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To look at Clarke as she walks up to Raven’s front door, no one would guess that she’d been locked in combat with Arkadia’s resident supervillain only half an hour ago. It’s one of her non-superhuman skills that she’s developed over the years—making herself look presentable in a short amount of time. That, and acting like she’s been doing boring administration work all day, and not saving the life of Josephine Lightbourne, daughter of billionaire oil exec, Russell Lightbourne, and only heir to his fortune.
Raven opens the door, and Clarke smiles brightly, like she’s not totally exhausted from having the shit kicked out of her by her nemesis, Crixus. She’s bested him a number of times, though never to the point of being able to bring him into custody, but today it looked like he had her beat. That is, until he’d abruptly stopped mid battle, cursing to himself as he fled the scene. Clarke was able to free Josephine and return her to her father, with twenty minutes to spare before Raven and Murphy’s housewarming party.
Clarke holds up a bottle of wine. “Happy housewarming!” she says. Raven grins, taking the bottle of wine as she pulls Clarke into a hug.
“You made it,” she says. “Thought that hard-ass boss of yours might make you work late again.”
“She’s not that bad,” Clarke says, following Raven inside.
“You work late more often than not—like some stupid filing or something can’t wait until the next day?”
“Uh huh,” Clarke says, forcing herself not to roll her eyes. Of course, Raven has no idea of what Clarke really does. No clue about Clarke’s super-human strength, or her lightning quick reflexes, or her ability to fly.
No, Clarke Griffin is an entirely separate entity to her alter-ego, Lioness, according to most of the world, including her closest friends. The only people who know Lioness’s true identity are her boss, Charmaine Diyoza, and her mom, for emergency contact purposes. Sure, Clarke can take a hit better than most, and she heals faster than the average human, but she’s not indestructible. Plus, her mom has known of Clarke’s abilities since she was three-years-old, and would likely be able to guess who Lioness was even in her costume.
There’s only one other person who knows her true identity, other than Diyoza and her mom, and it’s the worst possible person who could have that information—none other than Crixus himself. But since she knows his true identity as well, they seem to have some kind of unspoken agreement that neither will reveal the other’s real name, or hold it over their head as leverage. It seems Clarke’s nemesis isn’t completely without honour.
Raven leads Clarke into the house, towards the kitchen. There’s an array of salads on the counter, and the timer on the oven is ticking down, close to going off. Perhaps Clarke isn’t as on time as she thought she was.
“Okay, I know you said you didn’t want to be set up—”
“Raven,” Clarke groans, already anticipating the end to her friend’s sentence. “Please tell me you didn’t.” She really doesn’t have time to date right now, what with constantly having to stop Crixus from taking his next victim. And even if she did, the whole relationship would be based on lies, seeing as Clarke isn’t exactly about to tell someone her real profession on the first date.
Raven opens the fridge and finds a place for the wine in the door. “It’s not exactly a set up. He’s a friend of Murphy’s, and we were inviting him anyway, and I just thought you should know he’s single, and probably your type.”
“You don’t know my type.”
“He’s hot, isn’t that your type?”
Clarke rolls her eyes. “At least tell me you didn’t tell him I’m single.”
“Can’t tell you that.”
“You made me look desperate, didn’t you? I know you did.”
Raven shrugs. “He’d figure it out within two seconds of meeting you anyway. The desperation just kind of radiates off you.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Shall we go and make the introductions?”
Clarke exhales dramatically. “Let’s get it over with.”
Raven looks a little too pleased with herself as she leads Clarke through to the living room, where the other guests, and Raven’s husband, Murphy, are standing around, drinking and chatting. Jasper and Maya, Monty and Harper, and then a stranger. Except, when he turns his head, almost as if in slow motion, he’s not a stranger at all. He’s all too familiar. A face she’s only seen once before without his mask—Crixus. Clarke’s stomach drops.
For a moment she feels sick—did he follow her here? Did he find out who her friends are and infiltrate the group so he can somehow do something worse than just give her a concussion? But no—unless he’s a much more skilled actor than he ever let on, he’s just as surprised to see her as she is to see him. His mouth drops open as he pauses mid-sentence, and he looks like he’s half a second from fleeing the room. He doesn’t, though.
“Clarke, this is—” Raven starts, stopping when she sees Clarke’s stunned expression, and Bellamy’s matching one. “Do you know each other?” she frowns.
“No,” both of them say at the same time, both as vehement as the other, both realising if they admit to knowing each other, they’ll have to explain how.
“This is Bellamy,” Raven finishes, though she seems sceptical. “Bellamy, this is my friend Clarke.”
Bellamy clenches his jaw, his surprise morphing into something a little more heated—Clarke can only assume it’s hatred. But he holds out his hand anyway, and Clarke takes it, noticing, not for the first time, how warm his skin is. His thumb brushes over hers as he pulls his hand away, and it’s alarmingly intimate for someone who tried to kill her less than an hour ago.
“Nice to meet you,” Clarke says politely, though inside she wants to squeeze his hand until it breaks. Except, superhuman strength is an ability they both possess, and he could just as easily crush her hand right back.
“Likewise,” Bellamy says, and it almost sounds like he means it.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Murphy says. “So get your asses into the dining room. Give me a hand will you, Reyes?”
Clarke doesn’t look at Bellamy as they head to the dining room as instructed, side by side. She can feel him steadfastly not looking at her either. There’s a rigid tension between them, and Clarke can feel her loathing simmering just under her skin. She balls her hands into fists to keep it from bursting out of her.
She’s aware of the others talking and laughing, unaware of her torturous situation, but the words are distant and unintelligible to her. She can focus on nothing but Bellamy, walking casually next to her, as if he hadn’t had her pinned to the floor earlier this evening, a kidnapped heiress tied up next to them.
Last into the dining room, and with the heads of the table being obviously reserved for the hosts, Clarke is forced to take her seat right across from Bellamy, which means she’ll have to spend all night looking at his stupidly handsome face.
He stiffens as her knee knocks against his. She quickly jerks away, swallowing thickly. She’s not sure why her heart is racing. It’s not like he can try anything here, not surrounded by her friends, unless he wants to reveal himself.
Murphy and Raven bring in the food, and Raven sits at the head of the table, between Bellamy and Clarke, while Murphy sits at the other end.
“Looks great,” Monty says.
“Dig in,” Murphy says. “And no need to hold back on the compliments.”
“Your head is big enough already,” Raven snorts. Their bickering continues, and Clarke tunes out again. Bellamy reaches towards her to grab a bread roll from the basket in front of her, and her hand curls instinctively around her knife. She glances up at him, and she can see he hasn’t missed the subtle action. He raises an eyebrow at her, a smirk playing on his lips, as if to say really? You’re going to stab me? Here?
Clarke loosens her grip, realising she’s being ridiculous, and if she doesn’t relax, she’s going to give herself away.
“You going to eat something or what, Griffin?” Murphy says. “It’s not poison.”
“Yeah,” Clarke says, her voice coming out a little hoarse. She clears her throat. “Sorry, just deciding. It all looks so good.”
“Was that a compliment?” Murphy teases. “A far cry from if you ever hurt my friend I will little crush your skull with my bare hands.”
“You’ve proven yourself to be worthy so far,” Clarke shrugs.
“Not saying you’re not tough, Clarke,” Jasper says. “But crushing his skull with your bare hands? If you want your threats to actually be intimidating, maybe try being realistic.”
Someone snorts out a laugh, and it takes Clarke a moment to realise it’s Bellamy. Of course, he’s the only one who knows exactly how capable of crushing someone’s skull she is.
“Something funny?” she asks him acidly.
“Nope,” he says, but his smile doesn’t drop. “Here, have a bread roll. You need to keep your strength up if you’re going around crushing skulls.”
He’s teasing her. And not in a nasty, malicious way. He’s teasing her like they’re friends. Like they’re the only ones in on the joke, which they are, but they’re definitely not friends. How can he be so cavalier? They’re mortal enemies. They’ve spent two years battling each other, trying to take the other down.
He drops a bread roll on her plate, then passes her the potato salad. She almost declines just to spite him, but she actually does want potato salad, so she snatches the bowl from his hands, glaring at him the whole time.
He’s not allowed to be nice to her. It reminds her of the last time he was nice to her, and that makes her stomach feel all weird, makes her start questioning things, and she doesn’t like that at all.
“I can get my own food, thanks,” Clarke snaps. Raven shoots her a look that says be nice, while everyone else eats their meals, awkwardly pretending not to notice Clarke’s outburst.
“Wow, this chicken is amazing,” Harper says. “Great job, Murphy.” As if this wasn’t already the most awkward, terrible dinner party of all time.
“What have you been up to lately, Clarke?” Monty asks. “It’s been a while.”
Clarke glances at Bellamy, who now seems overly focused on the food on his plate, though if she’s not mistaken, he’s still smiling to himself. He really thinks this whole thing is funny.
“Mostly just working,” Clarke says with a shrug.
“What do you do for a living?” Bellamy asks her. She glowers at him.
“Administration.”
“For who?”
“None of your business.”
Maya interjects before Bellamy can push her further. “What about you, Bellamy? What do you do?”
His eyes don’t leave Clarke. “I’m a librarian.” Clarke rolls her eyes. A suitably boring job that no one will want to ask more about—same as Clarke’s excuse for a job.
“So, Bellamy,” Clarke says, and she swears he actually flinches. “How do you and Murphy know each other?”
“Poker,” Bellamy says swiftly.
“Poker?” Clarke repeats scornfully. Of course he plays poker—and he probably wins almost every hand, one of his talents being his silver tongue, able to convince anyone of anything. Though curiously, it doesn’t work on Clarke. She’s put it down to some kind of superpower immunity.
“It’s a card game.”
“I know what poker is.”
“So which part didn’t you understand?”
“Seriously, do you two know each other?” Raven asks suspiciously.
“No,” they say in unison, not taking their eyes from each other. The heat between them is palpable, and Clarke gets a sudden flash of him on top of her, an hour earlier, when, for a moment, she’d been sure he was going to kiss her. And, she’s ashamed to admit, some traitorous part of her wanted him to.
“Let’s play fuck, marry, kill,” Jasper suggests.
“At a dinner party, really?” Maya scolds.
“Fuck, marry, kill—Trump, Obama, Clinton,” Murphy says, aiming his question at Jasper.
“Which Clinton?”
“You pick.”
“Kill Trump, obviously. Marry Obama, fuck Clinton. That’s for either Clinton, by the way. Try something harder next time.”
“Okay, okay,” Raven says. “This one is for everyone, because I’m curious—and I was just reading an article about them before—Crixus, Red Queen, Lioness.”
“What was the article?” Clarke asks.
“Did you see they kidnapped someone else this afternoon?” Harper says, eyes wide. “Another heiress, apparently.”
“She was returned unharmed,” Maya adds. “I don’t know if Crixus got the money he was after though.”
“He didn’t,” Clarke says, shooting Bellamy a triumphant grin. He gives her a look of distaste. He’s not finding it so funny now.
“So? Fuck, marry, kill?”
“Fuck Crixus, marry Lioness, kill Red Queen,” Monty says.
“I wouldn’t fuck Crixus if my life depended on it,” Clarke says haughtily.
“No, you should definitely fuck Lioness,” Bellamy says, which is basically just a fancy way of telling her to go fuck herself. He’s looking all smug, like he thinks he’s incredibly witty. Of course, no one else gets the joke.
“Can we change one of them?” Clarke says. After all, Crixus and Red Queen have both tried to kill her, and Red Queen almost succeeded. The only reason she didn’t is because, well—Clarke doesn’t want to think about that.
“Fine. Crixus, Lioness, and Spacewalker,” Raven amends.
“Fuck Spacewalker, marry Lioness, kill Crixus. Easy,” Clarke says, pleased with herself.
“I’d kill Spacewalker,” Bellamy says. “That guy is a poor excuse for a hero.”
“Fuck Crixus, definitely fuck Crixus,” Raven says. “He’s hot as hell in that gladiator outfit.”
“Sure,” Bellamy agrees easily.
“Which means you have to marry Lioness,” Clarke points out, to antagonise him, mostly. But to her surprise, he actually blushes.
“Would you rather me fuck her?” he says, despite his obvious embarrassment, and then it’s Clarke’s turn to blush. She so doesn’t want to think about that. What it would be like to have him touch her like that. She feels hot all over, and she quickly crosses her legs, feeling a throb between them that she’d like to ignore.
“I doubt she’d have you,” Clarke sneers.
“It’s weird that neither of them have killed each other yet,” Jasper says. “Like, how often do we have to read about them fighting each other? You’d think one of them would have got the winning shot in by now. Even if it was just an accident.”
Clarke swallows, and she can feel Bellamy’s eyes on her, though she refuses to meet them. Only he knows how close it had come for her.
“I think it’s all staged,” Murphy says. “They just like the buzz around their names. They probably decide who’s going to win before each battle.”
“It’s not wrestling,” Clarke huffs. “Perhaps they’re just evenly matched.” She glances at Bellamy, and he seems just as affronted by Murphy’s accusation as she is.
“I think they get off on it,” Raven says. “They probably go home after each fight and fuck each other’s brains out.”
Clarke’s mouth drops open, and the tips of Bellamy’s ears turn red.
“I’ve read fanfiction about it,” Maya admits.
“Okay, but who do you think will win in the end?” Jasper asks. “They can’t go on like this forever.”
“Crixus,” Murphy says with a shrug. “He’s the one kidnapping people, right? Lioness is never going to kill him. She’s probably under orders to capture him and bring him in so the government can do whatever it is they do with supervillains. Whereas he clearly has no morals.”
“I think if he wanted her dead, she’d be dead,” Bellamy says gruffly. He looks to Clarke, and suddenly she can’t take it anymore. Tears prick at her eyes, though she couldn’t for the life of her explain why.
She stands up, abruptly, and all eyes land on her. “I—have to pee,” she says, then hastily exits the room, towards the bathroom, as her tears start to spill silently down her face.
She can’t stop thinking about it. About him cradling her in his arms as she bled out onto the asphalt, her stomach sliced open. How sure she was in that moment she was going to die, because when you’re the hero, who else is left to come and save you?
His voice, so vivid, as everything else went dark and blurry.
“Fuck, Red. Get out of here.”
Red Queen’s voice answered him.
“I thought this was what you wanted! You asked me to help you. If she’s dead you won’t have anything stopping you. What’s the problem?”
“No one was supposed to die!”
“Well, you’re fucking welcome. Ask someone else to help you next time, big brother.”
The sound of Red Queen’s heavy footfalls retreated into the night, Clarke trying to follow her blurry figure with her eyes, but ultimately letting them close as it became harder to breathe, as the pain started to fade, her body having no use for it anymore.
“Hey,” Crixus’s voice cut through her haze of self-pity, of her looming death.
“I guess you win,” she’d croaked out. “Congratulations.”
“Don’t you dare die on me.” Was it supposed to be a command? It sounded more like a desperate plea.
“What are you going to do? Save me?”
“If I have to.”
Her last memory of that night is of him lifting her from the ground, her head lolling back, her eyes closing, unable to keep them open any longer. Not embracing death, exactly, but accepting it. Even though she’d never expected it to end that way—somehow she had it in her head that he never meant to harm her, not seriously anyway.
She’d woken in a crisp white hospital bed the following afternoon, her golden lioness suit and mask gone, replaced with a hospital gown, her head pounding worse than her worst hangover. Her mom had come in a few minutes later, as Clarke gulped down the water left by her bed, and burst into tears the moment she saw her daughter.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Abby had sobbed, arms around her daughter. “Don’t worry, no one knows your true identity. He made sure of it.”
“He?” Clarke swallowed, though she already knew the answer.
“Crixus. He did that thing—talked everyone into believing they never saw the costume.”
Her mom had left then, needing to get back to her rounds, leaving Clarke to process what had happened. Crixus not only saved her life, but he made sure he protected her identity too? It didn’t make any sense.
Even more nonsensical was his appearance in her hospital room, not twenty minutes later. She knew it was him instantly, though he wore no mask, and just plain jeans and a henley, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Words had failed her, perhaps partly because of her unquestionable attraction to him in that moment, but mostly because of her shock at him being there at all. She didn’t even have it in her to be scared of him.
“You’re okay,” he said.
“What are you doing here—how did you—” she stopped. How was a stupid question—he can talk his way into anywhere. “How did you know to bring me here?” she asked him instead.
“You told me to.” He stepped further into the room then, and picked up the chart on the end of her bed. “Clarke Griffin,” he’d whispered, reading aloud. His eyes met hers. “Griffin. Part lion, part eagle.”
“Get. Out.” Clarke had said icily. To know her face was one thing—to know her name was something else entirely. He’d stolen something from her, something she never wanted to give him, and now he had the upper hand.
To his credit, he looked guilty as he nodded, replacing the chart and retreating from the room. His last words as he paused in the doorway were, “Bellamy Blake.”
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, jolting Clarke out of her memory. She looks up from the sink, into her pale reflection.
“Clarke?” It’s his voice. Clarke loathes the sound of it, because she can’t stop thinking about how he sounded as he held her in his arms and told her not to die. Like he cared. It’s the first time she’s heard him say her name out loud since the day he found out what it was. It’s altogether too intimate, the way he says it, so hesitant, so full of meaning. Yet what the meaning is, Clarke can’t put her finger on.
She wrenches the door open and pulls him into the bathroom, before slamming it closed again.
“What are you doing here?” she hisses.
“I told them I had to make a phone call—”
“No, what are you doing here? In this house. At the dinner party. Are you stalking me?”
Bellamy looks aghast. “No. I had no idea you’d be here. Murphy and I really do play poker together.”
Clarke looks up at him, concern etched across his face. God, he really is the most magnificent looking man she’s ever seen. His lips look so soft, his freckles disarmingly adorable. And why do his eyes have to be so brown? Why does he have to be so beautiful, and so fucking charming, and most of all why does he seem to care about her?
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Clarke shakes her head. “Stop it. Stop acting like you care. Not an hour ago you were ready to choke the life out of me, and now you’re asking me if I’m okay? Is this some kind of sick game to you?”
“It’s not a game,” Bellamy snaps. “I actually do care.”
“Right,” Clarke snorts. “You care about money. About power I guess, about notoriety? For Crixus at least, if not Bellamy fucking Blake. You don’t care. You’re pure evil.”
Bellamy’s jaw ticks. “You really think I’m the villain, don’t you?”
“Of course you are! You fucking kidnap people, and demand ransoms in exchange for their lives.”
“Did you ever think—”
“You named yourself after the cloud of toxic smoke in Ferngully for crying out loud!” Clarke continues. “Is that not a clue that you’re the bad guy?”
“I—what?” he frowns for a moment, genuinely confused. And then he actually laughs. “Ferngully? Clarke, that’s Hexxus.”
Really? That’s the part he’s going to focus on? “Whatever,” she huffs. “You still literally kidnap people.”
He gets that annoyed look on his face again. Clarke supposes even villains don’t like getting called out on their shit. She purses her lips at him.
“Why didn’t you let me die?”
“What?”
“Red Queen was right. You could have let me die, and all your problems would be solved. Who the fuck else would bother to stand up to you? Spacewalker? He’s pathetic.”
Bellamy gives a half laugh. “Yeah, he is. Still, you’re the one who claimed you’d fuck him.”
“Answer the question.”
Bellamy studies her, perhaps searching for the right words. “This shouldn’t come as a shock to you, since it’s not the first time you’ve heard it. But I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to hurt you at all, but since you’re fucking relentless, and somehow immune to my power of coercion, sometimes it has to come to that.”
Clarke shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”
“I know you think what I’m doing is evil. But it’s not like I’m kidnapping innocent people, Clarke. I’m kidnapping billionaires. People with so much money they don’t know what to do with it. They just hoard it, when they could be helping people. And if kidnapping a spoilt kid once in a while is what I have to do to get some of it off their hands and into the hands of someone who could actually use it, then I’ll do it.”
Clarke gapes at him. Somehow he’s tilted her whole world upside down in the span of a few seconds. “You—you donate the money?” she says faintly.
“You think I’m just hoarding millions of dollars in my evil lair or something?”
“I mean—kind of. Yeah. How do make money then?”
“I really am a librarian.”
“Oh.”
He shakes his head, a sad kind of smile on his face. “I’m not what you think I am, Clarke,” he whispers. Her stomach flips over at the way he says her name.
“No, you’re a regular Robin Hood,” she says. “But—why don’t you just use your powers to convince them to donate money themselves? You don’t have to resort to kidnapping.”
Bellamy sighs. “I’ve tried it, Clarke. You know what happens when a billionaire starts donating millions of dollars of their own accord? People start praising them. Idolising them. They forget all the horrible things these people have done, forget that they don’t actually care. No, it has to be done by force. I want them to be scared. Not worshipped. They don’t deserve that.” He pauses. “Plus, do you know how hard it is to get a billionaire to talk to you if you’re someone like me?”
“Someone like you?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Poor.”
“Oh.” He keeps leaving her speechless. She’s misjudged him—and part of her feels like she can’t totally blame herself, but it still makes her feel guilty. She still doesn’t agree with his methods. But he’s not completely evil.
“I don’t want to fight you anymore.” His voice is so soft, Clarke half thinks she imagined it.
“So what do you want?”
He licks his lips, eyeing her nervously. “I want you to join me,” he whispers. “God, think of what we could do if we worked together.”
Her heart is pounding. The thought of them taking on the world together, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, just like in the stories she read when she was a kid. She can’t deny there’s a thrilling appeal to it—the two of them, notorious outlaws, champions of the people, righting wrongs, fighting injustice, regardless of what the law says.
But no—she can’t condone kidnapping, let alone take part in it herself. Doesn’t matter how honourable the outcome. The ends don’t justify the means.
She shakes her head. “I can’t,” she says, her voiced laced with regret. Because she truly does wish they could work together. But he’s never going to be satisfied with just catching murderers and rapists—he wants something bigger. Clarke gets it, she really does. But what she does is noble too.
“I know,” Bellamy says sadly. His eyes are full of sorrow, and yet she can still feel heat in them too. She flushes under his gaze, her eyes dropping to his lips, then hastily to the floor before he can notice. There’s no way he’s thinking about kissing her too. It’s not passion for her that she can feel radiating from his body—it’s passion for the subject at hand.
“We should get back to the table before someone misses us.”
Bellamy nods. “You go first.”
It takes her a moment. Something holds her back, some reluctance to leave things like this. But she forces her feet to move, and she heads for the door. Her arm brushes against his as she passes him, and then she feels his fingers curl around her wrist.
“Clarke, wait,” he says huskily, tugging her back, and then his lips are on hers, urgent, frantic, bruising, like he’s afraid this might be the only chance he’ll get. And knowing that he’s right, Clarke kisses him back, just as desperately, clinging to him as his large hands slide to her waist, gripping her tightly.
She moans against his lips, his tongue in her mouth, and they stumble back against the sink, bodies glued to each other. God, she wants him.
A crash from the dining room is what brings them to their senses, and the break apart, both breathing heavy, his forehead pressed against hers, his hands still on her waist, thumbs stroking her absently through her dress.
He swallows. “I’m sorry.” He opens his eyes, stepping away from her. His lips are red and swollen, and Clarke knows hers will be just the same. She rubs her thumb across her bottom lip, still feeling the lingering effects of his kiss. “I just—I really had to know what that felt like. Just once.”
“It’s okay,” Clarke says. She straightens, smoothing down her dress with her shaking hands.
They say nothing else to each other before Clarke walks out of the bathroom, and back to the dining room, where Murphy is cleaning up the remnants of a china bowl, and a pile of pasta salad.
“What did I miss?” Clarks asks, sliding back into her seat.
“Jasper is a clumsy fucker,” Murphy mutters. “Where’s Bellamy?”
“How should I know?” Clarke sniffs haughtily.
When he returns five minutes later, he doesn’t even bother sitting down. “I have to go,” he announces, and Clarke feels her stomach drop. He gives her a regretful look. She knows he’s leaving because of her. Truthfully, it would be hard for her to sit across from him for the rest of the night after their encounter in the bathroom. Harder than when she hated him, even.
“You barely ate anything,” Murphy complains. “And there’s dessert.”
“Sorry. I just—I’m not feeling great. Thanks for inviting me though.”
“Whatever. I’ll see you at poker, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees. He looks to Clarke. “I’ll see you around.” It’s vague enough that it could be directed at anyone, but Clarke knows it’s for her. She hopes her eyes say what she cannot—I hope you do.