Work Text:
Clarke Griffin was a badass. Well, she was a sort of baby badass, constantly having to prove that she was more than her privileged, “right side of the tracks” upbringing. But regardless, she was not the type of girl to get all tangled up over a guy. But wouldn’t any red-blooded human get a little upset over a betrayal of Finn’s caliber?
The day started out normally enough. She and the girls skipped out of school after lunch, despite the fact that they didn’t really have anything better to do. But as far as their little gang was concerned driving around in Clarke’s convertible drinking milkshakes was infinitely preferable to sitting Home Ec, learning how to be the perfect wives and mothers. Clarke’s second in command, Monroe, sat shotgun, fiddling with the radio until she found some Drifters chart-topper that would satisfy everyone. Harper, Fox, and Octavia were smushed into the back seat, which led to Octavia wriggling up to sit up top.
“Hey, get down,” Clarke called back to her. “Or at least take the jacket off.” Clarke’s mother tolerated her teenage rebellion (mainly because she was convinced it was just her way of coping with her father’s death, and maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t) so long as she didn’t draw too much attention to herself. Driving around town at 1 o’clock on a Friday with Octavia’s jacket on full display, The Delinquents’ logo printed across the back, was the opposite of subtle. The Delinquents were hardly the best-known gang in town-- hell, they weren’t even the best-known all-girl gang in town-- but people knew good and well who they were, and word would get back to Abby before Clarke had even dropped off the other girls.
Rolling her eyes, Octavia stripped off her jacket and gave her neck scarf a little fluff. “Are we going to Jaha’s? I need sugar.”
Clarke nodded. Her friend Wells worked the diner during the day, and he wouldn’t rat them out for playing hooky. If anyone knew about her recent overwhelming claustrophobia with, well, her entire life, it was him.
It took all of ten minutes to get to Jaha’s, and the girls practically bolted out of the car. (Hey, Jaha’s had the best shakes in town, okay?) Octavia was first through the door, but she skidded to a halt, causing the other four to slam into each other’s backs.
“What the hell?” Fox demanded, peering around the brunette’s shoulder.
Octavia spun on her heel, face blank but eyes still wide. “I don’t think we should...go here today. Let’s go to Polis instead.”
Clarke scoffed. “Polis is Grounder turf, O, and I don’t feel like dealing with Lexa’s brooding, glare-y crap today. We’re not going there. What’s wrong with here?”
“I- we...well, it’s really just that-”, the younger girl finally snapped her mouth shut and shook her head.
Fox had finally gotten a peek around her shoulder, and she too was wordlessly shaking her head, shoulder-to-shoulder with Octavia, blocking the doorway. “It’s just not a good idea, Clarke. You don’t wanna go in there.”
The blonde’s eyes narrowed as she cocked a defiant brow. “Really?” One of the more unfortunate parts of her claustrophobia was her total and complete refusal to do what she was told, unless it absolutely suited her interests. “I suggest you move and let me decide that for myself.”
Octavia and Fox exchanged a look, something along the lines of, “We tried, she’s asking for it,” and stood aside. Monroe followed close at Clarke’s heels as she stormed past them.
For a second, Clarke couldn’t see what the other’s had been so freaked out by. But as she scanned the inside of the diner, her gaze fell on the wavy hair of one Finn Collins, her steady of a whole month and the first boy she had dated since her father’s accident. It had taken him two weeks to convince her to go on a date with him, as she eyed his shaggy hair and weirdly bohemian shell necklace with disdain, but she had finally given in. After a few dates, she had to admit that he was a charming guy, all earnest eyes and sincere-sounding compliments. He had recently offered her his letter sweater (for track and field, of all things) which she had politely declined, but the gesture marked a certain seriousness of their relationship. The other girls had teased her for it, but none of them could deny that he was an appealing guy.
His appeal plummeted as Clarke took in the girl sitting next to him, snuggled into his side. As she reached across the table for the tall Coke with two straws, a ring flashed on her left hand. It was gold and bulky-- a men’s ring. Finn’s. All of a sudden, Clarke felt like every molecule of oxygen had disappeared from her blood, leaving her cold and flat. Without consciously deciding to, she strode with a crackling, thundercloud sort of calm over to their booth. God, they were even sitting on the same side.
She fingered the zipper of her jacket for a second, its teeth reminding her that the other Delinquents stood ready at the door, watching her back, and slid into the seat across from the couple. “Hi,” she smiled warmly at the other girl, who, she saw, was lean and tan and essentially perfect. Her jacket bore the crest of the public school across town.
The girl eyed her, puzzled and seemingly unimpressed. “Hi. Do I know you?”
Clarke’s hackles raised at the girl’s tone, but she reminded herself that this situation was almost certainly not her fault. If she didn’t recognize Clarke, chances were good that she didn’t know Finn already had a girlfriend. “Nope,” she replied cheerily, “but your boyfriend does.”
Looking over at the Finn, whose mouth had been opening and closing like a fish, the girl cocked her head. “Babe?”
Finally, Finn spoke, but it was to Clarke. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Um,” the other girl looked between the other two, “I’m pretty sure it is. I mean, if it looks like we’re together, that’s exactly what it is.”
Clarke pursed her lips and nodded. “Thought so. Well, as luck would have it, so are we.” Then she reconsidered. “Actually, I should say we were, as of, oh...right now.” She levelled a glare at Finn, who was staring at her pleadingly.
“Funny,” girl bit out, “because we’ve been together since we were fourteen. So you’ll forgive me if I’m a little confused.”
Holy shit. Fourteen. Clarke was almost breathless when she said, “I had no idea. We’ve been dating for the last month. Month and a half, if you count how long he followed me around first. Had I known about you...” She glared at Finn with every ounce of disgust she had in her.
The other girl looked just as stunned as she was, rounding on Finn. “Are you kidding me? You changed schools and started chasing after another girl?”
“I moved!” he cried. “I didn’t know if we were still together, since we don’t go to the same school, and we’re not neighbors anymore!”
“You moved three blocks away, you ass!” The girl turned to Clarke with wide, questioning eyes, and they shared a moment of weird and unexpected solidarity.
Once again, Clarke’s brain seemed to detach from the rest of her body as she reached out and silently backhanded the huge soda onto Finn’s lap. He looked so utterly shocked as the sticky liquid dripped down his cheek, it was almost like he had no idea what he had done wrong. “Screw you,” Clarke snarled, then turned to the other girl. “You, I like. I’m Clarke Griffin. Look me up some time. I feel like we’d have plenty to talk about.”
“Raven Reyes,” the girl nodded, a vicious smile blooming. “And I think you might be right. Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime.”
With a single sharp nod, Clarke turned and left them behind; she could already hear Raven’s accusatory voice laying into the boy at her side. Good.
She stomped out of the diner without a word, and The Delinquents followed.
“What the hell was that?” Octavia called, hot on her heels.
“Finn’s girlfriend.”
Octavia goggled at her as she hopped into the back seat once again. “Seriously? What a bitch!”
Clarke shook her head. “Don’t be like that. It wasn’t her fault. Believe it or not, I was the other woman. Apparently, they’ve been together since they were kids.”
The other girls spent the rest of the drive alternating between consoling their impassive leader and dragging the cheating Finn’s name through the dirt. Clarke hardly spoke except to say goodbye as she dropped them all off unceremoniously at their respective houses. Normally, they would’ve hung out until late in the evening, but they all seemed to understand that their friend needed to be alone.
She waited until she was home, upstairs in her bathroom (the only room without a smoke detector), and sitting in her bathtub with the pack of Marlboro Reds she kept tucked into her sock drawer before she finally let herself cry. After stress-smoking her way through eight cigarettes, lining the spent butts up on the edge of the tub, Clarke realized that she had made a grave mistake; her body basically felt like it was packed full of dirt, as it always did when she smoked too much. (She had spent the three weeks following her father’s death feeling like she had inhaled a graveyard. Which hadn’t helped.) Resolutely, she held her breath and plunged underwater.
Clarke spent the next hour exfoliating, scrubbing, massaging, and cleansing every inch of her skin that still felt the shadow of Finn’s hands lingering on her. The soft mint of her soap washed away the smell of smoke as she tried to wash away the ugly, used feeling that she just couldn’t seem to shake. What was she, some sort of distraction from a four-year relationship? He had seemed so honest and enthusiastic. How had she been stupid enough to not realize that he had a girlfriend? There had to have been some sign, somewhere, and she had missed it. Thoughts like that were nasty and probably untrue, so she visualized them swirling down the drain before toweling herself off and collapsing onto her bed, completely exhausted.
By the time she woke up, it was dark, but her mother still wasn’t home. Clarke supposed she could make herself something for dinner, but a petulant part of her brain reminded her that she had never gotten that milkshake she wanted... Well, she decided, she’d be damned if she let that shithead Finn keep her from her favorite diner. Ten minutes later, she was on the road, clad in one of her dad’s old sweaters with her hair an absolute rat’s nest, which was probably only made worse by her convertible’s collapsed top. Whatever. Who did she have to impress?
Her flood of affection at seeing the diner’s neon sign was diminished a little when she saw a familiar tall frame behind the counter. Great. She had forgotten that Bellamy worked the night shift during the week. Clarke slid into her usual corner booth with a sigh.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like Bellamy. He was kind of a bookish guy, gave her a run for her money in class, which tweaked her natural competitive urges. But she had once (discreetly) watched him beat the absolute shit out of a football player that had gotten fresh with Octavia at a school dance, and she had to respect the guy for that. And it wasn’t that he disliked her either. He wasn’t a fan of Octavia being involved in any kind of gang, no matter how harmless, and he had blamed Clarke for her influence over the younger girl. But, he had later admitted, he was glad that his sister chose to spend her time with her instead of anyone else; Clarke supposed that meant he trusted her at least a little.
The problem was that he wasn’t particularly warm or sympathetic, tending toward a dry humor that led to them exchanging friendly barbs more often than not. (They hadn’t originally been so friendly, but it had sort of become their dynamic after a while, even after they became friends.) But while Clarke didn’t feel like being coddled, she also didn’t feel up to their usual mutual mockery.
Getting twitchy waiting for him to come take her order, she slunk over to the jukebox on the far wall, slipped in a quarter, and flipped through the list of songs. They were all either too cloyingly happy or so miserable that she would end up wanting to shoot herself. Eventually, she lit on the perfect one and punched in the number. She was back in her booth before the record slid into place, so it was just as Bellamy was making his way over that the song began to play.
“Mama said there’ll be days like this, there’ll be days like this my mama said...”
The dark-haired boy quirked an eyebrow at her as he slapped down his notepad. He seemed to take in her slumped posture and tangled hair before asking. “What’s up with you? Between the song choice and all this,” he gestured to her general appearance, “something must be going on.”
Clarke shook her head. “You don’t want to hear about it. Can I just have a black and white milkshake and wallow in peace?”
“Whatever you want,” he shrugged, then hesitated. “But if you do want to talk about it, I’m not exactly slammed.” He waved his pad at the otherwise empty diner. “I think everybody’s at the football game.”
“Maybe,” she matched his shrug.
Bellamy took her order to the kitchen, and Clarke’s song played on.
“My eyes are wide open, but all that I can see is chapel bells are callin for everyone but-a me...”
Ugh. Maybe this had been the wrong choice. She folded her arms on the table and buried her face in them, blocking out the song as much as she could. Fortunately, it was over by the time Bellamy came back. He slid her glass over to her and, to her surprise, sat down on the opposite bench.
“Come on,” he prompted. “Out with it. I can’t sit in here with just you when you’re like this. I can literally feel the teen angst coming off you in waves, and it’s bringing me down.”
“You gonna make fun of me,” she grumbled through a mouthful of milkshake.
With an eyeroll big and dramatic enough to rival his sister’s, he groaned and held up his right hand. “I, Bellamy Blake, solemnly swear not to make fun of you for whatever it is you’re about to tell me. There, happy?”
She couldn’t really argue with that, as she’d never known him to lie before. “Fine. The short version is: Finn cheated on me. The long version is: Finn cheated with me on a girl he’s been dating for four years, and I only found out because I walked in on them getting cozy in here earlier today.”
For a second, he didn’t react. Then his eyes narrowed, and he asked, as serious as she’d ever heard him be about anything, “Why the hell would I make fun of you for that? That’s messed up, and it’s not your fault.”
Clarke shrugged, taking another sip from her straw. “I know that, I guess, but I still can’t help but feel...I guess, dirty somehow? Used. And stupid for not seeing that something was wrong before now.”
Bellamy scoffed, disgusted, and she flinched a little. But then he said, “Are you kidding? The guy might’ve used you, but that doesn’t make you used, and it definitely doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. If someone wants to keep a secret badly enough, they will, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
She nodded, still a little dejected but started to feel just the tiniest bit better. “Thanks. I keep telling myself that, but it’s nice to hear it from someone else.” Then, “You know, I really didn’t expect you to be nice about this. I kind of thought you’d pick on me, since that’s basically what we do.”
“It’s all in good fun, though,” he cocked his head, “and this is serious.” Standing, he shooed at her. “Now scoot over, I want some of that.”
With a little smile, she slid down the bench and pushed her glass toward him. Clarke watched as he drank what seemed like half of her milkshake, and her smile got a touch wider. It was an oddly affectionate scene, especially for them, but it was what she needed right now. Just quiet companionship and someone telling her that she shouldn’t feel bad. She bumped her shoulder against his. “Thanks.”
He wiped ice cream off the corner of his mouth as his brow furrowed. “For drinking your milkshake?”
“For listening and being, I dunno, unexpectedly helpful,” she elbowed him in the ribs.
“Not a problem. I really am a font of wisdom,” he informed her matter-of-factly.
“Aaaand you ruined it. Good job.”
Bellamy grinned at her. “I’m sorry, was that a nice moment? I didn’t realize.”
“Liar.”
WIth a vague hum, he slipped out of the booth and headed for the jukebox. “Okay, we need something that isn’t the soundtrack to clinical depression. Any requests? I’m paying.”
“Surprise me.”
“Ha! I’ll surprise you, alright.” Whatever that meant.
The song didn’t start playing until he was back in the booth, slurping more of Clarke’s drink. She recognized the opening roll of drums immediately and groaned. “Too happy. Didn’t I say I wanted to wallow a little longer?”
“Too bad,” he replied breezily. “Finn is the worst, you’re great, time to get over it.”
“It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” she deadpanned.
Bellamy shot her a look that said, “So?” as the lyrics to his song kicked in.
“Who loves you, pretty baby? Who’s gonna help you through the night?”
Suddenly, Clarke snickered. “You said I’m great,” she smirked as she snatched her milkshake back and took a long drag.
A muscle in Bellamy’s jaw fluttered. “Yeah, well. Tell anyone, and I’ll deny it.”
“Who loves you, pretty mama? Who’s always there to make it right?”
The day had been awful, the song was corny, and Bellamy was a weird, unpredictable guy. But for some reason, it all seemed to coalesce into a genuinely warm, nice moment, and Clarke leaned back in her booth, her shoulder brushing his, and she was content. A few hours before, the song would’ve been intolerable, as she was pretty sure the answer was, “Nobody,” but at the moment, she was starting to feel like maybe that wasn’t true after all. She couldn’t help but smile up at Bellamy and give him a little nudge. “Maybe this song isn’t the worst.”
He just smiled back, a little smug, his eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners. “Thought you’d see it my way.”
“Baby, when you’re feeling like you’ll never see the morning light, come to me. Baby, you’ll see.”