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She shouldn’t have come.
She knew she shouldn’t have come. It’s not that Josephine and the rest of them have any more of a right to the Dropship as she does, but there’s strength in numbers, and Clarke definitely doesn’t have any numbers at this point.
She can feel their eyes on her back as she takes off her coat, shaking the snow from her hair, and sits stiffly at the bar. Her skin crawls, knowing she’s being watched.
It’s not fair, Clarke thinks, not that her opinion matters. She wants to look back at them and scream, I didn’t do it!, but of course Josie already knows that. Raven and Clarke’s coworkers, on the other hand, probably don’t.
They wouldn’t believe her, though. Not now. Not after everything.
She’s always suspected Raven had never fully forgiven her for the Finn fiasco in college, and here’s the proof, sitting blonde and small and pretty in Clarke’s old seat. She’s not even sure of the full content of the story she’s fed Clarke’s former friends, but it’s something about her and Josie’s ex Gabriel, an attending at Clarke’s hospital. Sex for better cases, or homewrecking, or maybe both. Josie’s got a creative streak.
And why not? It’s not the craziest thing Clarke’s been accused of over the years, not by a long shot.
It was her family’s fault. Abby used to be the Governor, and Clarke grew up as a sort of d-list celebrity because of it. There had always been rumors swirling: that she was on drugs, that her father was actually Abby’s chauffeur, that she was secretly part of a satanic cult.
When she went to college there were the nepotism rumors: that Abby donated a building to get her in, that Abby slept with Dean Kane to get her in, that Clarke slept with Dean Kane to get in. And throughout her four years at Ark U she was accused of a sexual liaison with just about every male professor or TA she had the misfortune of interacting with, at least up until she started dating Lexa and the media decided she was a lesbian. And god knows how that ended, with Lexa leaving her the minute Abby announced her retirement from politics. But she had her friends, and they didn’t listen to the tabloids.
And Clarke knows she should’ve been better about staying in contact during med school, but she’d been busy trying to prove herself. Ironically people cared even more about her last name there, but it was because she was the daughter of Abby Griffin, the surgeon, not the former Governor. Clarke swore off dating altogether after the third time she realized she was being used as an invite to her mom’s house.
So she jumped at the chance to do her residency in Polis, where most of her friends had stayed after college. Clarke expected it would be a little awkward, expected she wouldn’t just be able to slide back into her former social group like she hadn’t gone radio silent for almost four years.
What she didn’t expect, however, was Josie.
Not only did Josie infiltrate Clarke’s college friend group, she also was the source for hospital gossip. Everyone at the hospital knew Josie, it was impossible not to. And nearly everyone liked her, with the glaring exception of Clarke. She didn’t want to hate her, but it was hard not to resent being replaced within her own friend group.
The Clarke carbon-copy had put up with her presence at group hangouts for only a month before the rumors started. At first, it was impossible to tell where they were coming from. They claimed that Clarke was a bad doctor, that she was a social climber, that she was a terror to work with. But then the whispers started about her and Gabriel, and Clarke knew, just as she knows now that Josie is spinning some new lies about her to Raven and the third floor nurses.
Clarke can feel her stomach drop, eyes burning as she thinks of the things Josie could be saying. It’s not too late to leave, she thinks. She hasn’t ordered anything yet, she could fake a call, head out with her dignity still intact. She could—
A glass is placed in front of her with a heavy thump, and she looks up.
“I didn’t order this,” she says dumbly, as if Bellamy doesn’t already know.
He wipes his hands on a rag, leaning against the bar in front of her. “You looked like you needed it.”
“Thanks but—” Clarke grimaces, shifting awkwardly in her seat. “I was just about to leave.”
Bellamy frowns, forehead creasing in confusion. “What? You just got here.” His eyes shift to the table behind her, and something like understanding dawns on his face. “Ah, right.” He shakes his head, raising one eyebrow at Clarke. “You’re really gonna let her chase you off, huh, Princess?”
Clarke bristles. “I’m not—”
“One drink,” Bellamy says, pushing the glass towards her. He leans across the bar, his words low and quiet, just for her ears. “Don’t make me watch you give in so easily.”
Clarke reaches for the glass, and his responding grin is so disarming, she loses her train of thought. She takes a sip of the drink to cover it up, the alcohol settling warm in her belly
It’s sweet, and somehow spicy, with enough of a kick to burn a little as it goes down. “This is good,” she says, taking another sip. Bellamy looks back at her, amused, his dark eyes twinkling in the low light. “What is it?”
He shrugs, lips quirked up. “Don’t know. Trying something new.”
Clarke opens her mouth, unsure of how to respond, but someone down the bar calls for Bellamy. He gives her an apologetic smile, rapping his knuckles against the bar in front of her, and turns.
Clarke watches him, dumbfounded.
Bellamy has been an enigma, at least since she’s gotten back. Their relationship was never the most… friendly, if Clarke is to put it politely. She and her friends had been coming to the Dropship since they turned 21, officially, and unofficially since their first year of college. Octavia, Bellamy’s sister, introduced them to it, and Bellamy had begrudgingly accepted the constant presence of his underaged sister and her underaged friends with the tacit agreement that they were to keep their cool and leave if his boss ever showed up.
This all, of course, went out the window as soon as they could legally drink, and Bellamy had seen Clarke and her friends at their most sloppy more than once.
The Dropship wasn’t a nice bar by any means; calling it a dive would be a compliment. It had a rotating roster of local townies and naive college students, but it was mostly quiet. This meant that many times, Bellamy ended up hanging out more than working most of the time they’d been there.
He’d fit into their group pretty well, despite being first and foremost Octavia’s older brother. But he and Clarke had always clashed, ever since their first meeting where he’d looked her up and down and told her the bar she was looking for was on the next block, Princess .
They’d gotten used to each other over the years, though, their petty rivalry morphing into something closer to goodnatured teasing. Clarke had been appalled to realize, upon moving away, that she actually missed him, maybe more than anyone else. But that couldn’t be right, right? Because they were never friends, not really.
They hung out, because they shared friends, but it wasn’t like— not like Raven and Murphy, or Bellamy and Miller, or Monty and Jasper. They weren’t close.
And sure, there had always been some sexual tension between the two of them. Bellamy’s a good looking guy, always has been, and the way they parried words during arguments had always felt a little… like foreplay. Towards the end of Clarke’s time in Polis, they even hooked up a few times.
The first time, it had been in the bathroom of this very bar, something fast and dirty, their clothes coming off only enough to get their hands on each other, only enough to slot their hips together until they broke. The last time was after Clarke’s going away party, the night before she left. It was frantic, and rough, and hot, and he’d left before the sheets were dry, because that’s what they did.
They never talked about it, because it wasn’t anything big. It was just a natural progression, a way of letting off steam, so they weren’t at each other’s throats all the time. It was never a big deal.
Clarke never let it be, at least.
A few weeks ago, they’d done it again, drunkenly falling into bed after a night out. They’d been at a club with the others, and shared a cab home, the first time she’d really been alone with him since getting back to Polis. When Clarke turned to say goodbye, she saw that familiar look in his eyes, that dark want, and she tugged him out of the car with her, leading him up the stairs to her apartment.
Bellamy left in the middle of the night, kissing her on the lips and sliding from her bed. She watched him dress in the dark, the hard lines of his chest silhouetted by the lights of the city shining in through her windows behind him, and her thoughts went somewhere both proud and a little possessive, not that he’s ever been hers.
So it makes sense that he might flirt with her, or check her out, or even get a little jealous when rumors about her and other people started to fly.
But that’s not what this is, not anymore.
Ever since she’s gotten back, and especially since that night, he’s been soft, almost, in a way Clarke can’t make sense of. Nice.
He smiles at her often, and it reaches his eyes. He puts his hand on the small of her back as he passes behind her, once tucked a curl behind her ear when it had fallen out of her messy bun. And she can’t understand it, because— that’s not what they were. Even if she had missed him (Stockholm Syndrome, she insists stubbornly, Stockholm Syndrome and good sex), he certainly wouldn’t have missed her. He didn’t even like her. Right?
Bellamy catches her eye from across the bar and smiles, and Clarke realizes she’s been staring. Willing herself not to blush, she looks down at her drink, fidgeting with the straw.
And if he did like her— he wouldn’t now, shouldn’t now. Octavia may not have bought into Josie’s lies as much as Raven, but she didn’t exactly contradict them either. Bellamy must have heard them. He has to know. And if he doesn’t— she won’t be able to bear it when he stops looking at her like this, like she’s something good, something special. Something he wants.
Clarke hears a particularly sharp laugh from the table behind her and stiffens. She’s been here long enough for it to not be running, she thinks. She knocks back the rest of her drink and twists in her chair, fumbling for her purse behind her. Sliding a few bills onto the counter, she starts to pull her coat on.
A hand reaches out, landing warm on her upper arm, and she turns back to the bar. Bellamy’s eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes worried. “Hey, wait a sec,” he says. “I’ll make you another drink.”
“I—” Clarke feels eyes on the back of her head, and resists the urge to look behind her. “I only said I’d have one.”
Bellamy’s throat ticks. “Yeah, but—” He pulls his hand back and scrubs it over the back of his neck, ruffling through his hair. “I’m off in twenty. Just stay a little longer, have one more drink. I’ll walk you home.”
Clarke rolls her eyes. “I can get home on my own, Bellamy.”
“I know that,” he says, shrugging abashedly. “But it’s dark and it’s cold. It’ll make me feel better to know you got home safe.” Clarke fumbles for a reason why she shouldn’t, other than the glares she’s currently getting from across the room. “C’mon, Princess,” Bellamy urges, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Just twenty more minutes.”
“I—” She can’t seem to look away, something warm and soft fluttering in her belly. She swallows, nodding almost involuntarily. “Okay.”
He grins at her, his eyes crinkling in a way that makes Clarke’s heart stutter in her chest.
Oh. She likes him.
Clarke watches him as he pours her another drink, watching the bulge of his bicep as he mixes it in the shaker. Her throat goes a little dry, tracing the veins that line his forearm, the strong curve of his fingers.
She accepts the drink with a nod, not trusting the steadiness of her own voice.
The next twenty minutes are spent sipping her drink, her eyes following Bellamy as he makes his last orders and closes out people’s tabs in preparation for the end of his shift. Every so often he looks back at her and smiles, and Clarke’s cheeks redden. She’d like to blame it on the alcohol, but it’s him. Maybe it’s always been him.
She tries to pay for her drinks as he passes by, but Bellamy just shakes his head, pressing the bills back into her hand. “On the house,” he insists. “Call it a test run.”
Clarke wants to protest but something in his face tells her it wouldn’t work anyways, so she just nods, slipping the money back into her purse. “Fine.”
And before she knows it, his replacement is there, and Bellamy is standing at her shoulder, shrugging on his coat, a scarf draped loosely around his neck. Clarke stands quickly, pulling on her own coat and sliding her purse onto her shoulder.
“Ready?” Bellamy asks, his lips quirked up. He extends a hand towards her and Clarke takes it, her heartbeat racing. His hand is warm around hers, his fingers lacing through hers as he leads her through the bar.
“Bellamy!” Someone calls out behind them, and he winces, slowing to a stop.
Bellamy gives Clarke an apologetic look, pulling her close and stepping around front of her, shielding her slightly. He looks back towards the table Clarke’s been trying not to look at all night. “What, Josie? My shift’s over.”
“Just a piece of advice,” the blonde sniffs, her tone high and mighty. “You should be careful who you’re spending time with. Some people just aren’t… good.”
Bellamy’s lips tighten and Clarke flinches, trying to pull away. His hand tightens around hers. “You’re right,” he says, his voice sharp. Clarke looks up to see his eyes, hard as stone as he glares at Josephine. “Thanks for the tip.”
He drops Clarke’s hand and her stomach flips, certain that he’s realized his mistake, that he’s going to—
Bellamy slides his arm around her shoulders, turning her towards the door. “C’mon, Clarke.” His tone is soft, his fingers playing with the hair that falls over her shoulders. “Lets go.”
His arm falls away as they step through the doorway onto the street, and he stops, letting out a deep sigh. Bellamy shoves his hands in his pockets, breath visible in the cold night air. Clarke stands still, watching him nervously.
Bellamy looks up and catches her eye, deflating with a huff. “Sorry,” he says, grinning ruefully. “I didn’t mean to make you— I just really don’t like her.” He jerks his head down the street, looking back at Clarke. “You ready?”
Her heart stutters in her chest, something fragile stretching between them. A tentative smile curls across her lips and she nods, falling into step beside him.
Their arms brush as they walk side by side through the empty streets, snow falling softly around them. It’s quiet in the city tonight, too cold for anyone to be out this late without a reason. Bellamy’s presence is warm at her side, but Clarke shivers, pulling her coat tight as snow blows down her collar, melting against the skin of her chest.
“Hey, wait up.” Bellamy slows, tugging her gently to a stop.
Clarke looks back at him, confused, and he pulls the scarf from around his neck and wraps it around hers, his hands arranging it over her shoulders, gently lifting her hair from beneath it. He looks over his handiwork with a grin, hands smoothing over the scarf one last time. His fingers graze the soft skin of her throat as he tucks the end in, and Clarke sucks in a sharp breath, looking up at him with wide eyes.
His expression is— odd. She doesn’t recognize it. The smile falls from his lips, something else replacing it as his throat ticks, eyes intent on his scarf around her throat.
“Bellamy?”
His eyes flick up to hers, hands falling away from her neck. “Sorry,” he says. “Is that— better?”
Clarke nods, feeling off balance. “Yeah,” she agrees. It is; better, she means. The scarf is warm, and soft, and it smells like Bellamy. She swallows hard. “Thanks.”
They fall back into step, continuing down the block. They’re just a little bit closer now, arms not so much brushing as pressed together, and Clarke feels butterflies in her stomach.
She’s not used to this. After so many years of being wanted for her connections, for her name, she’s not had many opportunities for this kind of casual intimacy. She hasn’t trusted anyone enough for it.
But here’s Bellamy, and he’s known her for years. There’s nothing that she has that he could want. All of the things she’s classically been used for, the things that draw people to her, are the things that initially drove them apart. And yet, he’s here, walking her home and—she catches his eyes on her, soft and sweet—looking at her like that .
She lets her fingers brush against the back of his hand where it falls next to her, and he catches her hand in his, lacing their fingers together the way he had in the bar in front of everyone. In front of Raven, and Josie.
Like he doesn’t mind being seen with her, even with all the rumors swirling. Clarke’s lips curve up, her cheeks warm and bright.
They don’t talk as they walk together, hand in hand, but it’s comfortable. It feels— right , somehow, in a way Clarke can’t begin to explain.
All too soon, they reach Clarke’s apartment, stopping together at the bottom of the stairs. Clarke turns to face him, their fingers still linked.
“Thank you,” she offers, “For walking me home. It was nice to— It was nice. I—” Clarke hesitates, scared of the admission on her tongue. Scared of the fragile thing between them, scared to press too hard, in case it breaks. “I missed you. When I was away.”
“I missed you, too, Princess.” Bellamy swallows, the hand not laced with hers coming up to stroke her hair away from her face. “I, uh— I like you, if you couldn’t tell.” He smiles shyly. “I’ve always liked you.”
“Oh.” Clarke blinks, warmth spreading through her chest. The full meaning of his words slowly sifts through her hazy brain. “Wait, that’s not true. We weren’t even friends.”
His hand on her face freezes. “What?”
“Well— we weren’t. I mean I know we— but we fought all the time. You couldn’t—”
Bellamy frowns. “Clarke, we watched the entirety of Battlestar Galactica together in my living room. You made me a birthday cake even though I said not to, I drove you home from the dentist that time you got a root canal. What in the world would you call that?”
Oh, Clarke thinks. Right.
“Do you, uh—” Clarke’s tongue darts out, wetting her lips. Her eyes stay locked on his. “Do you want to come up?”
This is something she’s familiar with, something she’s comfortable with. Bellamy wanting her like that— it isn’t new.
But he shakes his head, expression slightly pinched. “Not tonight, Princess.”
“Oh,” Clarke says shortly. Her cheeks flare with embarrassment and she turns. “I’ll just—”
She takes one step up the stairs, trying to tug her hand out of his, but Bellamy holds tight. “Clarke,” he says, and she bites her lip, turning slowly back to face him.
Bellamy lets go of her hand and steps in close, face still just a little above hers even with the added height of the step. His hand finds her chin, tilting her face up so he can press his lips to hers, cold and soft and sweet.
And it’s perfect: the snow falling around them, the street quiet and dark, his fingers curled around her jaw, his scarf wrapped around her neck. Their mouths are hesitant in a way they’ve never been before, slow and tender, like it all could stop at any second. It’s scary, and it’s fresh, and it’s more, and it’s— delicate.
“I like you,” he says against her lips, and this time, she believes him. “Is that okay?”
Clarke nods, her eyes shut tight, feeling his body warm against hers. Her fingers tangle in his coat, pulling him closer.
“Yeah,” she breathes, and kisses him softly. Bellamy wraps an arm around her back, his hand splaying wide against her spine.
They kiss until her hair is coated with snow, and she can’t help but shiver.
“You should go inside,” Bellamy whispers, not pulling back at all.
Clarke nods and steps away, her eyes wide, lips swollen and pink. “See you soon?”
“Yeah.” Bellamy’s voice is low and rough, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.
She gives him one last long look and turns, walking the rest of the way up the steps to the door. She hesitates with her keys by the lock.
“Bellamy!” Clarke calls, and he turns back to look at her, snowflakes coating his shoulders, catching in his eyelashes. Her heart beats fast, fluttering like the butterflies in her stomach. “I didn’t say it back before, but I like you too. A lot.”
The moment stretches out long between them, something new and something precious building in the cold night air.
A slow smile curls across his lips, warm and right and all Bellamy, just like Clarke wants. Just like she’s wanted.
“Goodnight, Princess.”