clenches isn’t entirely pleasant – a mix between arousal at his words and dread. Now that the box they’re into is moving, it’s like reality snapped back and the world around them became real and tangible again, and she’s not sure if she can do this, whatever it is that is about to happen between her and Bellamy. It makes Clarke fidgety with the sudden need to escape.

 Bellamy seems to sense what’s going on inside her head, noticing the way her muscles are all suddenly taut with unspoken tension. He steps back, eyes regaining focus, to look at her face.

“Bellamy—”

“Don’t.” He’s voice is low and soft, a plea like Clarke never heard. “You can’t – just don’t. Don’t do this, Clarke.”

“It’s not like that, I’m not doing anything. Just listen to me for a bit.”

“You know perfectly well what you’re doing.” The openness disappears from his face again, giving place to his glower. It makes her feel like she’s been doused with icy water, how fast his walls go up again. (She suspects he’s feeling the same, but doesn’t know how to stop it from happening) “I’m only going to ask this once.” Bellamy takes as many steps back as he can, keeps going until he’s at the opposite end of the small space they have. “It’s up to you.”

“Bellamy, please, it’s not that simple!”

“Yes, it is.” Clarke hates the way he’s looking at her, hates the small lift at the corner of his lips, like he already knows her answer, like this is a battle he can’t win. Mostly, she hates he’s right. “It’s just as simple as it seems to be. You can come with me or we can stop whatever game it is we’ve been playing.”

 Part of her wants to deny this was ever a game, say she didn’t agree on taking part of no such thing, but.

“Why can’t you allow yourself to do anything that you actually want?” He sounds tired.

“What are you talking about? I can’t – What do you know? I don’t –”

“Want this?” Bellamy scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me.” He repeats her words like they’re burning their way out. Clarke has to stop herself from physically wincing. “Guess you did. Or I did it myself, actually.”

 The door opens and there’s a few employees of the building waiting for them with worried expressions.

“We’re ok, sorry about this.” Bellamy says, curt, and shoulders past them as quickly as possible.

“Bellamy, wait!”

 He doesn’t.

 Clarke knows she never wanted to be playing any games with him. She didn’t want to be playing games with anyone, let alone a man like Bellamy Blake. She’s been perfectly content with her life without all of the shit this kind of things entails.

 She feels like losing anyway and somehow, this time it doesn’t feel like Bellamy’s winning either.

 As Clarke sits alone in her apartment, even the cat sauntering away from her, she cannot understand how everything – all the carefully built aspects of her life – came to this.

 There’s a knot tight in her throat and her breathing comes haggard. Her pulse is still thrumming from the euphoria of winning a case, the deep desire sparked by Bellamy’s skin pressed against her, and a sinking guilt that threatens to pull her all the way down.

 At the low light of dusk and all alone, Clarke can’t tell herself she’s happy anymore.

 What do you call a moment when you can’t even lie to yourself anymore?

 So she throws a big suitcase open and piles a few change of clothes in.

 (Later, Abigail Griffin is going to be in for a really big surprise as her only daughter comes home with her heart on her sleeve like she hasn’t worn for a long time, and she’ll breathe a soft finally as she holds Clarke close)

“Clarke?”

“Tell me again why you withdrew my application to that internship.”

 There’s a pause before Lexa speaks again, voice careful, somehow soft.

“I don’t have a good enough reason.” She admits. “I thought I did. Thought you didn’t care as much as I did, thought that how much I wanted that internship justified what I was doing to you. I think I was scared.”

“You’re right,” Clarke sighs into the cellphone, “that’s not a good enough reason.”

“I am sorry.” Clarke thought that when – if – Lexa ever apologized, she’d feel better, at least a little bit, but that doesn’t happen. If anything, it seems to sting her harder. “I actually expected this call a lot sooner.”

“Yeah, well,” she laughs, humorless, “I tried to believe that if I never heard from you again, never thought about it, it would eventually go away, stop hurting.”

“And it didn’t.”

“It didn’t.” She confirms. “I just – I can see why you’d think you cared more, you might have even been right.” A wave of emotion rises on her chest and threatens to choke her. “But I can’t understand why you thought this was better than what we had. Why a fucking internship was worth more than I was.”

 And it’s finally out there.

 The weight she had been carrying inside for the better part of two years, of not mattering to Finn, who thought it was ok to cheat on his girlfriend with Clarke, and of not mattering enough to Lexa either.

“It was never about you, Clarke. It was about me, about who I was.”

“The fuck it wasn’t.” She sniffs, trying to subdue the emotional turmoil in her chest.

“It really wasn’t and deep down you know that.” It’s Lexa’s turn to sigh. “Luna told me you two talked at the fundraiser.”

“Yeah, it was a shitfest.”

“I didn’t want to do this to you.” There’s sincerity in Lexa’s voice and that actually does sooths the burn inside Clarke a little bit. “I didn’t think I could, to be honest. You were always so full, Clarke, I didn’t think anything I did could really affect you in the long run. I knew you were too strong.”

“I guess you really were wrong.”

“Not about that, no.” Lexa seems to deliberate for a few seconds before carrying on. “I am sorry and I understand if you can’t forgive me, but you need to stop blaming yourself.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” Clarke can almost hear the smile in Lexa’s voice. “You deserve to be happy. I hope you find it in yourself to allow that to happen.”

 Clarke doesn’t know what else to say, so she just hangs up.

 She kind of wishes it was raining.

 Not because Clarke actively wants to be soaking wet and shivering, but she figures if her life is going to  become a full-blown cliché anyway, it would set the mood nicely.

 The mood in question being her knocking on Bellamy’s door in the middle of the night. After a month of radio silence, a month of not calling him, a month since her resignation letter found its way to Kane’s hands.

 Alright, eleven at night, but it still feels grand, like she’s making a big gesture or something.

 Granted, she supposes she is.

 Still, she hopes it’s not too late.

“I didn’t know I cared.” It’s the first thing she says when he opens the door, flanel pants hanging low on his hips and thick-framed glasses perched on his nose.

“You came all the way here just to tell me that?” His face reamains a blank mask, but his voice is caustic, “after four weeks?”

“No, it’s supposed to be the start of something.” Clarke nods her head, steeling her determination. “I’m hoping you’ll let me in.”

“Why would I do that, Clarke?” Bellamy lets out a disbelieving laugh, but she can see his fingers digging into the wood of his door frame.

“Because I think you want to.” She worries her bottom lip for a moment, “and because you deserve some sort of explanation.”

  Bellamy considers her for a moment in which Clarke can feel her heart pumelling against her ribcages wildly. At last, he nods, more to himself than to Clarke, and steps aside.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me just yet.”

“I wasn’t really sure if you’d let me in the first time.”

“First time?” he reaises an eyebrow.

“If you don’t think I’d come back every day until you let me in, you don’t know me as much as you think you do.” Clarke chances a quick smile. Bellamy pointedly does not reciprocate.

 She steps in, only a little unsure, while surveying his living room – it’s the very same from the last time she was there, working: neat, full of books and smelling like him.

 Even then, it feels like a completely different lifetime.

“Glad to see you’re not dead in a ditch.” Bellamy finally says.

“Are you sure you’re glad? Doesn’t look much like it.” She provokes, pushing a little. After all, it does take two to tango. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me again.”

“Oh, so you just decided the best way to figure it out was to show up unnanounced at my place at night?”

“Yeah, element of surprise and all.”

He’s still fixing her with icy, calculating eyes and Clarke can’t blame him, but.

“So…” The pause lingers. “Guess I didn’t die in a ditch, after all. I’ve been at my mom’s.”

 His eyes widen ever-so-slightly at that.

“I needed to figure some things out, I—” She stops, heaves a frustrated sigh and looks him straight in the eyes. “I’m seriously fucked up, Bellamy.”

He nods, slow. Then says:

“Why did you quit?”

“You were right.” Clarke shrugs, “I was miserable. Am miserable, but… I’m trying to revert that.”

“Is that what this is?” He gestures around. “A way to make you less miserable? Is your conscience heavy?”

“This is not what this is.” Clarke narrows her eyes at him. “And I think you know that.”

“Then enlighten me.” Bellamy throws his hands up, the anger bottled up until now finally roaring from inside his chest. “Why are you here, Clarke? Because I don’t have a fucking clue. You just upped and disappeared.”

“You told me I only had one chance!” She counters, her voice raising to match his. “I didn’t see you running after me after all that shit happened.”

“Why would I?! You made your feelings perfectly clear.”

“Have I? Do you really think that?” Her breath is coming in aggravated puffs, mingling with his from how close their faces became.

“Hoestly? I have no fucking idea.” Bellamy takes a step back, putting some distance between them, and his hand comes to his hair by instinct. “I don’t know for how long I can keep doing this.”

“I didn’t think we were still doing this,” she points out, soft. “But I hoped.”

 His eyes are impossibly molten when he looks at her.

“Do you have any idea how I feel about you?”

“Just a few.” There’s a little smile playing on her lips. “It hasn’t been – easy for me. None of this.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” He scoffed, but the corner of his lips were tugged lightly upwards too. “You drive me absolutely batshit crazy, did you know that?”

 Bellamy burries his face in his hands, trying to regain some control.

“What now?” He asks, reemerging to look at her.

“Do you?” At his puzzled look, she adds: “do you have any idea how I feel about you?”

“Every time I think I might, something shows me I don’t.” His answer is earnest and it stings. Clarke cuts the distance between them, hands hovering tentatively next to his until Bellamy grabs her fingers.

“You turned my life upside down.” She murmurs, finally invading his space completely. “I was trying so hard to convince myself I was fine, I didn’t need anything else and then you just – happened. And I don’t think I ever wanted anyone so badly.” Her breath on his skin made all the fine hairs on Bellamy’s neck stand on end. “But I didn’t want to want you.”

“I noticed.” His voice is hoarse, an octave lower than normal.

“I don’t know where we go from here but – I am here. I want to try this, try to be happy instead of just telling myself I am fine.” Clarke’s lips touch his pulse point for a fleeting moment. “I do want you.”

His hands let go of hers to come all the way up to her hair, fixing her in place, eyes roaming her face greedily, taking her in.

“Do you think you can stop trying to self-sabotage for five minutes?” He asks with a lopsided grin and Clarke feels her own smile stretching.

“I’m done hiding, I –” the rest of her phrase is eaten by his mouth, covering up hers.

Later, she asks against his chest, so soft her words are almost a whisper:

“What do we do now?”

“We have all the time in the world, princess.” Bellamy presses a kiss against her hair. “We don’t have to figure out everything right now.”

“It’s scary,” she murmurs, chuckles a bit against his skin; shivers when his fingers trace the line of her naked spine.

She looks at Bellamy, cocky smirk and dark eyes, the same face she’s been staring at for he best part of a year, but at the same time oh-so different, and she doesn’t really know if they will figure it out, but she knows she wants this – just this – enough to try a thousand times over.

 Clarke’s not ready to name any of the emotions currently swelling her chest, but it seems like it’s possible she will, in the near future.

 Possibility isn’t something Clarke had much of lately, hope doesn’t really thrives on mild.

“All worthy things usually are.”