Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s all a big misunderstanding. 

Or, at least, it is if Clarke is feeling generous. When she’s feeling less generous it’s all misplaced blame and spiteful gossip mongering, but what’s the point of splitting hairs? The outcome remains the same.

It begins—as many disasters do—at a party, with a boy. A boy with floppy brown hair, and big sincere eyes, and a crooked smile. Finn Collins.

The party is—quite egregiously, considering what happens—for Raven’s birthday. It’s packed to the brim, full of their close friends along with hordes of people Clarke sincerely hopes were actually invited, though she sort of doubts it. Nobody could possibly know this many people. It’s loud, and it’s hot, and Clarke—along with nearly everyone else—is pleasantly hammered.

She wishes later that she’d been a little drunker, so she could’ve ignored her need to make sure everything was okay, or a little more sober, so she could’ve seen Finn’s intentions before he had a chance to act on them. Unfortunately, Clarke is neither, so when her friend’s boyfriend catches her eye from across the room, something heavy and complex in the way he looks at her, and promptly exits the building—

Clarke follows.

She finds him in the garden behind the apartments, staring across the dark lawn with his hands in his pockets. She’s never been able to read Finn all that well, so she approaches tentatively, like one might with a wild animal. She knows him, of course, but Clarke wouldn’t say he’s one of their friends. He hangs out with them pretty often, because he’s Raven’s boyfriend, but that’s all. Truthfully, he’s always made Clarke feel kind of— uncomfortable. 

Every so often she’ll catch him staring at her, eyes too intense, like they have some kind of shared secret. He’ll say things to her when Raven’s elsewhere that feel too intimate for their level of acquaintance. Like he thinks they’re the same, like he thinks there’s some kind of connection. Clarke’s never brought it up with Raven because, really, what would she even say? “ Your boyfriend acts like he knows me” ? It would make Clarke look petty to even try.

After tonight though, she wishes she’d told someone. Maybe not Raven, considering her reaction, but Bellamy, or Harper. Hell, even Murphy. As it is she tells no one, so there’s no one who can vouch for her. 

Her footsteps crunch softly on the gravel as she approaches Finn’s back. He turns at the sound, face lighting up when he sees her. His eyes go puppy-dog soft, the expression odd under the orange tinge of the courtyard lights. “Clarke,” he practically sighs, breathing her name like a prayer. “You came.”

“Yeah,” she says. She frowns slightly, forehead wrinkling in confusion at his reaction. Finn’s always— weird, around her, but it’s never been quite like this. Never so blatant. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I am now.”

Clarke is taken aback by the eagerness in his tone, the conviction. “Uh—” She swallows convulsively, discomfited. “Right. Good. I’ll just—”

—be going then , she means to say, but he’s in her space before she can get the words out. Clarke lets out a surprised squeak as his arms wrap around her, pulling her in tight as his head nuzzles into her neck. 

“I can’t take it anymore,” Finn says into her hair, seemingly oblivious to Clarke’s rigid discomfort. He shifts her back so he can look at her, fingers curled around her upper arms. “I’m going to end it. Going to tell Raven it’s over.”

“It’s her birthday,” Clarke says dumbly, uncomprehending. Why is he telling her this? And why is he still touching her?

Finn winces dramatically. “I know the timing isn’t ideal, but—” His lips quirk into a wry smile, head shaking. “I can’t keep acting like there’s nothing going on here. Like there’s nothing between us.”

“But there isn’t,” Clarke protests weakly, and it’s the truth. There’s less than nothing. Is he actually delusional?

“Clarke,” he says gently, and he looses his grip long enough for her to take a big step back into the shadows, not that it helps. Finn mirrors her, and when she tries again her back thuds against the brick wall of the building. He gives her a fond smile, reaching out to toy with a blonde lock of hair that falls forward over her shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

The full weight of the situation starts to break through Clarke’s drunken mind, surprise and confusion giving way to bright panic. She shakes her head, eyes bulging. “I’m not—” She has to dodge then, twisting her head against the wall to avoid his lips. “Finn!”

He grins boyishly. “Sorry.” He drops his chin slightly, abashed, petting down her hair where her struggling had mussed it. His other hand sits on her waist. She tries to shy away but there’s nowhere to go. “I know we haven’t talked about it yet—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Clarke insists. He has to understand. She has to make him understand that this— whatever he’s convinced himself is going on between them, it isn’t happening. It isn’t going to happen. “We’re not— This isn’t real.”

His eyes flicker between hers in confusion, lips drifting into a pout. “Clarke—”

“No.” She shakes her head, cutting off whatever he was about to say. “I don’t— You can’t break up with Raven.” Clarke pauses for a beat, thinking. Actually, if he’s prepared to dump her for some completely imaginary relationship he’s managed to dream up all on his own, they probably shouldn’t stay together. It wouldn’t be fair to Raven. “Or— not tonight,” Clarke amends. “And not for me.”

“I understand,” Finn says, but by the way his disappointment softens it’s clear he does not. “I don’t want to hurt her either. We don’t need to rush into telling people.”

“That’s not— Finn, seriously—”

“It’s okay, Clarke. I don’t mind waiting.”

“I don’t want you to wait—”

It’s the wrong thing to say. His eyes blaze with pleasure, willfully misunderstanding her meaning. “Me neither.”

She frowns. “Finn, no, I—” But he’s already surging forward, and there’s nowhere for her to go. She can’t move away fast enough. “Mmmph—!” 

His lips collide forcefully with hers, their teeth clacking together. Clarke’s skull knocks against the bricks as she tries to pull away, pain flashing bright behind her eyes, making tears bead at the corners of her eyes. She gathers all her strength and shoves him off her.

Finn looks at her with wide eyes, wounded. “What—?”

“ I said no. ”

They stare at each other, chests heaving. He’s back in the orangey light now, while she remains in the shadows of the building. Clarke keeps one arm extended in front of her to ward him off, palm up. She’s not sure how she manages to hold it steady, but she does. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears like a drum.

“Listen to me, Finn, because this is the last time I’m going to say it. Listen to me, and believe me, because I’m not playing around.” Her voice is low, but her tone is deadly. “I don’t want this, not now and not ever.”

He opens his mouth to argue, because of course he does, but she silences him with a glare. 

“I don’t want you .”

She watches the words sink in, watches the way his posture shifts, the way his eyes shutter. His lips pull tight, still glistening from her unwilling mouth. He’s angry, but Clarke doesn’t mind that. At least he won’t keep trying to kiss her.

She lets her hand fall. It’s not her best decision, and she regrets it as he takes a half step forward. Her palm hits his chest, but her elbow isn’t locked anymore, and he could easily push past her resistance if he wanted to. “ You— ”

And that’s when Bellamy finds them.

“Clarke?”

Finn stops immediately, turning away from Clarke. She feels her shoulders sag in relief. Thank God. 

Bellamy comes to a stop a few yards away. His arms cross over his chest as he takes in the tableau in front of him, biceps flexing. His eyes narrow, voice going hard. “Finn.”

Finn gives him a half nod without meeting his eyes, twitching nervously. Finn’s not a tiny man, but Bellamy definitely has the size advantage. Not to mention he’s stone-cold sober, having volunteered as driver. Clarke doesn’t think he really saw what was going on, but the hostility rolling off him is palpable regardless. “Sup, man?”

“Raven is looking for you.”

“Right, I’ll just—” He clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets, slinking away from Clarke. “Go find her then.” He keeps his eyes on the ground as he skirts around Bellamy towards the building. They both watch his back silently until the door shuts behind him.

Bellamy relaxes a bit once he’s gone, turning back towards her with a curious expression. “What was all that about anyway?” 

She doesn’t answer immediately because honestly, how can she? How can she even begin to describe the literal insanity that was the last— however many minutes, Clarke has no idea how long it’s even been.

And if she did tell him—

Bellamy is her best friend. Her best friend, and— sometimes she thinks he may be a little more than that. Maybe he wants more, the way that she does. They don’t talk about it, but…well, regardless. He’s her best friend, if nothing else. He’s— protective, to say the least. Not to mention his kinda over-zealous complex about cheaters. Clarke’s not sure quite where that one originated from but— essentially, if she told him, there would be a fight. There would be a fight, and Bellamy would win it. 

And while the idea of Finn getting the crap kicked out of him is certainly appealing, it’s not something she can allow to happen. For starters, Clarke doesn’t particularly want to see her best friend locked up for assault or murder, should someone decide to call the police. And besides that—

It’s Raven’s birthday party. Her birthday . What kind of friend would Clarke be if she let Bellamy beat the shit out of Raven’s boyfriend in front of all of her friends? And she’d have to tell her why: tell her that her boyfriend was unfaithful, was planning on dumping her and running away with Clarke. That he’d nearly forced himself on her. That he was delusional and fucking insane. It would be a lot under any circumstances, but publicly, on her birthday? Clarke would never be so cruel.

Bellamy senses her hesitation, expression growing tense with concern. He takes a step towards her, squinting into the shadows. “Clarke?”

“Nothing,” she says a little too quickly, and winces at the obvious lie. She tries to cover it with a bit of the truth. “I saw him leave and just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

Clarke says it as offhandedly as she can, but Bellamy is—unfortunately—not a complete idiot. “And was it?” he asks. “Okay?”

“Yes,” she lies through her teeth, stepping out into the light. Which is, of course, a mistake. She’s forgotten, in her haste, that she’s a mess. Her hair is fucked up from Finn’s hands and the wall, eyes wet, lips swollen and spit slick.

Bellamy takes it all in before she can even attempt to fix it, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Clarke—”

He takes a step towards her and she skitters back automatically, nerves frayed from her earlier disaster. Unlike Finn, Bellamy stops immediately. His tone gentles, though his body loses none of its tension. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she says, smoothing down her hair and wiping her eyes. She forces herself to smile. “Just a little partied out.”

His eyes search her face, dropping for the barest moment to linger on her lips. She swears internally, scrubbing the back of her hand roughly across her mouth as she stalks past him. He follows her silently, but she can feel the questions he’s not asking. The questions she can’t answer. 

They leave pretty soon after that, neither of them in much of a mood to socialize. She gives Raven a hug before she goes, telling her happy birthday. She ignores the way Finn glares at her, and ignores the way Bellamy glares at Finn, and hopes Raven is too drunk to notice either.

The car ride home is quiet, but it’s a tense silence, nothing like their usual. Clarke can feel him looking at her but she doesn’t want to deal with it, so she just leans her head against the window and closes her eyes. She doesn’t remember falling asleep but she must, because she wakes up when he opens her door. And then it’s one of those moments, one where she thinks—

Thinks they’re something.

“Hey,” Bellamy says quietly. “We’re here.” He reaches across her, undoes her seat belt. “Do you wanna walk in or—?” He doesn’t finish the question, but Clarke knows what he’s asking. She should nod, should open her eyes and stand up and say goodnight, but—

She hums, and shakes her head.

“Alright, princess.” And then he’s holding her to his chest, scooping her up out of the seat like she weighs nothing. Her arms wrap around his neck, face tucking under his jaw. She’s awake, and they both know it, but he carries her inside anyways. He doesn’t set her down until they’ve reached her bed, not even to unlock the door. He just shifts her weight into one arm, then back to two once the door’s open. He has his own key.

Normally, he’ll set her in her bed, help her take her shoes off, and leave. This time though, he hesitates, his arms still wrapped around her tight. 

“Clarke,” he starts, and she stiffens against him, already hearing the tension in his voice. 

Her eyes open. “Put me down.”

He does, and takes a step back. They look at each other, blue eyes on brown. 

She could tell him now, she thinks, but nixes it before she even begins to open her mouth. She can’t. He may be here now, but the party is still going on. He knows where to find Finn, and that’s enough to keep her quiet.

“Did he—?”

“No.”

She doesn’t let him finish the question, doesn’t want to hear the options. They echo through her head regardless. Did he kiss you? Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?

“But then—” His eyes flick to her lips and she has to stop him again, has to stop him before he asks something she has no lie for.

“What happened is none of your business,” Clarke snaps. “Being my friend doesn’t entitle you to every detail of my life.”

And it’s true, in a way. That doesn’t mean it’s not a cruel thing to say. He just wants to protect her, to make sure she’s safe, and she knows he can tell she’s lying to him, so who could blame him for wanting to know? She really doesn’t, she just— she just can’t.

Bellamy reels back like she’s slapped him. “Right,” he says curtly, his lips pulling tight. “Of course. We’re just— friends.” He stutters over the word, like he can’t quite make its shape in his mouth. “You don’t owe me anything.” 

She feels immediately guilty. “Bell, I didn’t—”

“No, you’re right,” he says, but she’s not. She’s not, and he won’t even look at her. “It’s— I should go home.”

“Wait, Bell—”

But he’s already gone, sweeping out of her room. She hears the front door shut behind him, hears him lock it. Hears the roar of his truck starting, and the fading whoosh as he drives away.

She’ll tell him. In a few days, once she’s had a chance to break the news to Raven, she’ll explain everything. She’ll tell him, and he’ll be mad, but he’ll understand why she couldn’t say anything tonight. He’ll forgive her, and everything will be fine. 

In a few days, everything will be fine.

Tonight, though, she curls up into a ball, and cries.

****

Everything is not fine in a few days.

In fact, if one were to look up the definition of ‘fine’ in the dictionary, the way it goes down is probably exactly the opposite of that. What Clarke fails to take into account is that Raven, friends though they might be, likes her boyfriend a fair bit more than she likes Clarke.

“If this is supposed to be some kind of joke,” she replies caustically when Clarke breaks the news, “It’s not particularly funny.”

Clarke is not laughing. 

She’d been hoping that she wouldn’t have to actually do this, that Finn would follow through and actually break up with Raven like he said he was going to, but if anything, it seems he’s doubled down out of spite.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Raven sincerely, all but wringing her hands. “I know this is hard to hear—”

The other girl barks out a short laugh. “It’s not hard to hear,” she seethes. Clarke takes a half step back. “It’s bullshit.”

Clarke’s not really sure what to say. She’d had to make such an effort to lie to Bellamy, the potential that Raven just— wouldn’t believe her isn’t something she’d even started to plan for.

“I was surprised too,” Clarke says lamely, and it’s not the right thing to say.

Raven’s eyes flash, her spine going stick straight. “He’s my boyfriend , Clarke. I’ve known him since we were toddlers, been dating him since we were 15. We love each other. He wouldn’t just leave me for some —” The end of the sentence is bitten off, and Clarke tries not to let her brain try to fill in the blanks. She’s sure it wouldn’t be flattering for her. Raven lets out a huff. “You misinterpreted.”

“Maybe,” Clarke allows, even though it isn’t true at all. There was no room to misinterpret. “But Raven— He kissed me.”

She didn’t want to say it. She’d hoped that she could keep it all based on Finn’s words, so at least Raven would only have to think his infidelity was hypothetical. Enough for her to leave him, but not enough for her to feel like her relationship had all been a lie. Like she could pretend maybe he wouldn’t have gone through with it. Clarke knows how much a little thing like that can be cold comfort after a breakup.

But what else is she supposed to say?

“He kissed you,” Raven repeats, her tone entirely flat.

Clarke nods. “I’m sorry.” Raven looks away from her, her eyes glassy. Her hands clench in her lap, knuckles turning white with the pressure. Clarke reaches out to lay a comforting hand on top of her friend’s, but Raven jerks away. Clarke nods, sitting back. “You should— you should talk to him.”

“Yeah,” Raven says tightly, and stands. “You should go.”

Clarke follows her to her feet. “Right, of course. I—” She opens her mouth to apologize again, but stops when she sees Raven’s expression, remembering just how much the other girl hates pity. “Call me, if you need anything.”

Raven dips her head in acknowledgement, and Clarke knows that’s all she’s going to get.

In hindsight, Clarke is a bit of an idiot for thinking that would be enough. That she could just talk to Raven and tell her what happened, with no witnesses of evidence, and expect to be believed. In her defense, Clarke has absolutely no reason to lie. But that doesn’t matter, not really. It’s easy enough for someone to make one up for her, given the right motivations. 

This is a lesson Clarke learns first-hand.

She calls Raven after about a week. She hasn’t heard anything—no calls, no texts, no changes in relationship status on facebook—so she just wants to check in, make sure everything’s okay. Or as okay as it can be, under the circumstances. She doesn’t want Raven to be wallowing alone. 

Although— she hasn’t heard anything from anyone else either, which is a little odd. From Bellamy she can kind of understand it, given how they left things, but her other friends are harder to explain. The groupchat is dead silent, and Clarke hasn’t gotten a text in days, now that she’s checking. She thinks maybe there’s something wrong with her phone, but she doesn’t have any updates, and nothing happens when she restarts it.

Weird.

Raven answers the phone on the third ring, snorting down the line. “You have some fucking nerve, Griffin.”

Her tone is acidic, and Clarke blinks in surprise. “I— I’m sorry?”

“You really think you can just call me and— what? Do you have some new story you've cooked up?” 

Later, Clarke will be embarrassed at how long it takes for her to understand what’s going on. In the moment, however, she’s just confused. 

“I just wanted to check in, see how you’re holding up,” she tries. Raven just laughs meanly, and Clarke’s lips pull into a frown. “Did you— did you talk to Finn?”

“Did I talk to Finn? Of course I talked to Finn.” Clarke has absolutely no idea how to read the other girl’s tone, so she stays quiet. “What did you think was going to happen, Clarke? That I’d throw wild accusations at him and he’d just accept it and leave me? That I wouldn’t wait to hear his side? Did you really think he wouldn’t tell me the truth?”

It’s clear to Clarke that whatever conversation Raven and Finn had did not end in a breakup, and therefore could not have involved the truth. “Raven, I don’t know what he told you, but I swear I didn’t lie to you. What could I possibly gain from lying to you?”

“You know, I was wondering the same thing. Because honestly, Clarke, I never thought you could be so pathetic. Even if we had broken up, he’d never have been with you.”

“I didn’t—” Clarke chokes, shocked by this sudden turn. “What?!”

“He told me what you did, Clarke. How you followed him outside, how you cornered him. You told me he kissed you but it was you. You kissed him .”

“I didn’t—!”

“Finn was trying to be nice, keeping your little secret so you wouldn’t be humiliated. But then you had to go around spreading lies—”

Clarke’s head is absolutely spinning, unable to keep up with the full magnitude of how wrong she’s got it. “No, that’s not—”

“So you deny it then.”

“Yes!”

“So you didn’t follow him,” Raven says flatly, daring Clarke to contradict her. 

Clarke gapes, because of course that’s the one part of the story that Finn got right. “Well, no, I did, but—”

“Exactly, that’s what I thought. You acted like he cornered you, like he had all these big plans he was dying to tell you; but you’re the one who approached him in the first place.

“I—” Clarke struggles, because it’s a good argument. Or it would be, if it were true. “He gave me a look,” she tries weakly.

“A look,” Raven repeats, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Of course, why didn’t you mention that?”

“Raven, seriously—”

“Fuck you, Clarke,” she spits almost casually. “Don’t call me again.” 

The line goes dead.

****

It takes her pathetically long to realize what’s happening. Two full weeks of radio silence and a trip to the AT&T store declaring her phone in perfect working order aren’t quite enough, but the coffeeshop incident seals the deal. 

It’s at the Dropship Cafe downtown, on a Tuesday morning. Clarke stops in before her shift like she always does, orders her usual. And when she steps back to wait, that’s when she sees her: Harper, across the room, already looking at her.

They make eye contact, and for one stupid, idiotic second, Clarke thinks everything is going to be alright.

It’s Harper, after all. Harper doesn’t hate anyone. It’s not in her nature. She’ll wave Clarke over, and Clarke will join her, and they’ll catch up. She’ll say she’s been so busy over the last few weeks, and that it’s a shame they haven’t had a chance to see each other. That no one believed Finn for a second, and that everyone’s phones had mysteriously vanished at the same time, wasn’t that funny, and would Clarke like their new numbers? That they’d been trying to call her.

That it was all some big mistake.

Clarke opens her mouth to say something, raises her hand to wave, but Harper’s eyes have already dropped. Instead of Clarke, she’s staring resolutely at anything that isn’t Clarke. Her fingers fidget awkwardly with the newspaper in front of her, shoulders high and tense.

Oh , Clarke thinks, her heart dropping in comprehension. Okay .

Her eyes burn as she collects her coffee. She can feel the pink of her cheeks, the humiliation and despair washing over her that she can’t quite conceal, and she hopes Harper hasn’t mustered up the courage to sneak another glance. Clarke leaves without giving her friend another look.

The realization that she has really truly been—What? Disinherited? Cut-out? Cancelled? It causes Clarke to begin to spiral a bit.

Clarke doesn’t have that many friends to begin with, and those she does, she shares with Raven. Which means quite suddenly, Clarke finds herself entirely alone.

Even Bellamy—her Bellamy—has cut her off. Out of all of them, he’s the one she relied on the most, the one she cared about the most, the one she thought most cared about her. He doesn’t read her texts, doesn’t answer her calls. It’s like he’s just— gone. Like he’s forgotten about her completely.

Clarke has nobody. No friends, no family, not even a roommate. She has nobody, all because of Finn-fucking-Collins, and they don’t even like him!

She starts to go out to bars after work, unable to stand the silence of her empty house. It’s red flag behavior, she’ll admit that readily, but with no one around to see the flags, Clarke can’t seem to muster up the effort to care. At first she rotates venues, embarrassed by the prospect of a bartender starting to recognize her as a regular, but moving around every night gets old fast. She settles on a dive a few blocks from her work, primarily because it’s the cheapest. It’s not like she’s getting trashed every night, but it adds up regardless. It’s as good a reason as any.

The bartenders do start to know her, although Clarke steadfastly refuses to learn their names. She tips well, so they don’t take it personally. Sometimes she wonders what they think of her, what they imagine her life is like. She looks pretty bad and she knows it, exhausted and twitchy and red-eyed. Sometimes she brings work with her, or a book, or art. Sometimes she just mopes. Clarke’s lost some weight, she knows, but she doesn’t realize it’s become noticeable until they start bringing her snacks without asking. She’d argue but it’s not like they charge her for them, although the pity does smart a bit. And besides, the fries are pretty good.

Sometimes, if she’s feeling close to normal, she’ll invite a Tinder date. It’s good to make a play at human interaction, but she can never manage to make herself want to go home with them, so she doesn’t. Most nights, though, she’s alone.

The time they come in, it’s one of those nights.

Clarke comes straight after work, like she normally does. She had a presentation that day, so she’s actually put some effort into her appearance for once and is looking almost human. Her cheekbones are still a little sharper than they should be, eyes a little sunken, but she’s covered up the purple eye-bags and the light bronzer and blush she applied give her washed out skin some badly needed color.

“How did it go?” bartender #1 asks her, grinning as she takes a seat. He’s been watching her prepare for two weeks now.

(His name is Lincoln, Clarke knows, but she’ll never admit it. He’s 31, has three dogs, and his girlfriend is a Navy Seal serving somewhere in the Middle East. He drives a motorcycle, but it’s actually hers. He’s working on a painting MFA and he teaches kickboxing on Saturdays. Clarke thinks he’s already bought an engagement ring. Bartender #2 is a woman named Luna. Clarke is 85-90% sure they have an ex-girlfriend in common, but neither of them have ever brought it up. She’s not working tonight.)

“It went,” she replies with a shrug, dumping her bag on the ground. Lincoln pushes a pile of unused white napkins towards her, spotting the pen in her hand. It’s a doodling night. “Apparently I should work on being taller next time.”

“Taller?” Lincoln repeats with a confused frown. He makes her a vodka-cran with a splash of orange juice and tops it with a novelty drink umbrella that Clarke promptly plucks out. “Like physically?”

“Who knows?” Clarke sucks on the toothpick at the base of the umbrella, twirling it between her teeth as she starts to sketch. “My heels are already a quarter inch over dress code.”

“You’ve got heels on and you’re still that shrimpy?! Huh, maybe they’re actually on to something.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at the teasing, giving him a flat look. “I’m 5’2”.”

“Bless you.”

She rolls her eyes as he heads down the bar to help someone else and focuses back on her mindless drawing. It keeps her busy, and she’s not sure how long exactly it’s been when they show up, only that she’s filled six napkins and has nearly finished one drink. There’s an untouched basket of fries by her elbow that she doesn’t remember being dropped off and certainly hadn’t ordered, and Clarke is currently leaning over the bar, trying fruitlessly to snatch back the napkin Lincoln had stolen from her, the one on which she’s drawn him.

“It’s so good though!” he cajoles, holding it just out of her reach. “I’m gonna tape it up so everyone can see it.”

Clarke ignores the sound of the door chime behind her, still straining forward towards where Lincoln cradles the napkin. He’s distracted for a minute, scoping out the crowd behind her, and she can just almost—

“Oh, hey man,” he says, looking past her. “I didn’t know you were coming around tonight.” His hand whips up right before she can grab the napkin, dangling it over her head but well out of her reach. Clarke slumps down into her chair with a huff, crossing her arms grumpily over her chest. Lincoln looks down at her, amused, before turning his attention back to the group. “Y’all can grab a booth wherever. I’ll come take your order in a sec.”

It’s not that she hears the reply, not really at least, but she somehow feels it. A familiar tenor that makes the hairs raise on her spine. 

No.

It couldn’t be.

She can’t look. She won’t. If she looks—if it’s him, them—they’ll see her, recognize her, if they haven’t already. She feels an almost irrational jolt of anger that nearly manages to blot out the melancholy of her no-longer-friends. This is Clarke’s bar. She’s here five days a week, how dare they just—

“There!” Lincoln says triumphantly, having managed to wedge Clarke’s drawing into the corner of the mirror behind the bar. He turns to her, grinning— and frowns as he takes in her posture, her stricken expression. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong is that the mirror is good for more than just pinning up pictures. She can see them, and it is them, clambering good-naturedly into a booth that’s probably a little too small. There’s Harper in the corner, and Monty, Jasper. Miller, Emori, Murphy. Raven, but no Finn, which is a cold comfort. 

Bellamy. 

He looks— tired. A little scruffy. He’s smiling, but it’s not— it’s not the way he smiles at her. The way he used to smile at her, anyway. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

She has to tear hers off him. Lincoln is watching her carefully, his expression thoughtful if not more than a little concerned. His gaze flickers to the table behind her and back, questioning.

“I’m fine,” she says unconvincingly. “It’s just— getting late.”

It isn’t, but Lincoln doesn’t mention it. Clarke wonders if she could make it outside without them seeing her. She quickly calculates the angle, the height of the booth walls, the distance to the door. It’s possible, she decides. “I should probably head out.”

Lincoln frowns and shakes his head, shoving her untouched basket of fries towards her. “Food first.”

“I have dinner at home,” she argues weakly, but it’s a lie and they both know it. Her fridge is full of beer and expired condiments. Potentially some eggs, but it’s a crapshoot.

“You can’t go until you eat something. It’s not safe.”

Clarke huffs. “I’m taking the train!” 

“Exactly,” Lincoln says primly, gathering up a pen and an order pad. He lifts the bar to go through and gives her a peevish look. “You could pass out on the tracks.”

Clarke does not think that is a legitimate concern. Regardless, she stays put, picking glumly at her fries. She tries not to be hyper aware of everything behind her, but even if she focuses on Lincoln, it’s about them. Their orders he’s taking. Their drinks he’s making, their tray he’s carrying over.

There’s a pitcher of beer for the table, two vodka-crans for Harper and Raven, and a gin on the rocks for Emori. Clarke eyes the toxic looking blue drink Lincoln mixes up next suspiciously, wondering who exactly that one is going to. Lincoln leaves her a shot of the stuff to taste, tossing an umbrella into the concoction and heading over to the table.

She eats a fry and takes the shot. It tastes okay, considering. She does not let her eyes lift above the row of liquor bottles behind the bar. Clarke looks up at Lincoln in betrayal as he comes back through the bar and drops a basket with a burger in front of her. 

“I’m almost done,” she protests. “I can’t eat all of this.”

She probably could, but not as fast as she wants to leave. Lincoln shrugs, picking up half the burger. “You don’t have to. We’re splitting it.” He grins serenely at her glare. “Protein. And vegetables.”

She rolls her eyes and grabs her half, taking a bite. It’s good, she’ll give him that. 

She’s halfway through it when the glass is set down next to her.  

Clarke jolts at the sudden sound, rearing away from— Murphy, who gives her a half interested once-over, his eyebrow raised. He jerks his chin in acknowledgement. “Griffin.”

He flags down Lincoln down the bar, raising the empty glass at him. “Could I get another of these?”

Clarke blinks at the cocktail umbrella tucked behind his ear. Of course. She should’ve guessed.

“You look like shit,” Murphy tells Clarke, ever the charmer. He leans against the bar next to her, shoulders relaxed. “What have you been up to?”

She stares at him blankly. Is he— does he not hate her? Does he know he’s supposed to? She hesitates before answering honestly. “This, mostly.”

“That’s bleak,” he says, but there’s no real concern in his voice. No reproach either though.

“I thought—” Clarke starts, and she has to clear her throat before finishing. “Don’t you hate me?”

His eyebrows pull together. “Why?”

Her cheeks go pink, shoulders stiff. “You know. Finn.”

Murphy snorts. “Oh, right. Finn.”

Clarke can’t even begin to understand his reaction, or lack thereof. “Do you not— know?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Of course I know. It’s not like Raven would shut the fuck up about it.”

“But you don’t care?”

Murphy frowns, his forehead wrinkling. “Why would I care? It’s not like it actually happened.”

Clarke is pretty sure her heart stops beating entirely. Did he really just say that? Did he really imply— “What?”

Murphy looks over at her lazily, raising an eyebrow. “C’mon, Griffin. You, falling all over that boyband looking loser? On purpose?” He snorts, like the idea is ludicrous. “Besides, he was always looking at you weird. Like a dude in a vampire movie.”

Clarke feels tears spring to her eyes, but they’re not— she’s happy. She lets out a laugh. “Twilight?”

Murphy smirks. “Yeah, exactly.”

He believes her. If nothing else, he believes her. He didn’t reach out or anything, but it’s Murphy for Christ's sake, he’d literally never. He believes her. It’s something. 

She shouldn’t ask, already knows better, but she can’t help herself. “And the rest of them?” Murphy shrugs, his expression vaguely apologetic, and Clarke feels her stomach drop. “Right. I— I figured. Is everything— good, besides that? Everyone okay?”

“Same old, same old,” he says, and she grins weakly back.

“Good.”

They’re quiet for a minute. Clarke’s cheeks are wet, she knows, but Murphy is diligently pretending otherwise. She passes her basket of fries toward him and he takes one.

“Bellamy’s still pretty fucked up about it.”

Clarke’s eyes flash over at him, something in her stomach curling uncomfortably. “About what?”

Murphy shrugs. “You.” He sighs, shifting his weight. “He won’t talk about it, but— we all know. Or I do at least.”

She struggles, trying desperately not to look behind her. “We got in a fight and then— this. I wanted to tell him, to explain but— He never answered.”

“He’s a fucking idiot.” Murphy’s eyes shoot towards the man in question. “Oh look. I think he’s finally noticed.”

She follows his gaze before she can stop herself, and freezes. Bellamy’s turned fully towards her, his mouth slightly open, face so familiar it’s nearly painful to look at. Their eyes meet across the room for the first time in—in forever, Clarke doesn’t know, months maybe—and it hurts like nothing she’s ever felt before. Like she’s being torn right open.

She gasps, choking, and practically throws herself off the stool. She fumbles for her bag, nearly dropping her wallet as she yanks out a random amount of cash for her tab, leaving it on the bar. Murphy nods at her but she doesn’t return it, stumbling blindly for the door in her heels. She can hear Lincoln call out behind her, griping about not finishing her food, but then she’s at the door, hauling it open and—

She runs.

****

It takes Clarke a while to muster up the courage to go back.

There’s no reason to think she’ll see them again, she’d spent weeks there before they came the first time, but— Lincoln greeted Bellamy like he knew him. Like they knew each other. Murphy she wouldn’t mind seeing again, but the idea of running into Raven makes her skin crawl with uncomfortable bitterness, and Bellamy—

It hurt too much to see him. Why was it that Murphy— Murphy —could see the truth but Bellamy was so convinced by the lie? He knows her, or knew her, Clarke guesses, because it’s been a while now and obviously if he’d known her as well as she thought he did he wouldn’t have done this. Wouldn’t have left her. He was supposed to be her best friend, he was supposed to lov—

Clarke can’t even bear to think it.

In the end, she goes back. She goes back partially because she wants to prove it to herself—that she’s done nothing wrong, that they can’t scare her away—but mostly because she’s lonely. She’s lonely and the only two people who seem remotely invested in her wellbeing these days are a pair of bartenders. Plus, she feels a little bad about leaving so abruptly, and not saying anything to Lincoln. He’d been nothing but kind to her, and she doesn’t doubt that her continued absence has caused him more than a little bit of worry.

The night she goes back though, it’s just Luna. And maybe it’s better that way. Luna may be kind to her, in her odd intense way, but she never says anything personal. Never asks questions Clarke doesn’t want to answer, which is most of them. She doesn’t prod the way Lincoln does sometimes, she just— looks.

Tonight it’s a brief glance over the glasses she’s drying that makes Clarke feel like her soul has just been fully x-rayed. 

“You’re not dead then,” she says blithely.

Clarke takes her seat, shrugging with all the casualness she can manage, which to be frank is not very much. “Not yet.”

Her skin is itchy and anxious being back here, and she tries to make it look natural as she peers  around the room, searching—

“He already left.”

Clarke all but freezes. “He— who?”

Luna gives her an assessing look, sliding her drink across the bar. Clarke takes it and gulps it down gratefully, avoiding the other woman’s eyes. Luna, unlike Lincoln, does not garnish the drink with little paper umbrellas.

“Lincoln,” Luna says after a long pause. “Who else?”

Clarke shrugs again. She knew Lincoln had already left, he always left at 6:30 on Thursdays, and Clarke was late leaving work. She hadn’t expected him to be here, but then again, she doesn’t think Luna believes she had either. Clarke isn’t sure how she knows about the situation, or exactly how much. It doesn’t matter of course, because at least she won’t say it.

She doesn’t stay long that night, still too antsy from the last time to get comfortable. Her house is still quiet and dark and sad, but she doesn’t have to worry there. She doesn’t have to feel the odd mix of feelings her old friends bring out in her: sadness, and guilt, and impotent rage. It’s not her fault, what happened, Clarke knows it isn’t but— sometimes it feels a little bit like it is. Sometimes she thinks if she just hadn’t gone outside, if she’d told Bellamy when he’d asked, if she’d been honest with anyone about how uncomfortable Finn made her feel before the party, then maybe—

And Finn, he was insane, but— did she lead him on somehow? It seemed so ludicrous that he could’ve made it all up in his head, and Clarke knows that. Knows that when she told Raven, that it must’ve seemed like a prank, because that’s how it had felt to Clarke. And Bellamy hates Finn, or hated him, so why would he take him at his word? Did he truly believe Finn’s story or did he think— Clarke doesn’t know, did he think that maybe it had been mutual? Because Clarke had lied to him, had told him that Finn hadn’t— but Bellamy had seen her. He knew that something had happened, whether or not he believed the lies.

She thinks that’s the worst part.

Bellamy knows something happened. What he must think of her—

Okay, so maybe her house isn’t safe. At least not from her thoughts, which is why she’d started going out in the first place.

She sighs heavily, and begins to get ready for bed. Clarke can’t keep doing this, not anymore.

****

In her defense, she knows she’s self sabotaging.

Or, maybe she wouldn’t exactly call it that, but she’s fully aware that this— the way she’s handling her anxiety—is not a healthy coping mechanism. She knows it’s avoidance, and it won’t help her in the long term, and that it may even fuck things up more in the short term but—

Well, when has that ever stopped her?

She doesn’t want to face Lincoln again, doesn’t want to see the concern, doesn’t want to know how he knows Bellamy. Doesn’t want to know whether Bellamy’s told him about Clarke’s supposed wrongdoings.

She doesn’t want to face him, at least not alone, so Clarke, in a fit of uncharacteristic cowardice, invites a Tinder date to the bar the next night. 

She has to go back and see Lincoln, she knows that, but she can’t— handle that by herself. She’s not sure what she’s more scared of: someone caring about her, or the possibility that he might not anymore.

And this, Clarke thinks, is why she didn’t want to learn the bartenders names.

She gets ready in the bathroom after work, changing into a dress that’s a little less uptight and professional, letting her hair down, and doing her makeup with a little more care than is strictly necessary. She looks— worse, she knows, even worse than she had before; and she doesn’t want to get accused of catfishing, or worry Lincoln any more than she already has.

When she’s done, she looks almost— normal, at least normal enough. Almost like she used to, before all of this happened. If she smiled, and she meant it, she might actually look happy. Pretty. She looks like someone who’s actually excited to be going on a date on a Friday night, instead of someone who is doing so solely to avoid an awkward conversation.

Clarke frowns at her reflection and pulls her hair back up. She doesn’t want to be giving her date any ideas.

She meets him at the train station by the bar, and he gives her a somewhat uncomfortable hug in greeting. Clarke promptly forgets his name, but in her defense, it’s not like she chose her date based on merits. Her criteria for tonight were someone: A. with the perceptiveness of a piece of cardboard, and B. douche-y enough she won’t feel bad about leading them on. By the look of him—brawny and jocky and far too overconfident for a man un-ironically wearing designer jeans—Clarke has hit the nail on the head.

From the look Lincoln gives her when they enter the bar, perhaps a bit too on the head. He looks happy to see her at least, but—

Well, it’s a good thing Clarke is used to disappointing her friends at this point.

They end up sitting at the very corner of the bar in the front, with Clarke facing the window to the street, her date facing down the length of the bar. When Lincoln comes over to take their orders, she swivels back toward him, giving him a slightly guilty smile.

“Clarke,” he greets her, his tone a mix of admonishment and relief. “Good to see you again.”

She opens her mouth to reply but her date jumps over her before she’s got a chance. “We’ll take two Old Fashioneds.”

Lincoln raises an eyebrow at the man’s presumptuousness, glancing at Clarke. “Will you now?”

She winces a little bit. She may have overshot on this guy when it came to the “douche” aspect. Still, she smiles weakly. “Sounds good to me.”

It does not sound good to her, and from the unimpressed look Lincoln gives her he is fully aware of that. They’d had a long conversation one night with Luna about just how much Clarke hated brown alcohols, how they made her flush. And she’s never been one for bitters either. An Old Fashioned is just about her worst nightmare cocktail, and Lincoln knows it. She is dreading its arrival.

Her date talks at her while they wait, not bothering to ask Clarke any questions or wait for her to contribute. It’s annoying, but predictable. Clarke tries to at least pretend to pay attention, but her eyes keep flicking to the door, waiting— or not waiting, because waiting implies expectation. She’s just watching. Checking. 

It takes Lincoln longer than usual to make their drinks. Or, well, Clarke assumes it does. She’s not exactly sure how long it takes to make an Old Fashioned, having definitively never ordered one before, but it feels like it’s taking longer than it needs to.

When he does finally come back over, he slides a basket of fries in between them before setting their drinks down.

“For the wait,” he informs them magnanimously, and Clarke rolls her eyes. The fries likely were the wait.

Lincoln gives her a meaningful look before leaving, jerking his chin towards the food. Eat .

She shakes her head at him in fond annoyance, but grabs a few fries anyway. She is sort of hungry, and besides, she really is not interested in drinking her drink. Unfortunately, her date eventually notices that reluctance, pausing his monologue to push the glass closer to her. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes, smiling in a way that is almost charming. “It’s classy. You’ll like it.”

She will not, and she will especially not like the hot flash that comes with it. Her date glances down at her glass and frowns slightly, and Clarke follows his gaze. She snorts at the garish cocktail umbrella that has definitely not been included her date’s drink. Yes, that screams classy.

Feeling generous, she takes a sip, and nearly jolts in surprise. She takes another gulp. Whatever Lincoln had made her certainly looked like an Old Fashioned, but it didn’t taste anything like one. Apple juice and vodka maybe, or iced tea, or—

“Good, right?” He grins at her expectantly and she nods around the urge to laugh, smiling back. 

“Very.”

He looks satisfied with her answer, or at least satisfied enough to start monologuing again. Clarke is still smirking, holding back a snort as she turns to find Lincoln, to give him a look, but then—

Oh.

Down the bar, sitting grumpily across from a cheerful Lincoln, is Bellamy Blake. Clarke’s breath catches in her throat, heartbeat stuttering as he meets her eyes with no surprise, like he knew she was looking, like he knew she was there, which he probably did. His lips are set in a hard line, expression dark, but he doesn’t look away.

Clarke whips her head back around so fast she almost falls off her stool.

Her date gives her an odd look. “Are you okay?”

Clarke starts to shake her head and changes her mind halfway through, nodding instead. “Yes, fine, I just—” Her voice is breathy, panicked, and she has to stop for a second to collect herself. As she does, the anxiety begins to change shape, twisting into something ugly, something bitter. “All good, just a head rush.”

This is her bar, her space. Bellamy hasn’t come once in the weeks she’s been going here, not before that night, so why would he be here again now? He’s here because she’s here, and Clarke isn’t going to let him scare her off. Not again. 

She takes a gulp of her drink and flashes a winning smile, the one she used to use at her mom’s press events back when she was a kid. She sees it work, sees it dazzle this doofus right out of any questions he might have had.

Clarke downs the rest of her drink and smiles again, leaning forward.

“I think we should get another round.”

He leans in as well, placing his hand on Clarke’s thigh under the bar. His eyes glint, and Clarke resists the urge to slap his hand away. 

“I think that’s a great idea.”

****

For what it’s worth, which is very little, Clarke realizes that this is not the way she should be dealing with this.

She’s an adult, and so is Bellamy. She should ignore him, or confront him directly, and she should do it somewhere that is not a public bar, and when she does not have an idiot man trying to fuck her. She really should not do what she does, which is get absolutely shit-faced drunk.

Well, that, and act like she is in love with her date whose name she cannot remember. She laughs at his jokes like he’s the funniest person she’s ever met, loud and trilling, making sure Bellamy can hear. She puts her hand on his arm, leans in close. She doesn’t shrug off his wandering hands, even when they get alarming close to straight up public groping.

It’s behavior that she herself hates, and that she has never once indulged in, not even when she was a dumb teenager. And it’s deeply, deeply petty. 

She wants to hurt Bellamy, or— no, that’s not it. She wants to prove to him that he hasn’t hurt her. That she’s doing fine without him, without the rest of them. That she’s better off without people who don’t trust her or believe her. That she’s happy.

Which is a lie, of course. The biggest lie.

She can’t help the impulse to glance over at him, to see if he’s watching, so she lets her hair down instead, using it as a curtain to curtail her urges. It floats down around her shoulders like a wall, and she laughs as her date reaches forward to tug at a wavy blonde curl.

“You’re really pretty,” he tells her, awed in an almost dopey way, and Clarke smiles. She does not look behind her.

If she did, she’d see Bellamy’s expression tighten even further, spine rigid as a man facing the gallows. But she doesn’t.

Lincoln, for his part, does make an attempt to slow her down, but Clarke will not be stopped. She eats her fries, and she orders her own drinks, so that he knows she’s choosing this, as stupid a choice as it may be. And for as friendly as they’ve become, he’s still the bartender. His job is to make drinks. Clarke holds her liquor alarmingly well, at least outwardly, so he has no reason to cut her off, though she can tell he deeply wants to.

She can feel her thoughts getting woozier, floating around in her head instead of forming clear narratives. She hasn’t been this drunk since the early days of her bar-hopping, and it’s definitely not her best idea, but— at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. She’s warm—a little too warm really—and her cheeks are flushed pink, eyes glassy.

And her date—she frowns slightly, wrinkling her nose—her date is getting too close. She scoots back from him. “I’m hot.”

“Yeah?” he asks, voice a little too eager. His hand is wrapped around hers, and she can’t quite remember when that happened. It’s sweaty. “Do you want to go?”

That sounds like a great idea to Clarke. She’ll be able to breathe outside, where it’s dark, and the air is cold. And then she can go home, and go to sleep. Alone. It’s too hard to breathe in here, her chest tight like she’s being squeezed around the ribs. She used to know why that was, but not anymore. It’s all— blurry, which was exactly the point.

“Sure.”

So they cash out their tab, and Clarke gets unsteadily to her feet. Lincoln tries to stop her, grabbing her arm and murmuring in protest, but she shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“Clarke,” he says pleadingly, giving her date a doubtful look over her shoulder. “I really don’t think, I mean, that guy—”

She snorts before he can finish. “Trust me, I know. Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

He doesn’t look reassured, but Clarke slips away before he can argue his point any more. It’s almost funny, the concern, like it matters what happens to her. Her only friend these days, the only person who cares about her— and he’s just her bartender.

Clarke hiccups out a laugh.

Her date looks over at her curiously as they step out onto the sidewalk. “What’s so funny?”

She shakes her head and stops a few buildings down from the bar, tilting her chin up towards the sky and sticking her arms out, letting the air cool her flushed skin. “Nothing.”

Her eyes are closed, reveling in the feeling, but they jolt open as a body presses against hers. Her date grins crookedly at her from far too close, wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her into the shadowed niche of a storefront.

Her heart squeezes hard in her chest. She recognizes something about this, something familiar about the hands, the shadows, the orange streetlights. It’s not clicking but she knows this, knows something is wrong, knows she shouldn’t be here.

She tries to pull away but he’s too close, too close and he’s got one hand under her thigh, hiking it up over his hip and putting her off balance. 

“Been wanting to do this all night,” he murmurs, and Clarke just wants to go home, she just wants him to stop touching her, wants to get on the train and ride across town, wants to lock herself in her house and sleep.

The wave of deja vu makes her almost dizzy, and when she blinks he’s leaning in. Her eyes close involuntarily, head straining back, but his hand is wrapped in her hair. “Wait, no—”

His lips touch hers for only a fraction of a second before he’s thrown bodily off her. His fingers rip through her hair as he goes, tearing out strands even as he releases his grip in surprise. Tears spring to Clarke’s eyes, and she gasps in pain.

Bellamy is standing over the semi-prone body of her date on the sidewalk, glowering. He shifts Clarke behind him, looming protectively in front of her. 

“She said no.”

Clarke is stunned silent, unable to process what is happening. Her date puts his hands up in supplication, shrinking into the ground. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean—”

Bellamy kicks him in the stomach hard once, then twice. A third time, and there’s a sound like a crack as his foot connects with ribs.

Clarke lurches into action then, grabbing Bellamy’s arm and pulling him back. He holds still for a moment longer before letting her, stepping away from the groaning man on the sidewalk, but his rage is still palpable, barely contained. She pulls at him until he turns, shifting his attention long enough to allow her former date to scramble to his feet and skitter off into the night. Bellamy’s eyes are dark as he searches her face, drinking in her features. “Are you okay?”

His hand reaches up to touch her cheek, so gentle and soft that it makes Clarke choke. She turns her face away from his touch with a flinch, and his hands drop limply back to his sides.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly, shoving his hands in his pockets and stepping back. “I shouldn’t have—”

There’s something guilty in his expression, like he’s done something she didn’t want, and that’s not right, that’s not what she meant. “No, I—”

Bellamy shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine, and it’s becoming increasingly less fine with every second Clarke spends standing here with him staring at her like, like—

Like she matters.

Clarke turns away from him, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer. Her arms wrap around herself protectively.

“Did you follow me?” she asks quietly, words almost muffled. Bellamy doesn’t respond, but his uneasy silence is answer enough. Clarke nods. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer that one either, lips pressed together tight, shoulders stiff, and Clarke lets out a resigned sigh. She’s too drunk, too shaken, too— tired, to do this tonight.

“Fine,” she says, and starts towards the train station.

“Clarke, wait,” Bellamy says, reaching for her wrist. She shakes him off and keeps walking. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” She marches forward stubbornly, feeling him a step behind her.

“Wait, you can’t—” Bellamy groans, hissing through his teeth. His eyebrows knit together in frustration. “Please stop.”

She has no intention of doing so but her drunken body betrays her, stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk. Bellamy catches her before she falls, and it’s the way he lunges for her, the way he looks her over with frantic eyes before setting her on her feet, the way he carefully takes his hands off her as soon as she’s steady, afraid of violating her space— 

Tears bead up in her eyes anew, so fast she can’t quite choke them back. Her chest convulses around a silent sob, hands darting out to scrub the wet shine from her cheeks.

“Clarke,” he says softly, slowly, his voice so tight it sounds like he’s in physical pain. “Please let me drive you home.”

“You can’t drive,” she accuses tearfully. “You were at the bar too, for longer than me even.”

His eyes are dark and earnest, full of something Clarke doesn’t know how to interpret. He holds her gaze with steady intensity, and she can’t look away.

“I wasn’t there to drink.”

She wants to ask him why, then? Why was he there, why had he invaded her bar, why had he come back when he knew she would be there—

No.

No, that can’t be— 

But she looks at him, and she reads the truth of it in his eyes, and she can’t let herself think about that. Clarke turns her head, looks away. Her teeth dig into her cheek.

“Okay,” she allows, and he relaxes slightly. 

“Okay.”

There’s an awkward moment then, where he would’ve taken her hand, before. When they were still— friends, or whatever it was they were. She can feel it, the moment where he almost does, almost reaches out, and she wraps her arms back around herself before he can try. Bellamy swallows, his throat ticking, and nods. He jerks his chin down the block. “I’m over there.”

Clarke follows him, the silence between them awkward and stilted and heavy. It feels so weird to climb into the passenger seat of his car, the space so familiar and comfortable and Bellamy, feeling like home after all this time.

She bites her lip before she can start to cry again.

Bellamy opens the door and slides heavily into the driver’s seat beside her. He buckles his seatbelt and puts the keys in the ignition, but he doesn’t turn them. Instead, his hands move to the wheel, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turn white. Clarke watches his jaw flex.

He’s unhappy.

“I can call an Uber,” she offers blankly, and Bellamy’s head swivels towards her, blinking at her in confusion. 

“Why would you do that?”

She tries to keep her voice matter-of-fact, but the answer, when it comes, is still broken.

“Because you hate me.”

His eyes are intense, expression pained. “I don’t—” He takes a deep breath, turning his head back to his hands and staring straight forward. “I don’t hate you, Clarke.”

It sounds like a confession, like an admission of guilt. 

“But you want to,” she accuses. 

There’s an easy way for her to fix this, some part of her thinks dimly, but she’s too drunk to remember exactly what it is. Something she could say, something she’s supposed to tell him—

“I did.”

Clarke watches him carefully, her head tilting. “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” Bellamy agrees stiffly.

And suddenly she’s just tired, the weight of the night dropping down onto her bones like a an anvil, but it’s not bad, not necessarily. She yawns and settles her head back against the window, blinking heavily against a wave of exhaustion. Clarke feels warm, but not in the uncomfortable way she had in the bar earlier. More like a blanket, or a hug. “Why not?”

Bellamy closes his eyes. “I—” He pauses, teeth clenching. “I should. I just don’t think it’s possible.”

That’s good, she thinks. He looks so far away, even sitting here next to her. She watches him let out a breath, watches his eyes open. He finally starts the car, pulling away from the curb, and this— she knows him like this. Sitting beside her. Driving her home.

“I miss you,” she tells him sleepily.

“Clarke—” he says tightly, but she’s still going.

“I’m sorry I lied.”

It’s imperative to her now for some reason that he know this. Even if it was for the right reasons, she’s still sorry. She hadn’t done it because she didn’t trust him, or because—

“I know.”

Her eyes slide shut and she nods, relaxing. “I was going to tell you the truth,” she promises. “After— after I told Raven.” Her lips purse. “But then—”

Clarke shrugs. He knows what happened. She doesn’t need to repeat it.

“You could’ve told me first. When— when I asked. I would’ve—” He stops for a second before spitting out the last word like it tastes rotten on his tongue. “ Understood.”

She hums noncommittally, because his understanding had never been the problem.

The car pulls to a stop at a light, and Bellamy swallows audibly. “Did you— did you love him?”

Clarke frowns, opening one slitted eye. “Who?”

“Finn.”

Her eyebrows knit together and she closes her eyes again with a huff. “Of course not.”

“Then why—?” Bellamy chokes out.

Why did you do it? he means to say, but Clarke’s drunk brain misinterprets, unable to keep straight what he does and doesn’t already know. The question she answers instead is: Why did you lie?

“Because I knew you’d do that,” she says, gesturing vaguely out the window towards the sidewalk. They’ve long since passed the block the bar was on, but her meaning is clear. “Like tonight. And it was Raven’s birthday.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the seat beside her.

Clarke sighs, rolling her head towards the window. “I would’ve let you,” she mumbles. “Just not on her birthday.”

****

She wakes up to a soft touch, a hand cupping her jaw. It’s warm, and she sighs.

“Do you want to walk in?” he murmurs, and her eyebrows pull together.

He’s still—they aren’t friends anymore. She shouldn’t make him act like he did when they were, no matter how much she wishes he would. She shouldn’t make him hold her like they’re still— like he—

“I can,” she says weakly. She can, and she will. All she has to do is open her eyes, and stand up, and—

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, then softer: “Princess.” His thumb strokes gently over her cheek. “Do you want to?”

It’s— some kind of permission. She’s too tired to understand it, too tired to try but— her lips purse together. Clarke shakes her head. “No.”

And she reaches for him.

Bellamy meets her halfway, scooping her up as her arms wrap around his neck. She presses her face into his chest and inhales deeply, luxuriating in the familiar scent. She sways a little with each step he takes, the rocking motion soothing her back to the very edge of sleep.

The keys to her house are still on his keychain, and they jingle as he unlocks the door and carries her in. It all feels so— right, in a way things haven’t felt in ages. Clarke sighs happily.

“I love you,” she murmurs into his throat, and feels the misstep as his feet nearly stumble. His grip tightens.

“Clarke—” Bellamy breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re drunk.”

She shrugs as best she can while still held solidly in his arms, and curls further into his warmth. She is drunk, it’s true, but Clarke can’t see why it should be relevant. She had loved him well before that.

That’s why it had all hurt so bad.

Her eyes finally open again as he lays her gently in her bed. Bellamy sits beside her for a moment, carefully pulling off her shoes and setting them on the floor, then pulling the blankets up to cover her. 

“You left me,” she accuses blearily, blinking up at him through heavy eyes. 

He freezes, then nods. “I did.” He sinks back down beside her, stroking the hair away from her face. Clarke’s eyelids flutter. “I’m sorry.”

She nods back, letting out a low hum. “I wish you’d stay.”

A long moment passes, silent.

“Tonight?” Bellamy asks, and the question is so, so soft. 

Clarke lets her shoulders rise then fall in a weak shrug. “Always.”

****

She wakes up in the morning with a dry mouth and a pounding headache.

She’s still in her dress from last night, not to mention her bra, and the first thing she does is change. She grabs a tank top and shorts, manages to pull them on before she’s even certain she’s fully opened her eyes.

It’s not that Clarke doesn’t remember how she got home, or with whom. It’s just that she doesn’t even begin to think about it. She drags herself out of the room without a thought, shuffling zombie-like to the bathroom. She pees, brushes her teeth, and washes her face, like it’s a normal Saturday, and nothing has happened. It’s not until she goes back to her room and trips over her neatly lined up shoes that it all comes back with a jolt.

Bellamy.

Oh god.

She— she told him everything, she thinks. Everything, and she really means that. The dread that she’s been managing to avoid so far—not to mention the treacherous, treacherous hope—drops her stomach like a stone. 

Oh god.

Clarke flops down onto her bed, dropping her face into her hands. Her memories are hazy and disjointed, but she thinks they’re complete. But had he— Did Bellamy—?

She groans, and stands back up. Coffee. She needs some coffee at least, before she allows herself to start spiraling. Dizzily, she makes her way down the stairs to the living room, then though to the kitchen, and—

Clarke stops abruptly.

He’s there. Bellamy stands across the room from her, in front of the sink. There’s a mug in his hands, and he’s looking out the window into her tiny courtyard, his dark curls lit up by the morning sun.

She’s not sure exactly how she would describe the sound she lets out—a gasp, maybe, or a squeak—but he startles when he hears it, and turns to face her. He takes one step forward, his lips curling into a tentative smile.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice a low, warm rumble, and Clarke nearly bursts into tears right there. Honestly, she’s surprised she manages not to.

“Bellamy,” she says, still frozen in the entryway.

His lips bend downwards slightly, expression shuttering just a little. It makes her chest ache to watch. When he speaks again, the words are hesitant, like she’s a startled deer. “You asked me to stay.”

Clarke swallows hard, chest spasming. “I did.”

She takes a careful step forward, and then another one, until she can hang onto the corner of the kitchen island for support. Bellamy’s throat ticks, eyes flicking to where her fingers cling to the wood for dear life.

“I can go,” he offers, but it’s clear that’s not what he wants. It’s not what Clarke wants either, at least not really. “It’s fine if you didn’t—”

Mean it, he tries to say, but the words won’t come. Which is good, because Clarke doesn’t want to hear them. 

She shakes her head. “I did.”

They stand in awkward silence for a moment, not meeting each other's eyes. After a breath, Bellamy turns, grabbing a mug and pushing it towards her. Clarke looks down at it.

Coffee. Just the right amount of milk.

She blinks back the pressure behind her eyes and picks up the mug, gesturing with it. “Thanks.”

Bellamy nods.

The sun streams in from the window, illuminating microscopic bits of dust that float through the air, spreading the light softly across the room. Her cul-de-sac is tiny and quiet, but if she listens hard she can hear the cars driving past on the main street, some distant honking, the odd bark of a dog or shout of a pedestrian. Where that had all felt lonely—isolating even—when it was just her alone, with Bellamy here now, standing across from her— 

It feels warm. Safe.

She takes a sip of her coffee. 

Clarke breathes out. Bellamy breathes in.

“I’m a little angry with you,” she says finally. She’s not sure how long it’s been, but her mug is half empty. Or half full, Clarke guesses. Either way.

“You should be,” he allows, a gentle admission. “I’m sorry.”

Clarke nods, and takes another sip of coffee. “For what?”

His chin dips, forehead creasing. “For— everything.” It’s a cop out answer, and they both know it, but he elaborates before she has to say so. “For making you think you needed to lie to me. For not trusting you. For believing Raven, even when that meant believing Finn. For not answering my phone. For—” Bellamy swallows here, his eyes falling to the floor. “For leaving you. Letting you be alone.”

He lets out a deep breath before continuing. “Even if you had— done something, I shouldn’t have left you alone. I shouldn’t have cut you out without even giving you a chance to explain. I shouldn’t have let everyone else do it too. Raven is—” he winces. “Well, you know how she is. But that was never the issue, not for me. It wasn’t fair for me to punish you for not telling me everything.”

Clarke fidgets, nodding slightly. “I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “It shouldn’t have mattered.”

“He—” Clarke swallows, feeling tears prick at her eyes. “I just went to check if he was okay. But Finn thought— he had some insane idea that we had something going on, that we were, like, pining after each other from afar. He grabbed me, and told me he was going to leave Raven, so we could be together. He’d backed me up against the wall, so there was nowhere to go. I tried to tell him he was making a mistake, tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen.” 

She exhales shakily, the breath stuttering as it leaves her lungs. “He kissed me.”

Bellamy lets out a strangled hiss, his free hand clenching into a fist. Clarke wishes she could feel that, could muster up the energy to be angry, but she can only shrug.

“I— I had to push him off, and I told him— I told him I didn’t want him, and that I never would. He didn’t like that, he tried to come at me, but then—”

“I showed up.”

Clarke nods, picking haltingly at her nails. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You—” He lets out a low sound, like an inside-out laugh, and rakes his fingers back through his hair. “You probably made the right decision.” 

She looks up at him sharply, surprised. “What?”

“I, uh—” Bellamy shifts almost guiltily before he says it. He’s so gentle about it when he does finally speak, like he’s afraid his admission will scare her. Like he could scare her. “I would’ve killed him.”

There’s beat of hesitation as he weighs his next words. “I still might.”

Clarke blinks at him for a moment, silent, and then the corners of her lips shift almost imperceptibly upwards. “I know.”

Acceptance. Trust. Hesitant, tentative forgiveness.

They stare at each other, the air still thick with tension, and yet the two of them begin to relax. Their muscles loosen, two mouths tilting crookedly into almost smiles. They’re quiet for a while, just looking. It feels good, right. After a few long minutes Bellamy sets down his mug, leaning against the edge of the counter behind him. “I haven’t finished apologizing.”

Clarke tilts her head. “No?”

“No,” he says firmly, and she feels her heart stutter expectantly in her chest. “I’m sorry for not saying it when I felt it. For not telling you when I knew.”

He doesn’t explain further, but Clarke knows what he means, of course she knows. She goes completely, entirely still, hardly daring to breathe. 

“When?”

Bellamy grins at her choice of question. Not what, not why, but when.

“Last night,” he says with a shrug, “Or that night. Six months ago.” He pushes away from the counter, puts himself in front of her. His hand finds her cheek. “Three years ago, or five, or seven. Take your pick.”

Clarke laughs almost breathlessly and he smiles. “But it’s only been seven years since we met!”

Her cheeks are wet but she’s smiling too, she’s smiling so much it almost hurts, and Bellamy strokes the pad of his finger over the corner of her lips.

“Exactly,” he tells her.

Exactly.

Clarke kisses him first.

She has to stand on her tip-toes to do it, her arms wrapping around Bellamy’s neck, but he leans down to meet her, hunching his shoulders helpfully. Their lips press together once, dry and soft and hesitant, and then she opens her mouth, leans in further. 

Bellamy follows her intensity, sucking her bottom lip between his teeth, tasting her tongue. They paw at each other clumsily, hungry and overeager, and the kiss goes on and on. When his neck starts to hurt from the angle he hikes her up against him, settling her ass on the kitchen island so their faces are level, and that’s even better. 

“I was going to make you breakfast,” he tells her between kisses. “But you don’t have any food in your fridge.” 

Clarke shakes her head, dragging him back towards her by his shirt. She’s far too distracted to  even begin to feel embarrassed about the state of her kitchen. “That’s okay.”

Bellamy shakes his head but gives in almost instantly, dropping kisses across her face. “We’re going to the grocery store after this.”

She laughs, and nods. His lips find hers again.

Clarke wraps her legs around his hips, drawing him close, feeling the length of his body pressed against hers. His hands can’t seem to decide where to go, skating up her spine, sinking into the hair at her nape, circling her waist. One of them settles against her collarbone, thumb brushing against the hollow of her throat, and she hums happily.

Bellamy smiles, murmuring the words against her lips. “I love you.”

She sighs into his mouth, lips curving up to match his. “I love you too.”

He kisses her again and it’s warm, and it’s good, and it’s safe, and Clarke loves him.

She loves him, and he loves her. It’s everything. It’s enough.

Maybe her relationship with Raven is unsalvageable, maybe her other friends will never believe her. But they might, once they actually hear her side. She’s never even tried to tell them, never tried to fight. They might believe her. And even if they don’t, she’ll survive. Murphy believes her, and she has Lincoln now, and even Luna. And Bellamy— she has Bellamy. 

She has Bellamy, finally, in the way she’s always wanted. In the way she’s always needed. Her best friend, and her— hers .

It will be okay.

Clarke thinks that it really might be okay.