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It happens so smoothly Clarke almost doesn’t notice.
Her abandonment, that is.
It’s hard to say, in the end, what the last straw is. Maybe it’s her continued professional partnership with Lexa, despite her betrayal of both Octavia and Clarke herself. Maybe it’s her public fight with Murphy, or the way she loses her shit at the New Years party.
But then again, maybe it’s just Clarke.
She’s always been— a lot, ever since she was little. Driven to succeed, stubborn as a bull, single-minded to the point of recklessness. She’s not good at casual, not good at easy. She oversteps, and oversteps often. It’s just how she is.
And some part of her knows that—has always known that— it’s a problem. That she’s not like other people, that her brain works differently. But it’s the only way she knows how to be. And the only way she knows how to be useful.
Not that usefulness is really a quality people look for in a friend. Maybe that’s part of the problem.
Regardless, it serves her well in her line of business. Despite vowing not to become like her mother, Clarke had sort of— fallen into politics, so to speak.
Well, as much as one can fall into a lobbying firm.
She just— she was fresh out of school, and bright eyed and idealistic, and just so tired of watching everyone fuck it up. So she thought, maybe if she was there, maybe— maybe she wouldn’t.
It was an awful job, honestly. Long hours, horrible benefits, fine pay but also the absolute most frustrating work in the world. The only thing that made it bearable really was the team.
Clarke was the newbie in the group. She knew some of the others from school, or from horrible galas with her mother, but they knew each other much better than she knew them, and Clarke’s reputation in Washington had never been the most…kind. Even so, they welcomed her into their group with open arms.
Well, all of them except Bellamy.
With him it took— longer, for Clarke to gain his respect. He resented the way she came in with no experience, resented her connections, resented her personality and shiny blonde hair and expensive clothes. And that was fine with Clarke, because she resented his nasty attitude and giant ego and the way his smirk distracted her in meetings.
They mutually resented each other until they were forced to work together, and then suddenly it was a match made in heaven. Their conflicting styles worked a little too well together, and by the time the project was finished they had enough begrudging respect for each other to celebrate with drinks.
“You’re not as bad as I expected, you know that, princess?” Bellamy drawled, eyes glinting at her over his signature smirk, the one that always threw her off in meetings.
“You’re just as bad as I expected,” Clarke shot back. She grinned, fingers curling around her glass. “I can’t say I hate it.”
They liked each other just fine after that. A lot, really. They worked together where they could, and hung out where they couldn’t. They still fought, constantly, but Clarke could always count on him to be there when she needed. There were definitely some feelings there, mutually, or so she hoped, but for the sake of work she kept it friendly. And besides, she liked to look at him.
Most projects were too much to run solo, so the firm worked as a team a lot. Some meetings they’d do on their own, but the prep work was too involved, and each of them had their own passion project, their own cause that drew them to the job in the first place. All of them except Clarke of course, whose cause was mostly that she’d seen the inside of the room and seen it was rotten.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it was that her idea of idealism was tempered by her experience with politics through her mother, or through her father’s highly politicized death. But she just— she can’t approach things the same way the others do. And it ends up causing problems.
Clarke may not be able to identify the last straw for most of them, but she can pinpoint the beginning of the end down to the day.
It was mid-October, at a gala, when she overheard Abby speaking to Thelonius. Clarke would’ve thought her mom would be proud, having her daughter follow in her footsteps, but it never seems to be enough.
“It was fine,” Abby said, “for a starter job. But Clarke isn’t a child anymore. She needs to really start focusing on her future. Really, what’s a firm like that going to do for her?”
Clarke bristled, her fingers clenching around the stem of her champagne glass. She gave the person she was pretending to listen to an understanding nod, ears straining to hear the conversation behind her.
Thelonius asked a question, something about an election run, or law school; Clarke didn’t quite catch it.
“I don’t know,” replied Abby.”But she should at least transfer to a larger firm. The only reason that one’s gotten anything through is because of you, me, and Marcus.”
When Thelonius mentioned her dad’s name, Clarke politely excused herself to the washroom to seethe in private.
After that, Clarke went from focused and driven to ruthless. She refused to get anywhere near her mother or her mother’s allies, even if they’re the best target for a proposition. Because politics was still a game of connections, this forced her to lean more heavily on her other ins, namely Lexa. The other people she knows she doesn’t know as well, which made it harder for her to push amendments and propositions, meaning she started making concessions she previously wouldn’t.
It turns into a near obsession, her focus on work growing unhealthy. When she does go out, she drinks too much, picks fights. It shouldn't be a surprise, really, that her friends leave her.
The first thing to go silent is the groupchat. Clarke goes from getting 30 messages an hour to 30 messages a day, to even less. With the groupchat goes after work drinks and weekend plans, which Clarke has been too busy to attend lately anyways. But the bigger plans, things they’ve talked about as a group for months— that Clarke notices. The date of their planned beach trip comes and goes with no acknowledgement.
Maybe they forgot?
Clarke texts Raven, texts Miller, but she gets no response. She finally texts Harper, who tells her that they all had figured she’d be busy with work, which is a diplomatic but ultimately meaningless response.
And that’s fine, then. If they’re going to ignore her, she can ignore them. What does it matter to Clarke, anyways? So long as it doesn’t affect her work, it doesn’t matter. They can hate her all they want.
But then even Bellamy, who she can normally count on to be at her right hand, goes conspicuously absent. He stays in contact with her for longer than the others, still replying to messages, still saying hi to her in the halls at work, until suddenly he doesn’t.
As she sits in her silent apartment for the eighth weekend in a row she realizes she’s never felt this alone.
The worst comes on a Tuesday, after a long day in meetings.
She’s stacking up her papers in the darkened conference room, always the last one to leave, when she’s notices Bellamy walk past.
“Hey,” she calls, voice bright. “Bellamy, hang on a second.”
He stops, stepping into the room as she finishes packing up. Clarke’s hands stutter as she takes in his stony expression. “What’s wrong?”
“How was your meeting?” Bellamy asks, resting his hand on the back of one of the chairs. He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Did you close the deal?”
“We did,” she says slowly.
“We?” His voice is hollow, eyes blank.
Clarke frowns at his tone, her eyebrows pulling together. “Lexa and I, we—”
“This was supposed to be my project, you know,” he says lowly, cutting her off. “This was supposed to be me and you, making this deal.”
Clarke is aware of that. She was excited to work with him again, had missed it, but she'd needed Lexa for something else, and then she'd made a deal, and after that it was all so well planned out and ready. Lexa could be ruthless in a way that Clarke needed, and she had forgotten quickly that Bellamy was even connected to the project after a while. Which she shouldn't have.
“I know,” she says, “But—”
“But what, princess? Your ex is better friends with the senator?”
It hurts, because he’s not wrong. Clarke had prioritized, knowing Lexa had connections that she needed. But she never meant to box Bellamy out, it was just… an unfortunate side effect. “I didn’t think—”
“Of course, you didn’t think, you never think. Tell me, what exactly did you give up to get them to take your terms?”
“Well—some of the funding wasn’t there, we had to push—“
“Oh, I bet.” His tone is acidic, eyes burning into her. “What was it you decided wasn’t worth the cost?” Clarke bites her cheek, jaw flexing. Bellamy steps closer, the anger rising off of him unavoidable. His voice goes low, words ghosting out in front of her. “Tell me, Clarke.”
The answer tumbles from her lips. “The group home.”
Bellamy draws back, his expression tight. And it’s— he doesn’t even look surprised. Just disappointed, resigned.
It makes Clarke panic. Bellamy has been at her side this entire time, has been her staunchest ally even when all the odds seemed against her, and to see him waver throws her for a loop. Her heartbeat stutters in her chest.
“Bellamy—” she reaches forward to touch his wrist.
He rips his arm away. “Don’t.”
“It was only $250,000! When the next bill passes, I swear—”
“Only $250,000?” Bellamy lets out a harsh laugh. “Jesus Christ, princess, do you even hear yourself? That’s their entire budget for next year. That place is the only reason my sister didn’t get sent into foster care, and you’ve effectively bankrupted it.”
And—oh.
She’d known that, hadn’t she? When Clarke was drafting the pitch, she went over the financials, went over everything. She always went over everything.
“It just wasn’t in the budget,” she says, knowing it’s a weak argument.
“No,” he agrees, “Things like that never are, are they? Things that matter to anyone but you.”
“That’s not fair.”
Bellamy gives her a hard look. “Isn’t it? Tell me, what happened to Monty’s wetlands conservation funding, or Raven’s STEM program, or Harper’s childcare credits? Why is it that every project you get your hands on lately ends up with someone else’s ass on the line?”
“I don’t—” Clarke stutters. “I don’t know.”
“You do,” Bellamy sneers.
Clarke feels a little surge of righteous anger. “But the bills get passed, don’t they? The propositions get accepted? If what I’m doing is working, then—”
“Working? You pull all of things worth anything tangible out of the deals and call that a success? If what you’re doing is so great, tell me, why doesn’t anyone want to work with you?”
“But—” She feels her heart clench in her chest. “I was just trying to help.”
“Help yourself, maybe. You know what the worst part is?” Bellamy spits, turning to look at her. His eyes are wild in a way she’s never seen before, angry in a way she’s never seen directed at her. “They told me.” He lets out a harsh laugh, throwing his hands in the air. “They all fucking told me. ‘Clarke Griffin is hurricane, she’ll pull you in and she’ll chew you up.’”
“Bellamy—”
He pins her down with a look, and she feels frozen under his gaze. “No. I was stupid enough to get myself in anyways, but this is it. I’m done, I’m out.”
“Please,” she begs, “Bellamy, this isn’t—” her voice cracks, words stuttering. She reaches out, placing her hand on his arm from behind. “You know me.”
She feels hope rise high in her belly when he doesn’t immediately shrug off her touch. Instead, his other hand lifts, coming to rest heavily over hers.
“You’re right,” he says gently. “I do know you. And right now I wish I didn’t.” He squeezes her hand and drops it, stepping forward out of her touch.
“This— this storm you surround yourself with, it draws people in. It drew me in. But it’s not— I can’t do it like you do. It’s poison.” She watches silently as Bellamy grabs his jacket, making towards the door. His tone is matter-of-fact, words soft as they slice into her. “Nobody survives you, Clarke.”
It hits her directly between the ribs, sliding into her heart like a knife. She sinks into a chair, hands resting uselessly in her lap. Because for all it hurts— he’s not wrong.
She’s a natural disaster, she leaves people in her wake. She does it without thinking, without trying.
She always has.
Clarke watches as Bellamy leaves, his shoulders stiff as he moves towards the elevators. “I’m sorry,” she says, knowing he’s too far away to hear her.
He turns right as the elevator doors close, and for a split second their eyes meet. Bellamy looks straight through her, like they’re strangers.
Clarke takes a deep breath, clenching her eyes shut. Inhales once, twice, then exhales. She goes back to her office, unpacks her bag. She has work to do.
****
She spends the next week laboring under the somewhat ridiculous impression that he’s going to just forgive her.
After all, it’s Bellamy.
When don’t they fight? It’s what they do best, what they’ve always done. But this time it’s different. It’s not even that he’s angry with her, it’s that she doesn’t seem to exist. She hates it.
On Thursday, she heads to the bar after work. It’s a dive, frequented mostly by old men, but she’d been going to it with the others for years, although this time it’s just her. It’s probably stupid, going alone, but there’s no one to join her, and she can’t take the tension.
She’s right, of course.
Clarke has lost count of her drinks by the time Bellamy shows up. She’s disgracefully drunk for her age, really, and if she had any shame at this point she’d be embarrassed.
“Thanks for the call,” Bellamy says, nodding to the bartender. He sidles up alongside her stool. “Hey, Clarke, it’s time to go home.”
She looks up at him with wide eyes, her head heavy on her shoulders, and blinks. “You’re here.”
Clarke lays her hand on his arm and he gives her a pained smile. “Yeah, I’m here.” He slings her purse over one shoulder, putting gripping her elbow to steady her as she sways. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”
He leads her out of the bar to the parking lot, helping her into the passenger seat of his rusty old Jeep that Clarke always makes fun of. She doesn’t have the energy tonight.
Bellamy gets into the driver’s seat, starting the engine before he looks over at her, slumped beside him. “Are you okay?”
Clarke looks at him, her eyes tracing his features. She loves him, she thinks, not for the first time, and not for the last. She really loves him.
“You don’t smirk at me anymore,” she says nonsensically.
His lips tighten. “No.”
Clarkes sighs, turning to lean against the window. Her eyelids flutter shut. “I wish you would.”
She wakes up to her alarm the next morning in her bed fully clothed, her shoes lined up neatly beside her, phone plugged in, and a glass of water on her bedside table. She doesn’t quite remember getting from the car to her apartment, but she has a vague memory of strong arms, her head tucked against a warm shoulder.
Clarke goes through the day almost giddy.
Bellamy came to get her. That means he still cares about her, that means he’s not mad anymore.
That means things can go back to normal.
She doesn’t see him all day, trapped in meetings thats don’t line up, but she is eager. Even her nasty hangover is no match for her excitement, for her relief.
She finds him in his office at the end of the day.
“Hey,” she says tentatively, and Bellamy looks up from where he’s packing up his bag.
“Hey.” His voice is deep, face unreadable. Clarke’s skin gets itchy, discomfort fluttering in her belly.
She wrings her hands, opting for a forced smile. “Thanks for last night, sorry you had to make the trip out to get me.”
He doesn’t look at her. “I was still at work, it was on the way.”
“Oh.” It was nearly eleven by the time he’d come to pick her up, so that seems—unlikely, but Clarke doesn’t want to argue. “Long night then.”
“Clarke,” Bellamy says, finally looking up. Her heart drops at the expression on his face. “It didn’t mean anything. I still can’t be your—” he fumbles here for the right word, blinking hard. There's so much they never say, that they've never said. He waves a hand. “Your whatever. Nothing has changed.”
He finishes packing his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and moving towards the door. Clarke steps back to let him pass.
“Oh,” she says again, stricken. “I just thought—”
Bellamy lets out a pained breath. “I know.” He hesitates in the threshold, looking back at her with sad eyes. “I’m sorry,” he offers, “I just can’t—”
Clarke nods slowly, looking down at her hands. “I know.”
“It’s too much. You’re just—" He sighs. "You're a little much for me.”
She knows.
Clarke sits in the dark for twenty minutes before calling an Uber. Her eyes are still dry when she climbs in, staring resolutely out the window as the car pulls away from the curb.
One block away, the first tear drips off her cheek, falling wet onto her chest. The farther they go, the faster they come, and by the time the Uber gets to her place she’s sobbing silently.
There’s no one for her to call, she realizes.
She’s brought this upon herself.
Clarke opens the door to her silent apartment and stands for a moment in the doorway, just breathing. Her eyes close, and she wipes the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
She’s fine. She’ll be fine.
She’s always been fine on her own.
She’s not, though. Not really. Not anymore. Somehow, somewhere in the mess of the last few years, she’s lost that ability to go on.
The situation just leaves Clarke keenly aware of her own loneliness constantly, made worse by the fact that the people she’s lost are still around her, still working at her side. They just won’t— speak to her.
She goes to works, does her job, and comes home late. The routine is the same, but the feeling is so different, so bleak.
She doesn’t know what to do, so she just keeps going.
The projects keep coming, so she keeps doing them. It doesn't even really make her happy anymore, when she succeeds. It doesn't feel like anything most of the time. She goes just home, drinks her wine, sits with herself.
The thing that finally breaks her is a passing comment. Her boss calls her into her office to talk about her recent projects and Clarke is initially proud, flattered by his words. The boss is almost universally hated, because despite the leftward swing of his employees, he remains strongly to center and impossible to please.
But as she thinks more about what it means to have impressed this man, the most jaded old codger in all of Washington, her heart sinks.
“Excellent work, Ms. Griffin,” he congratulates her. “Keep it up and in ten years you could be in your mother’s seat. You really are a chip off the old block.”
Clarke thanks him hollowly, heading back to her office.
She starts to think about her life, about where she’s been and where she’s going. She never wanted to go into politics, and she realizes that no matter how good at she may get, she hates it. She hates what it makes her.
Why is she doing this, she wonders? She doesn't have to be. Clarke used to want to be an artist, she remembers. She liked to draw, liked to make beautiful things. She can’t remember the last time she even tried.
What is the point of doing this all, if it doesn’t make things better? What is the point if it hurts the people she cares about, if it hurts her? What is the point of proving she can go it alone, if she has to remain that way?
The meaninglessness of her last few months of accomplishments yawn out before her like a taunt.
In it, she finds a new sense of resolve. She swallows her pride, and makes the call she should’ve made weeks ago.
****
Bellamy finds her after work a few days later.
She sucks in a deep breath at the sight of him, lingering outside her office door. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he replies gruffly, hands shoved in his pockets. He inclines his head towards the door. “Take a walk with me?”
Clarke nods, chest tight. “Yeah,” she says, fumbling over the words. “Sure.”
She shuffles her papers into her bag, hefting it onto one shoulder, and lets him lead her out of the building. It’s later than she thought, almost sunset, and the streets are unusually empty. They walk down along the riverbank, silence hanging heavy between them.
“I got a call from the group home,” he says eventually. “Apparently they received a large donation this past weekend.”
“Oh?” Clarke’s not sure whether to feign ignorance or not, but she can’t— she doesn’t have the words he wants from her.
“One million dollars. From the Jake Griffin Memorial Foundation.”
One million. That’s more than they’d agreed on. Clarke feels a surge of gratefulness.
“Huh,” she says, and Bellamy looks at her.
“And somehow the appropriations bill got amended,” he continues, walking in step with her. “They’re getting five years of funding, with grant eligibility. If it passes.”
Her throat is thick, and she hums. “That’s good.”
Bellamy stops her with a hand on her arm. Clarke turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed. “Thank you,” he says, his gaze heavy, voice low and sincere. “For helping them.”
She looks into his eyes, mouth slightly agape. “I did it for you.”
Bellamy makes a small noise. His fingers twitch where they meet her skin. “I know.”
He drops his hand, and they go back to walking. The air between them is a bit more relaxed, but still thick with tension. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For what I said that day. I wanted to hurt you and it— it wasn’t fair.”
“It was a little fair.” Clarke bites her lip. There’s silence for a little while longer. The streetlights flicker off the water, yellow on the glossy black. “I think I’m going to quit.”
“What?” Bellamy stops abruptly, and Clarke turns back to face him.
“I think I’m going to quit,” she repeats. “The firm.”
His eyes are wide, face frozen with something she can’t quite decipher. “And go where? Wood and Associates?”
Clarke frowns. “No.” She looks down at her hands, shifting her feet nervously. “I was thinking I might take some time off. Maybe go back to school.”
“Oh,” he says, his voice a bit breathless. “Law school?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe art school? I haven’t decided yet.”
“Where?”
Clarke looks up, meeting his eyes. “I’m not sure. Probably around here.”
Bellamy lets out a deep breath, and fumbles back into motion. She walks alongside him and he inches closer, their arms almost brushing.
“That’s good,” he says softly. “I’m happy for you.”
There’s something fragile there between them, something bright and warm. Clarke feels her shoulders relax, the tension in her stomach falling.
“Would you still be happy for me if I was leaving?” The question is careful, the implication just subtle enough.
Bellamy sighs. “Yes.” Their fingers touch, just barely, and he slips his hand into hers just like that. “But maybe not as much.”
Clarke’s heart hammers in her chest as their fingers lace together. She glances over at him and he meets her eyes, a small smirk curling at his lips. She smiles back.
She can feel tears starting to drip down her cheeks and Bellamy’s face falls, tugging her to a halt below a streetlight. “Hey,” he says. His free hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing away the tears. “What’s wrong?”
Clarke closes her eyes tight and opens them again, letting out a deep breath through her nose. “I just— I thought I broke this. I thought you hated me.”
“I wanted to, a little,” he admits. “But I don’t think that’s possible.”
They’re so close now, almost chest to chest, and Clarke can feel like heat of his body.
“No?”
“No,” he agrees. His eyes are soft, and he tilts her chin up gently.
Neither one of them starts the kiss, or maybe they both do. It’s a tenuous thing, a hesitant brush of lips, like neither of them are quite sure if it’s the right thing to do. It feels right, though.
It feels right.
Clarke’s eyes shut tight, and the kiss deepens, mouths opening, searching, learning each other. Their foreheads touch as they pull back, noses brushing against each other.
“Is this a bad idea?” Clarke asks, the words right against Bellamy’s lips.
“Probably,” he says. “Is that a problem?”
Clarke smiles, and settles back on her heels, looking up at him. “No.”
He laughs, just a little, and takes her hand again. Together, they start back along the riverbank, continuing down the path. They’re further down than Clarke’s gone before, and she’s not sure where it is they’ll end up.
“Where are we going?”
Bellamy shrugs, grinning at her. “I don’t know.” His grip on her hand tightens. “Guess we’ll find out.”