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Clarke was making pizza. 

That should have been normal, but it was the rest of that sentence that made it weird.

Clarke was making pizza in the kitchen of the mansion she was living in during her time on the Bachelor.

Yeah.  That was her life apparently.

She liked to claim she hadn’t been thinking straight when she’d agreed to apply, but really she’d just thought she could appease her mother without actually having to do anything.

She should’ve known it wouldn’t work out that way.

So here she was, locked in a mansion competing against two dozen other women to win the heart of some dude named Macallan who’s last name she couldn’t even remember.

Hence the pizza.

They had only finished the welcome cocktail party a few hours ago, and it had left Clarke both exhausted and famished.  After the party, they had to wait their turns to do confessionals, and then she’d scrubbed off all her makeup and changed into a pair of fleece pyjama pants and a hoodie and thrown her hair up in a bun and come back downstairs in search of something to eat.

No one else was around, and it was the first time she’d felt she could breathe all day.

Someone was filming, but somehow she’d already figured out how to mostly tune out the cameras.  She didn’t know what they expected to get, but maybe there wouldn’t be much drama right off to bat and they’d need to show her making pizza in the middle of the night.  The Bachelor being her guilty pleasure and all, she doubted it, but she also didn’t really know how the whole behind the scenes thing worked quite yet.

She was sitting on a bar stool, head resting on her hand as she stared blankly at the numbers on the stove that counted down the minutes until her pizza was done, when she heard someone else come in and sigh loudly.

Clarke debated ignoring her fellow midnight snacker.  On the one hand, she really didn’t feel like making anymore polite conversation right now.  All she really wanted to do was eat an entire pizza and then curl up in bed and sleep.  But on the other hand, it was the first night.  Did she really want to be the girl who made enemies the first night?  Because that was definitely how the producers would spin her ignoring whoever had just come into the room.

The girl in question had finally walked into her vision.  She had long dark hair and was digging through the fridge, and Clarke couldn’t tell who she was from the back of her head.

“They should really feed us more,” Clarke said, deciding that having a potential enemy in the house wasn’t worth the hassle.  “I’m starving.”

The girl didn’t answer, closing the fridge with a jug of orange juice in her hand.  She leaned back against the fridge as she took a long sip from the jug.

“I’m Clarke, by the way,” she said, to fill the awkward silence that followed.  “I don’t think we met earlier.  I’m making pizza, if you want some.”

The girl finished her sip, and stared at Clarke, eyes scanning her as a smirk crossed her face.

“Jane Murphy.”

Right.  One of the six Janes in the house.  Clarke didn’t think that there were that many people being named Jane these days, but she supposed she had to be wrong.  That or a disproportionate number of Janes just really wanted to be on the Bachelor.

She searched for another conversation topic, knowing that midnight pizza and chugging orange juice from the carton would definitely be a gag worthy of making it into the credits of an episode.  The least she could do was try to make a friend out of this.

She ended up being saved by the timer going off on the stove.  She moved to stand, but Jane M. waved her off as she put the orange juice jug on the counter.

“Thanks,” she said as Jane M. pulled the pizza from the oven.

Jane M. nodded, and silently went about cutting up the pizza and piling the slices on a plate.

“Do you want some?” Clarke asked.  She was definitely feeling hungry enough to eat an entire pizza on her own, but she figured sharing was a nice thing to offer.

“Yeah,” Jane M. said, picking up the plate.

She smirked at Clarke as she grabbed her jug of orange juice, and then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

“Hey!” Clarke called, pushing up from the counter to follow her.  She could see the camera crew perking up in the corner of her vision.  “What are you doing?  That’s my pizza!”

Jane M. paused, turning back to look at her with a raised eyebrow and what Clarke was starting to suspect was a permanent smirk.

“I’m here to win,” she said, “not to make friends.”

And then she was gone, leaving Clarke staring after her in shock, pizza-less and hungry.

“What the fuck?”

Clarke stared at the camera, every single thing that had happened since arriving at the mansion slipping her mind.

“What about your run in with Jane M. last night?” one of the producers prompted.  “Can you tell us about that?”

Clarke dropped her fake smile, the memory of her late night snack adventures returning.

“She stole my fucking pizza.”

The producer smiled, and shook her head.  “Try it again without the swearing and with a little more feeling.”

Clarke was feeling a weird mix of nervous and excited as she left the confessional room.  Sure, she hadn’t wanted to make enemies this early in the competition, but, really, Jane M. had been the one to start it.  If she and Jane M. started a rivalry and made it entertaining enough, they’d be good for ratings.  That meant the producers would keep her on the show longer—not that she really knew whether she entirely wanted that yet.  Macallan seemed nice, but she’d spoken to him for all of five minutes the night before.  She wasn’t about to declare her undying love.

But cause a scene?  She could do that.  She had plenty of exes who’d accused her of doing so.  She should be able to do it easily.

Still, she’d been hoping to find Jane M. on her own first, to see if the other woman was cool with the whole rivalry thing.  Just because she’d stolen her pizza didn’t completely discount her from ever becoming Clarke’s friend.  She seemed pretty cool, just the right kind of asshole to mesh with Clarke’s asshole—and, okay, that sounded entirely less—sexual?  Was that even the right word?—in her head.

And, really, after Clarke had finally gotten some food and some sleep, the whole thing was actually pretty funny.  It was the first night, and Jane M. had already gotten to say an iconic Bachelor line the first night in, and Clarke would be lying if she wasn’t a little bit jealous.  And turned on.  Maybe it was the hunger and fatigue clouding the memory, but Jane M. was pretty hot.  If they weren’t currently competing to marry the same guy, Clarke would have probably tried to get her number.

But none of that mattered because they were competing to try to marry the same guy, and the producers had strongly encouraged her to confront the pizza stealer.

So confronting Clarke was doing.

Her plan to warn Jane M. before doing so fell through, because she was seated in one of the living rooms with a half dozen other women when Clarke walked in.

She could’ve held off.  She knew she could’ve.  She could’ve put a pin in it and talked to Jane M. later and then confronted her after that.

She could’ve.

But then Jane M. was sitting there, lounging on a chair just far enough away from the rest of the group that it was clear she was separating herself from whatever conversations were going on, and she had the audacity to smirk at Clarke once she noticed her enter.

She was smirking.  Because she’d stolen her pizza.

Well.  If she thought Clarke was going to let her get away with that unscathed, she had another thing coming.

“What.  The.  Fuck.”

Clarke leveled Jane M. with a glare, her arms crossed over her chest.  The conversation going on silenced, but Jane M. simply raised a brow, her smirk growing.

“Clarke, right?” one of the women—Harper, if she remembered correctly from their brief meeting—said, standing up.  “Do you want to join us?”

Clarke ignored her for now, stepping closer to Jane M.

“That was my pizza.”

Jane M. laughed, kicking her feet up on the coffee table and leaning back, her hands folding behind her head.  “Maybe you shouldn’t have let me take it then,” she suggested.  “It was a pretty good pizza.  I could’ve made better, but all things considered, it really did hit the spot.”

“Really?”  Clarke rolled her eyes, the annoyance she’d felt last night resurfacing.  “You steal my fucking pizza, and then you insult it?”

“If the shoe fits.”  Jane M. shrugged.  “I’m a chef, honey.  Frozen pizza is garbage.”

“Well, no one said you had to eat it,” Clarke snapped.  “It wasn’t even yours to eat in the first place.”

“You offered it to me.”  Jane M. was standing now, a glint in her eye that told Clarke that this might be exactly her goal when she’d stolen the pizza the night before.  “And it was a communal garbage pizza.  You didn’t have any claim in the first place.”

Clarke scoffed.  “I offered to share it,” she clarified.

“That’s not what you said.”

“It was implied.”  Somehow she was toe to toe with Jane M. now, glaring up at the taller girl.  “And it stopped being a communal pizza when I waited for it to cook.”

Jane M. was smirking at her, her hands on her hips as she stared down.  “What are you gonna do about it?”

What was she gonna do about it?  Clarke found her eyes drawn to Jane M.’s lips, the inexplicable urge to kiss her popping up.

And maybe she would have.  If they hadn’t been competing on the Bachelor and in the middle of a stupid argument about pizza, she probably would’ve kissed Jane M.

But they were competing on the Bachelor, and having a thing with another contestant was definitely a no-no according to their contracts, so she didn’t kiss her.

She kept eye contact as she crouched down, her eyes only briefly leaving Jane M.’s to make sure she was grabbing what she meant to.

And then she was throwing Harper’s glass of wine in Jane M.’s face, the red liquid dripping past her shocked expression and down her shirt.

“Don’t steal my fucking food,” Clarke growled before turning around, her own smirk creeping onto her face as she left the room, hoping to get out of there before her control gave out and she burst into laughter.

Jane M.’s claim to be there to win and not to make friends seemed to be her actual strategy as the weeks went on.  She caused fights with everyone about everything, and Clarke was one of only a handful of girls in the house to not turn and run the other direction if Jane M. happened to be where they were headed.

Clarke was about 90% sure Jane M. was only still in the house because she caused drama and drama was good for ratings.  Or maybe Macallan was really into her.  Clarke really had no idea who Macallan was into, besides his guitar.  She knew who the other girls thought he was into—i.e. themselves—but she hadn’t the slightest clue where his head was actually at.

Clarke hadn’t interacted with Jane M. too much herself.  They hadn’t been on a group date together, and Jane M. tended to keep to herself when she wasn’t causing drama.

Which was why it was so shocking when she planted herself at the end of the deck chair Clarke was lounging on.

“I need your help.”

The words were grit out, like they physically pained her to say them, and it took Clarke a lot of effort to keep from smirking.

“What could you possibly need my help with?” she asked, flipping the page of the magazine she was reading like she didn’t really care.”

Jane M. huffed and Clarke didn’t need to look to know she was rolling her eyes.  “Someone keeps stealing all my leftovers.”

Clarke couldn’t keep herself from laughing then, placing aside her magazine so she could smirk up at the other girl.  “Was it maybe, I don’t know, you?”

Jane M. rolled her eyes.  “Okay,” she said, making a face like what she was saying tasted bad.  “Stealing your pizza was a dick more.  I’m not going to apologize, but I can admit I was being a dick.”  She huffed and leaned back, throwing her hair over her shoulder.  “It was also like a week ago, so you should really be over it by now.”

Clarke leaned forward, raising her eyebrows.  “I will never be over stolen pizza.”

“Fine.  Whatever.”  Jane M. huffed.  “But someone’s been stealing my food, and I want you to help me figure out who it is.”

Clarke watched her silently, mulling over her options.  Not that she had many.  There were cameras on them, after all, and a producer standing not too far away.  Her choices basically amounted to causing a scene or helping Jane M.  There probably wasn’t much middle ground.

“What’s in it for me?” she asked, like her decision hadn’t already been made.  She was tired and had already participated in a scene that morning.  Sue her if she wanted to take the easy road for once.

Jane M. sighed, her head tilting to the side as she studied Clarke.  “What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” Clarke shrugged, stretching out her legs.  Her toes bumped into Jane M.’s leg.  “Maybe you should just owe me a favour.”

Jane M. made a face.  “That sounds ominous.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Jane M. apparently already had a plan, which started by making a ridiculous amount of stir fry that she then wouldn’t let Clarke eat.

“This is dumb,” Clarke whined, watching her pack it into Tupperware.  “We’re a team now.  And you stole my pizza.  I should at least get to eat some of the bait.”

Jane M. just snorted, not looking up from her task.  “If they see you eating it, they’ll be onto us,” she pointed out.

“Maybe I’ll become the new thief, then,” Clarke muttered, and Jane M. threw a piece of chicken at her head.  Clarke pulled it out of her hair and ate it, glaring at Jane M. the whole time despite how stupidly good the chicken tasted.  She’d have to find out where Jane M.’s restaurant was at some point.

“If you’re the thief, I’ll kill you.”  Clarke’s head snapped back up at Jane M.’s words, her hand rising to her chest in mock-offence.  Jane M. raised her hands in placation, smirking at her.  “In a non-criminal way, of course.”

Clarke laughed.  “What does that even mean?”

Jane M. didn’t answer, just went about tucking the stir fry into the fridge and tossing her dishes into the sink.

“Don’t let them know you’re onto them,” she said, patting Clarke on the head before she left the kitchen.

Clarke rolled her eyes and tucked back into her files.  She had a colleague covering for her while she was away, but the producers brought her new info whenever it came in.  Jane M. could easily leave her restaurant behind without endangering anyone, but it was a little harder for Clarke to do the same with her clinic.

It was actually a great cover, as Jane M. had pointed out.  The kitchen was usually empty enough that it was probably the best place in the house for Clarke to go back into pediatrician mode for a while, and no one would question why she hadn’t moved from the counter for a few hours.

It was a while later when someone came in.  Clarke stealthily watched her cross the kitchen, as she had done for everyone who’d come searching for snacks.

“What are you doing?” Raven asked, the fridge open in front of her as she dug through it.

Clarke looked up from her file, fully watching now that Raven had her attention.  “Patients,” Clarke said, and Raven looked back at her to nod.

“I wish they let me bring my work with me.”  Raven was a rocket scientist.  That’s what Harper called her, anyway.  Raven said it with a lot more technical terms than Clarke could really understand.

Clarke laughed, and then Raven was turning around, her arms full of the containers of stir fry.

“I’ve got a date with a bath,” Raven said, smiling at Clarke like she wasn’t stealing someone’s food.  “Good luck with the patients.”

Clarke didn’t come downstairs when Jane M. confronted Raven, but she didn’t need to to hear the screaming.  She had a book and her bed, and was pretty confident that being an indirect part of this would be keeping her around through the next rose ceremony.

The screaming died down, and there was silence in house for a few blissful minutes.

Her door opened after, and Jane M. peeked in.

“Want to cash in that favour?” she asked, and Clarke raised an eyebrow until a pizza appeared through the open door.  “We’re sharing it, though.”

“Fuck yes,” Clarke said, dropping her book and sitting up.

Jane M. grinned at her, closing the door behind her as she crossed the room to flop onto the bed beside Clarke.

The pizza was not a frozen one, and Clarke didn’t know when Jane M. had found the time to make it from scratch, but she was so fucking glad she did.

“Holy fuck,” she moaned, closing her eyes in bliss at the first bite.  “Jane M., you’re a fucking goddess.”

Jane M. laughed, taking her own slice of pizza.  “It’s Murphy, actually.”

Clarke opened an eye to peek at her as she took another bite.  “What?”

“I’ve been Jane M. since kindergarten, Clarke,” she said, rolling onto her back and dangling her pizza over her face.  “It’s not exactly an uncommon name.  This is the first place they haven’t let me go by Murphy instead.”

Clarke frowned.  “Why won’t they let people call you Murphy?”

“Cause the Bachelor is sexist as fuck?”  She shrugged.  “I don’t know.  They just won’t.”

Clarke snorted.  “I think backtalking the Bachelor while you’re on the Bachelor is what gets you kicked off of the Bachelor.”

“Please,” Murphy scoffed, waving her hand.  “I am fantastic for ratings.  That makes me invincible.  As long as I keep causing drama, I’m basically guaranteed to make it to at least hometown dates.”

“What are we even doing?” Clarke asked, interrupting herself with a squeal when Murphy’s hands momentarily let hers.

“We’re walking you blindfolded across a log,” Murphy reminded her drying, her hands reattaching to Clarke’s arm.

“I know.”  Clarke paused, gripping Murphy’s arm as she stumbled, holding her breath in hopes that that would keep her steady.  It worked, and they kept walking.  “But like why?  What is the point of this?”

“I think it’s supposed to build trust?”

Clarke was about to point out that that was dumb, why were they supposed to build trust with each other when they were just here to potentially marry Macallan, but then her foot caught on something.

And she stumbled.

And then she tumbled.

And then she landed hard on the ground with a loud crack.

“Shit,” Murphy said.  “Clarke, are you okay?”

It took a few moments for the pain to set in, but then Clarke was letting out a cry of pain.  Murphy tore off her blindfold, and Clarke blinked at her through the tears and the sudden light.

“What is it?” Murphy asked, her hands hovering over Clarke.  “What’s wrong?”

“My arm,” Clarke managed, and Murphy helped her sit up, pulling her off the offending arm.

“Oh,” Murphy said, and Clarke watched her face pale.  “Oh, crap.”

Clarke may have been a pediatrician, but she didn’t have to be any kind of doctor to know that she shouldn’t have a second elbow coming from her forearm.

Clarke swung her legs, listening to the dull banging against the side of the bed she was sitting on.  She’d gotten x-rays and was now waiting on the orthopedic surgeon to find out whether they could set her arm on its own or if she’d need surgery.  Clarke was really hoping she wouldn’t need surgery.  She was more than done with this hospital and hospital food and was ready to crawl into bed and guilt Murphy into making her something that actually tasted good.

“How’s your arm?  Have the pain meds kicked in yet?”

Clarke glanced over at Macallan, who she’d mostly forgotten was in the room with her.  He’d insisted on coming to the hospital with her, though she was pretty sure that was mostly because he felt obligated and not because he wanted to spend any time with her at all, let alone in a hospital.  The cameras hadn’t followed them inside, though, and Clarke finally felt like she could actually breathe.

“Yeah,” she said, turning back to stare out the door.  Why was this taking so long?  “It’s feeling a little better.”

“That’s good.”

Macallan was silent again, and Clarke sighed.

She didn’t have anything against Macallan.  He was nice.  He was hot.  He could sing.

But he wasn’t the most exciting person.

Maybe she just hadn’t spent enough time with him.  She had yet to be on a one-on-one, and conversations at cocktail parties and group dates were always cut short.  She hadn’t even said a word to him on this one until she broke her arm.  Hanging out with Murphy was infinitely more fun than fighting over time with Macallan.

Maybe she should’ve been utilizing her time with him now.  That’s what most of the other contestants would do in her place, and what they were probably expecting her to be doing.  But her arm hurt like a bitch, so flirting really wasn’t her top priority right now.

The ER doctor came back in with the orthopedic surgeon then, saving Clarke from having to make anymore awkward conversation.

“We’re going to take you into surgery now.”

“I’m back!”

All Clarke wanted to do was go to bed, but the producers thought a dramatic re-entrance to the house would be better.

The other contestants flocked to the door, cooing over her arm and the hot pink cast it was wrapped in, and Clarke answered their questions with as much energy as she could muster.

“This came for you,” Harper said, brandishing a date card, and Clarke resisted the urge to sigh.

“Dear Clarke,” she read.  “At the stroke of midnight, the spell with break.  Let’s hope you don’t turn into a pumpkin.  Macallan.”

Everyone started speculating on her date, and Clarke could read the jealousy in their eyes.  She stifled a yawn and wondered how much longer this would be before she could go take a nap.

“Okay, okay, break it up.”  Murphy pushed herself off the wall where she’d been standing.  “Give Clarke some space.”

Clarke let Murphy grab her arms and steer her upstairs.

“Thank you.”

Murphy waved her off.  “It’s the least I can do after breaking your fucking arm,” she pointed out, and Clarke laughed.

“I guess you do owe me another favour,” she said, bumping her non-broken arm against hers.

Murphy smirked at her, leaning back against the wall outside Clarke’s room.  “You’ve missed a lot of gossip,” she said.  “Everyone thinks you broke your arm on purpose to get some one-on-one time with Macallan.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, pushing past Murphy into her room.  “That’s definitely exactly what I was thinking,” she agreed dryly.  “The surgery and night in the hospital was definitely worth it.”

“That’s what I told them.”  Murphy followed her in, flopping down on the bed as Clarke went about finding some pyjamas.  “They’re also jealous of your pity date.”

“It’s not a pity date.”  Clarke reached for her sling, trying to undo the snap one-handed.

“It’s definitely a pity date.”

Clarke felt Murphy walk up behind her.  She pushed her hand away before brushing her hair to one side, and Clarke had to resist a shiver.  Murphy’s fingers ghosted over her skin before settling on the clasp of her sling, and Clarke let it drop to the ground.  Murphy didn’t move away, so neither did Clarke.  She couldn’t hold back the next shiver that came as Murphy’s fingers brushed against her instead of dropping away.

Clarke could feel Murphy’s breath against her neck, and there were so many things she wanted to do.  She wanted to lean back into her, wanted the hand on her shoulder to move up to her cheek, to tilt her head around so she could kiss her.  She wanted to turn around and thread the fingers of her good hand through Murphy’s hair, wanted to invite her into her bed, even to just cuddle.  She wanted to tell her it wasn’t Macallan she wanted to come to the hospital with her, to be the one waiting when she woke up from surgery. 

There were so many things she wanted with Murphy that she hadn’t wanted with Macallan.  She wanted to not be in this stupid house anymore so that maybe her stupid crush could’ve actually had a chance.

Murphy was the one to step away first, her hand falling from Clarke, who immediately mourned the loss.

“I should get some sleep,” Clarke said, softly, and Murphy nodded, not meeting her eyes.

“Sorry about your arm,” she said, and then she was gone.

Clarke groaned in frustration, throwing her razer down in the tub.  A knock came on the bathroom door.

“Are you okay?”

Clarke rolled her eyes, standing up to open the door for Murphy.

“You know how it’s illegal for us to have leg stubble?”

Murphy glanced past her into the bathroom, presumably at the mess of shaving cream covering the bathtub.  “I do remember that part of our contracts, yes.”

Clarke waved her cast in Murphy’s face, made awkward with how it was strapped against her in the sling. 

“I’m left handed,” she said.  “Have you ever tried shaving with the wrong hand?”

Murphy laughed, and pulled the mic off her shirt, tossing it behind her onto Clarke’s bed before coming into the bathroom and closing the door.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m helping.”  Murphy smirked at her, leaning back against the sink and crossing her arms.  “Can’t let you go around getting kicked out for illegal leg hair.  And there’s no way I’m having my first non-filmed conversation in weeks still be recorded.”

That…made sense.  Clarke had definitely come into the bathrooms many times before just to get a few seconds away from the cameras.  She’d spent most of the last 24 hours in the camera-free hospital, but, considering she was either in pain or in surgery for that whole ordeal, she hadn’t really had time to enjoy it.

Having a camera-free conversation with Murphy was definitely something she wanted.

“Okay,” she said simply, and Murphy rolled her eyes.

“Do you want me to shave your legs or what?”

“Yes, please.”

Clarke perched on the toilet, stretching out her legs to the edge of the bathtub.

“Can I ask you something?”  Clarke was desperate to fill the silence as Murphy started dragging the razor up her legs, the task far more intimate than she’d expected it to be.  Murphy nodded, and Clarke blanked on anything she’d ever wanted to ask, blurting out the first thing to cross her mind.  “Why are you such a dick?”

Murphy paused, glancing up at her with wide eyes.  “What?” she asked, the smirk that was slowly growing telling Clarke she wasn’t actually offended.

“Just, you stole my pizza the first night,” Clarke pointed out.  “And I’m pretty sure half the house hates you.  Why?”

Murphy laughed, shrugging as she reached over to rinse the razor.  “I love the Bachelor,” she said.  “Not Macallan.  I’m not into him, like, at all.  Not my type.  But I like watching the Bachelor, and I have bets going on.”

Clarke wasn’t sure why her heart skipped a beat when Murphy confirmed she wasn’t into Macallan—that was a lie.  She was a liar.  She knew exactly why—but she ignored it.  “Bets?”

“Yeah.”  Murphy paused as she dragged the razor down Clarke’s shin.  “I decided pretty much as soon as I found out he was gonna be the Bachelor this season that I wasn’t into him, and that the only way I’d actually enjoy myself was to become the villain of the season.  My friends have bets on what kind of drama I can cause, and I get part of anything anyone wins.”  She grinned up at Clarke.  “Being the reason someone decides to leave the house gets me a thousand bucks.  Also I’m just generally kind of a dick.”

Clarke laughed.  “That is insane,” she said.  “And I’m super jealous.  I wish I’d thought of that.”

Murphy tossed her hair over her shoulder, smirking up at Clarke.  “Clearly I’m just a genius,” she declared, and Clarke had to agree.

“So what is your type, then?” Clarke couldn’t help but ask.

“Nothing super specific.”  Murphy shrugged.  “With guys, definitely someone less…soft, I guess.”  Clarke nodded.  She got that.  “With girls, I dunno.  You fit into my type.”

Clarke was going to say something, but then Murphy’s words sunk in.  Murphy liked girls, too?  And, more specifically, Murphy’s taste in girls included her?

She was silent for too long, long enough for Murphy to power on.

“What about you?  Is Macallan your type?”

Clarke shrugged.  “In theory, yes,” she said.  “In practice, I haven’t figured it out yet.  I’m bi, too.  By the way.”

Murphy glanced back up at her and grinned.  “Nice.”

Clarke accepted her high five with a laugh.

Murphy rocked back on her heels, surveying Clarke’s legs long enough that Clarke felt her face start to heat up.

“I think we’re done,” she said, and Clarke nodded.  Murphy’s eyes met hers, and she grinned.  “As much as I love sitting on the floor of a bathroom, I’m pretty sure you have to leave for your pity date in less than an hour.”

Clarke swore, hopping off the toilet.  Opening a drawer, she frowned at the makeup resting inside.  She pulled out a tube of eyeliner, and turned to wave it at Murphy with a small grin.

“Can I cash in that favour now?”

It was later that afternoon, riding through the streets of Italy in a carriage with Macallan, that Clarke had confidently decided that she was somehow actually falling in love on the Bachelor.

The problem was that it wasn’t the Bachelor she was falling in love with.

“You can’t fucking believe her,” Octavia said, flopping down on a towel next to Clarke.  Clarke hummed to show she was listening but didn’t open her eyes.  “Have you heard what Roma did on the group date today?”

“No,” Clarke said, ready to take in all the information.  Murphy was gonna be pissed she missed whatever went down.

“We went ziplining.”

Clarke rolled over to face Octavia, lifting her sunglasses and raising her eyebrows.  “Roma went ziplining?”

“Oh yeah.”  Octavia grinned.  “It gets worse.  So we get there and first off she’s wearing a dress which like—”

“You can’t wear a zipline harness in a dress,” Clarke finished, and Octavia nodded.

“Exactly,” she agreed.  “And it’s not like the producers didn’t warn us to wear pants.  Anyway, so we get there and she freaks because she’s wearing a dress and she can’t go ziplining in a dress.  So Macallan’s dealing with that while we’re getting hooked up.  She ends up skipping the ziplining and just meeting us at lunch.”

Clarke put her sunglasses back down, waving Octavia on.

“So Macallan and I ended up together at the end of the course,” she continued.  “Which was so great.  He’s honestly fantastic, don’t you think?  Anyway, so I’m flirting and he’s flirting and we’re having a good time and decide we’re gonna go chat for a bit while we wait for lunch to be ready.  Apparently Roma decides that’s not allowed, cause she just shows up and demands that I leave, and I’m like um what?”  Octavia widened her eyes, staring at Clarke.  “You can’t just skip half a date and then insist on spending time with him, you know?”

“Yeah,” Clarke agreed.  “That’s ridiculous.”

“Exactly!” Octavia threw her arms in the air.  “So I’m like yeah, no, that’s not happening, and she just starts freaking at me, so I start yelling back.  It was exhausting, and then neither of us even got to talk to him cause he just decided we were going to go back to have lunch.  And then the date basically ended when lunch did, and Harper got the rose.  Harper.  She didn’t even do anything today.”

“Ridiculous,” Clarke agreed, rolling onto her back.

“I had to miss, like, half the date.”  Roma leaned against the counter, gesturing at Clarke with her wine glass.  “It’s not fair.”

“Definitely,” Clarke agreed, sipping at her own wine.

“Like, why would we go ziplining?” she continued.  “It’s not even a fun thing to do.  I don’t even know what they were thinking.  So when they all finally show up at lunch, Octavia is getting all cozy with Macallan, and I’m like, no, right?  It’s my turn to have some Macallan time.”

“Sure.”

“So I go down there all nice and polite and ask for some time with him.”  Roma paused, taking a long swig of her wine.  “And Octavia just starts, like, screaming at me for no reason.  I was very polite.”

“Of course.” Clarke nodded.  Murphy walked by the window behind Roma’s head, and she tried to catch her eye.

“So she’s freaking at me, so I start freaking back, which I would never do normally.” Roma leaned forward in earnestness, and Clarke nodded again.  She’d finally caught Murphy’s eye, so hopefully she’d be coming to save her from going over this conversation for the hundredth time.  “And poor Macallan, he’s caught in the middle and decides we’re all heading back to the group for lunch.  And then he doesn’t even talk to me the rest of the date!”  She threw her arms in the air.  “Octavia, I get.  She started it.  But I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s terrible,” Clarke agreed, and then hid her sigh when Murphy entered the room.

“Clarke, you have to see this,” she said, smirking over at them from the door.

“Sorry,” Clarke said to Roma, who waved her off.

She clutched Murphy’s arm as they made their way outside.

“What was that about?” Murphy asked, and Clarke looked up with her with wide eyes.

“Did you hear what happened on the group date today?”

Murphy laughed.  “Oh yeah,” she said.  “I’ve heard about six different versions so far.”

“Oh, I’m jealous,” Clarke said, laughing.  “I’ve only heard four.”

Clarke tried to ignore her feelings for Murphy.  Doing anything romantic with other cast or crew was even worse than leg stubble, according to their contracts.

But it was hard.  It was so hard, because she spent so much more time with Murphy than with Macallan, and because if this had been any other situation, she would’ve made a move weeks ago, probably back in that bathroom when Murphy had first shaved her legs and did her makeup.

At this point, Clarke was pretty sure she was only still in the competition because she occasionally helped Murphy cause drama and her broken arm was making Macallan give her pity roses.

She should really say something.  She should really find Macallan on a date or at a rose ceremony or something and tell him that she wasn’t falling in love with him, that she couldn’t see herself ever falling in love with him, and pull herself from the competition.

It was the right thing to do.

But leaving the competition meant leaving Murphy, and somehow staying here and being around her while not being with her seemed like a better option than going home and not seeing her at all.

So now she was in the final eight, based on drama and pity roses alone, and was definitely not in love with the Bachelor in the slightest.

Right now, Harper, Raven, Jane W., and Echo were out on a group date, Gina was taking a nap, and Zoe was swimming laps in the pool.  Which meant Clarke and Murphy were basically alone.

It was both a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because Clarke loved spending time with Murphy and spending time with Murphy when she wasn’t in complete Bachelor Villain mode was even better.  A curse because she was definitely really into Murphy, and was pretty sure Murphy returned the feelings, and it was so much harder to hide it when no one but the camera crews and producers were around.

Right now, they weren’t doing much.  Murphy, Echo, and Raven had had a blow out the day before that definitely secured Murphy her rose at the next ceremony—Raven and Echo both apparently also enjoyed causing drama, so the three of them had officially become “rivals” not long after Clarke broke her arm—and Clarke’s cast meant she couldn’t swim or take advantage of half their house’s amenities, so the producers hadn’t stopped them from just curling up on the couch to watch a movie.  They didn’t even have any crew stationed in the room, just a few cameras set up in case anything interesting happened, which, after so long of being constantly surrounded by cameras, were easy enough to ignore.

Clarke’s head was resting in Murphy’s lap, and she was pretending she was paying more attention to the actual movie than she was to the feel of Murphy’s fingers absently brushing through her hair.

Murphy didn’t seem to be paying much more attention, talking to Clarke about…to be honest, Clarke wasn’t really listening to the words, just letting the soft tone of Murphy’s voice washing over her.

She needed to say something.  It wasn’t fair that she was still in the competition when other people who actually wanted to be there could be.  Harper had told them she was in love with Macallan.  So had Gina and Echo and Jane W.  Raven and Zoe hadn’t said as much, but Clarke was pretty good at reading people.  They were definitely actually into him.

She knew Murphy wasn’t into Macallan, and she was pretty sure Macallan knew that, too.  She didn’t know where Macallan thought their relationship stood, but with the lack of sparks during their kisses on Clarke’s end, she was pretty sure she only stood marginally above Murphy.

She needed to say something.

Murphy laughed at something on the TV, and Clarke blinked back into the present and up at Murphy.  She was gorgeous, the grin stretching across her lips lighting up her face.  Fuck, why did Clarke have to meet her here?

She glanced away from the television, back down to Clarke, and made a face.  “What?”

Clarke opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her throat wouldn’t work.

Fuck it, she decided, and pushed herself up, her non-casted hand reaching to cup the back of Murphy’s neck, tugging her closer as she rose.

She felt Murphy’s breath hitch, and then one of her hands moved from Clarke’s hair to her back to help steady her, her eyes dropping to Clarke’s lips.

They were a hair’s breadth away when the door on the other side of the room banged open.

“Hey,” Zoe called, oblivious to the tension on the couch, to how close Clarke and Murphy still were.  “I’m gonna cook something up after I change.  Any requests?”

“No,” Clarke managed, her eyes still locked on Murphy’s.  The hand Murphy still had in her hair slipped down to her face, her fingers tracing along her cheek.

“How does lasagna sound?” Zoe asked, making her way across the room far too slowly.  “I make a mean lasagna.”

“Lasagna sounds great,” Murphy called, her voice breathless and high.

Zoe finally left, and Clarke sighed, leaning forward to press her forehead into Murphy’s shoulder.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.  “Not like this.”

She felt Murphy nod in agreement, and they sat there a few minutes longer before pushing to their feet.

The producer they found was Roan, and Clarke still wasn’t completely sure where he stood on the list of good producers to confess their feelings to.  But he listened as they spoke, arms folded across his chest and a single eyebrow raised.

“Well,” he finally said.  “We’ll have to decide how we’re going to handle this.”

That was definitely something that needed to be decided, no question, but apparently Roan needed to speak with people before he could actually make that decision and didn’t feel the need to give Clarke and Murphy any more actual information before sending them on their way.

“Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” he said.  “We’ll call you back when we have a decision.”

Clarke and Murphy agreed and started back to find Zoe and whatever progress she’d made on her lasagna.

They were almost back to the kitchen when Murphy grabbed her hand, tugging her into one of the smaller living rooms.

“What are you—”

She was cut off as Murphy’s lips pressed into hers, soft and gentle but insistent all the same, and so much better than she’d imagined.  There was probably a camera or two in the room, but Clarke didn’t think to care.  She pushed her fingers into Murphy’s hair, her casted arm wrapping around her back to tug her closer, and kissed her back like this was the only time it would ever happen.

They pulled back eventually, just enough to press their foreheads together, and Clarke could feel Murphy’s grin.

“I couldn’t not do that,” Murphy whispered, and Clarke nodded in agreement before leaning in to give Murphy one more quick kiss.

“Let’s go before Zoe comes looking for us.”

Everyone had returned from the group date by the time an intern was sent to fetch them for Roan.  They were ushered into one of the smaller rooms of the house, where not only Roan but Macallan and Nate Miller, the host, were waiting for them.

The decision was simple.  Macallan didn’t want to punish them, which was apparently within his rights as Bachelor.  He thought it was great that they were into each other, and claimed that that just made the decisions easier for him.

Nate Miller was also pretty cool with it.  It would bring up a lot of talking points for the finale, apparently.

Roan seemed to want some sort of fight to go down, but bowed to the decisions of the other two men, with an exception.

The kiss they’d caught was going to be framed as them being drunk.  There were a few other things they needed to film over the next few days to fill in parts of the story they were going to portray.

They got drunk.  They kissed.  They didn’t talk about it.

Until one of them confessed their feelings, asking the other to leave the show with them only to be rejected and leave alone because drama.

The other would follow in a while after realizing they were really in love with her and not Macallan, and they’d film a reunion where more feelings were confessed, and everybody lived happily ever after.

Clarke wasn’t completely on board with the plan, but it was a lot better than being sued or whatever else they could’ve theoretically done, so she couldn’t really complain.

It was decided that Clarke would be the one confessing because Murphy was predicted to be better for ratings, so Murphy was sent to join the others while Clarke filmed a few confessionals of herself ruminating on her feelings for her and deciding to confess.

It took a few takes for Murphy to reject her realistically enough for it to be believed, and then Clarke was in a limo being taken home.  Most of the others were out by the pool, and Clarke didn’t know what Murphy was going to tell them when they noticed, nor did she care.  The last take, the one that would be used, had ended in Clarke crying, and Roan encouraged her to keep the tears up as she piled into the limo with her things.

“I thought she’d say yes,” she told the cameras.  “I was just—I was so sure she felt the same way.  That kiss was just…I felt so much more with it than any of the times I’ve kissed Macallan.  I like her.  I really like her, and I thought she felt the same.  I don’t know—I just don’t know.”

Roan grinned at her.  “That’s a wrap,” he said, tapping on the glass between them and the driver, signalling to head back to the house so he could get out.  “I’ll be in touch when we know exactly when we’re coming to see you.”

They were all called down to one of the living rooms not long after she’d watched Roan return from Clarke’s limo, and Murphy settled herself into a chair slightly away from others.

“Where’s Clarke?” Harper asked, and Murphy sunk lower in her chair, silently accepting the glass of wine Echo offered.

Nate Miller came in then, standing in front of the group.

“Ladies,” he said, and they greeted him back.  “I’m sure you’re wondering where Clarke is, so I’m not going to make you wait.  For personal reasons, she’s decided to leave the competition.”

Murphy tuned Nate out as he continued, wondering if her face was schooled into the right proportions of disinterested and guilty for Roan to not make her sit in this chair so they could film her face again later.  There was a lot more acting involved in reality TV than she’d anticipated.

She tuned back in when Nate disappeared, and the others were talking over one another.

“What happened to Clarke?” Gina asked.  “Why would she leave?”

“She was talking on the phone with her clinic yesterday,” Zoe said.  “It sounded bad.  She definitely had to go back for a patient.”

“Has anyone even seen her today at all?” Harper asked.  “I heard a crash last night.  Maybe that was her.  Maybe she fell down the stairs and she’s in the hospital again.”

“We had breakfast this morning,” Echo said waving her off.  “She seemed nervous, though.  I thought she was just going to tell Macallan she loves him tonight.”

“Jane, what happened?” Raven asked, and Murphy’s head jerked up as she finally looked over at them, her eyes wide.  Everyone was staring at her.

“I don’t know why she left,” she snapped, pushing to her feet and downing what was left of her wine.

“But you’re her friend,” Harper pushed.  “She didn’t tell you?”

“I don’t know why she’s gone,” Murphy repeated, stalking towards the door.  “And it’s none of your business, either.”

Murphy hated being in the house without Clarke.  She was on good enough terms with the others that were left by now that any drama she caused was mostly petty stuff.  The boring stuff.

She admitted what happened to Macallan at the cocktail party that night, begging for a chance to stay, that she still wanted him.  She went on dates where she pretended she was falling in love, and filmed confessionals wondering how Clarke was doing, whether she was okay.

She made it to the final three, so much further than she’d ever thought she’d get on bitching and drama.  Only Gina and Raven were left, and while Murphy was pretty sure Gina was going to win, she was also pretty sure that either girl was a good fit for Macallan.

She made it through hometown dates, through her friends and grandmother meeting the man she was supposedly in love with.  She met his family, was just off enough that she was pretty sure they wouldn’t be disappointed when she left him for Clarke.

She made it to the final three, close enough to the end that she had to pretend to be interested in picking out dresses to wear for a theoretical proposal from Macallan, before Roan pulled her into confessionals.

“It’s time,” he said, and she sighed in relief.

She recorded a monologue, something she knew would be voiced over flashbacks to her and Clarke, shots of her in the limo and the plane, walking to wherever Clarke lived.

“I don’t know what I’m still doing here,” she said, staring into the camera.  “I don’t know why I didn’t leave with Clarke when she asked.  I guess I was scared.  Here, I had Macallan.  I liked him.  He likes me enough for me to have made it this far.  There were other girls here, sure, but it was still a secure thing.

“But Clarke.  Everything about her was a wildcard.  I like her.  I really like her.  I might be in love with her.  But it took her being gone for me to realize that she was the only thing keeping me here.”

She went on her next date with Macallan and told him she was leaving.  He acted shocked, tried to change her mind.  She apologized, squeezed his hand, told him she hoped they could still be friends.  He smiled at her, told her she had nothing to apologize for.

“It just makes my decision easier,” he said, like he’d said so many days before.  “I hope things work out for you.”

Clarke was shaking at the airport.  Roan hadn’t wanted them to see each other before they filmed their reunion, but if he’d really been serious, he shouldn’t have told her when their flight was supposed to get in.

She scanned the crowds again, hoping she hadn’t managed to miss them, and then she saw her.

“Murphy!” she yelled, and her head snapped in her direction, a grin stretching across her face.

And then they were running, and it was like they were in a movie.  The crowds parted, and Clarke threw her now cast-less arms around Murphy’s neck as they collided.

“You’re here,” she breathed between kisses.

“I’m here,” Murphy echoed, clutching her tightly like she never wanted to let go.  Clarke couldn’t say she would’ve minded if she never did.

“This is sweet,” Roan drawled, coming up behind Murphy with whatever camera operator he’d brought.  “It’s also not what we planned.”

“Fuck off, Roan,” Murphy snapped, even as she pressed kisses along Clarke’s jaw.  “We’ve got time to film it later.”

And they did.  They had nothing but time.

“Welcome to the Women Tell All.”

Clarke resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead taking delight in how she could poke Murphy in the back with her toe from her seat diagonally behind her and how she couldn’t do anything about it.

After Nate Miller finished addressing the crowd, he dove right into the good stuff.

“At the end of last week’s episode, we saw Jane M. realize she was really in love with Clarke and not Macallan,” Nate said, and Clarke’s lips jerked into a smile as the crowd whooped.  “And that reunion.  I’m sure we all have so many questions, so we’re going to start with the one I know everyone’s asking.  Clarke, how’s the arm?”

Clarke laughed, holding up her arm and wiggling her fingers.  “Good as new!”

“Great!” Nate grinned at her, leaning back in his seat.  “Now onto less pressing questions.  What has happened since Jane M. showed up at your apartment?  Are you still together?”

“We are,” Clarke confirmed, punctuating her statement with another poke to Murphy’s back.

Murphy turned around, grabbing her foot.  “Not for much longer if you keep kicking me.”

“She’s lying,” Clarke told Nate as the others laughed, wrinkling her nose at Murphy.  “She loves me.”

“Unfortunately,” Murphy sighed, but then leaned up so they could kiss.

“How did things go after we last saw you?” Nate prompted.

“Well,” Clarke started.  “We’re actually from the same city, which has been really convenient.  I’ve met her friends, she’s met mine.  It’s been great.”

It was great.  It was really great.  Clarke’s friends got along with Murphy’s friends, and they’d all kind of clumped into a group of mutual friends in the six months since they’d filmed their reunion.  Murphy’s friends still refused to pay up despite how she’d technically been the reason for Clarke deciding to leave the show, but she was still working on it.

The show continued.  Clarke and Murphy both spoke up when questions were directed at them, but Clarke was more than ready for the show to be over so she and Murphy could go back to their hotel room. 

They had plans with some of the others in the days between now and the filming of After the Final Rose the next week, and then it was time for them to finally leave the Bachelor behind.  At this point, even though she had absolutely no interest in marrying Macallan, she was jealous of Raven and Gina who didn’t have to be here for this episode and were probably eating chips in bed back at the hotel while they watched live.

They were definitely not wearing push-up bras or heels, though, that Clarke knew for sure.

Clarke smiled as Murphy tried to defend her position in one of her more drastic fights, and a flashing on the prompter caught her attention.  Nate Miller would have to start winding everything down soon before they ran out of time.

Murphy finished her statement with a sigh, sinking back into her seat, and Nate took back over.

Roan was waving from near one of the cameras, and nodded when he caught Clarke’s eye.

“Nate!” she called, cutting off whatever he was saying.  “Can I say something real quick?”

Nate granted her permission, and Clarke reached under her seat, her hand closing around a small box, before standing.

“Murphy,” she said, scooting past Zoe so she could round to the front of the stands they were seated on.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Murphy said, smirking at her.

Clarke had a speech she’d read over at Roan’s request before the show, but it was dumb and she forgot most of it anyway, so she decided she was going to wing it.

“I really didn’t expect anything to come from being on the Bachelor, but I got you, and that’s more than I could have hoped for.”  Murphy’s smirk was more of a grin now, and Clarke could tell that most of the audience had figured out what was happening.  “I love you more than anything, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

And, with that, she sunk onto a knee and opened the ring box.

One thing that Clarke had learned from being on the Bachelor was that reality TV involved a lot less reality than one would expect.

In actual reality, Clarke had proposed about a month ago, resulting in Murphy laughing and running to their room.  Clarke was still frozen on one knee in confusion when she returned, another engagement ring in hand.

In TV reality, Roan had taken one look at their rings and told them to take them off.  People loved on-screen proposals, apparently, and Clarke and Murphy getting engaged would definitely go over a lot better than Arie’s proposal to Lauren B. a few seasons back, which neither Clarke nor Murphy could really argue with.  They were nowhere near controversial enough for their engagement to be considered worse than the whole Arie saga.

Clarke took a deep breath, nervous all over again despite being pretty confident that Murphy wouldn’t reject this proposal after accepting it the first time.  “Will you—”

“Clarke,” Murphy interrupted, laughing.  She reached into the pocket of her sequined jumpsuit, pulling out another box, before climbing from her seat and sinking to a knee, opening it to reveal another ring.

Clarke laughed too.  “So is that a yes?”

“Hell yeah it is,” Murphy said, smirking back before leaning in to kiss her.

“Well, folks, we now know that at least one happy ending has come from this season of the Bachelor,” Nate said, addressing the crowd.  “Join us next week for the end of Macallan’s journey, and to find out whether he proposes to Raven or Gina.  Goodnight!”