Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clarke first met her new roommate by tripping over her leg. It was unattached at the time, just lying out in the open for anyone to trip over, and it chose Clarke to be its victim that morning.

She spent the next four and a half days apologizing for it, until Raven told her she’d stuff the goddamned prosthetic in her mouth, if it’d shut her up about it.

What a good way to make friends, Clarke thought miserably. And then, even more miserably, she thought, what a good way to start college.

That’s where she was, now; college. Schinetti-Ky University, affectionately called SKY-U by its staff and students, because no one could be bothered to try and pronounce its full name. The marketing team had done wonders with the acronym, with a full line of sweatshirts and gym bags and coffee tumblers covered in clouds and suns and stars. To be honest, those designs were half the reason Clarke had applied to the school at all.

The other half, of course, was the fact that it was a good school. A great school, if you were interested in things like sculpting, or ceramics, or design—which she was. A good school, if you were aiming for anything else.

Its astral-physics department was nonexistent, and so Wells had packed up and headed to a university on the other side of the city, one for people that liked to count and name and number stars, and imagine detailed ways in which their planet might implode.

Just forty-five minutes, with good traffic, he’d smiled reassuringly. We’ll get coffee every Thursday, and quiz each other before exams!

They’d gone five weeks before their schedules fell out of alignment, and Clarke missed Coffee Thursday because of a three-hour lecture. And then Wells’s Volkswagon went to car Heaven, and he had to cancel all study sessions for the foreseeable future. They still called and texted and even emailed, when feeling especially lazy. And to be honest, Clarke didn’t even mind that much because by then, she and Raven had already instituted pizza night, taco night, and every other sort of quick, hot and greasy food night.

Also by then, she’d met O.

O was short for Octavia, which no one was allowed to know, but which everyone knew already because it was college and their names were posted on every class bulletin hung up in the halls—but they all pretended not to. O was the sort of popular that came naturally, and led to whole rooms orbiting around her without meaning to. Sometimes Clarke wondered if she even noticed the attention, but then she’d remember that this was O, and O loved attention more than most things in life, so of course she noticed. She was just so used to it that she seemed to forget because, again, natural.

O was also the kind of girl that made it hard to ignore her. As in, the slam doors open and yell get moving bitches it’s tequila night at The Dropship, kind of girl. She was eighteen and sometimes she looked eighteen and sometimes she looked twenty-four, and it all hinged on whether or not she was wearing one of her studded dresses and black eyeshadow.

Clarke met O in week three at SKY-U, the night before an Art History quiz she was seriously considering setting fire to as her professor slept. She was going over flashcards in the common room, because she’d forgotten her key in her room again, and Raven was pulling an all-nighter in the garage and hadn’t responded to Clarke’s texts.

She could have gone to her RA to get the door unlocked, but she was slightly still embarrassed from the last time, and anyway the common room was just as comfortable, and closer to the coffee.

She was interrupted from rereading about Cosimo de’ Medici, when a voice she didn’t recognize shattered her thoughts.

“Oh, hell no—you are not spending the last night of the weekend on fucking flashcards.”

Clarke, knowing that she was the probably only other person in the room and was definitely the only one with flashcards, glanced up. She was too tired to be annoyed, and so she took in the new girl, disinterestedly.

She was sizeable in presence, but nothing else. She had a figure that spoke of long days spent at the gym, and skin a shade of brown that wasn’t just from tanning. Her hair was long and dark and piled up on top of her head in a loose knot. She wore a pair of black leggings, sheer enough that Clarke could see her practical-yet-cute underwear. Her black tank hung just over the jut of her hip bones, and she carried one of the SKY-U gym bags slung lazily over one shoulder. Her boots were cracked black leather and lined with metal studs. She was the sort of pretty that made other girls want to hate her on principle.

“Uh,” Clarke said, lamely. The new girl did not look impressed.

“Come on, get up—it’s karaoke night at The Dropship, and I know for a fact I can spring us some free daiquiri’s. You look like you could use a little Joan Jett and Weezer.” 

Clarke just stared. This was it, she realized. That quintessential college moment. To be honest, she’d thought hitting Raven’s leg had been it for her, that it would all be downhill from there. Then she’d thought their first attempt at home-made pizza; cheeseless with pepperoni, green peppers and olives, while mostly-drunk on some cheap white wine, was the one. But she’d been wrong yet again—this, this impatient and unfairly pretty stranger practically ordering Clarke to belt I love Rock and Roll at some bar she’d never heard of—this was the moment.

And so she said no.

“I have a quiz tomorrow,” she nearly cringed at her own voice. She sounded like a twelve-year-old, still sure that a single bad grade meant she’d die alone and unsuccessful. The new girl looked even more not impressed.

“You look about my size,” she mused with pursed lips, choosing to completely ignore Clarke’s argument. “I probably have something that’ll fit. C’mon.”

Without another word or hesitation, she pivoted and strode down the hallway, not bothering to glance back to make sure Clarke was following.

She almost didn’t.

But then she thought back to Raven, two nights earlier, laying upside down on her mattress across the room, asking in her naturally accusatory voice, why Clarke had even bothered with college if she wasn’t going to bother with college.

And sure, maybe it was a little junior high of her to follow some stranger just to sort-of spite her roommate, but. So what?

So she padded silently after the girl, who as it turns out only lived a few doors down from her and Raven, so, you know; just in case. The girl’s roommate wasn’t there, the room empty and dark until she flipped a switch and a row of electric violet Christmas lights flickered to life. There were lava lamps and other light fixtures of varying shapes and colors, but no standard round globe centered in the ceiling. Clarke wondered if the girl had done away with it herself or had simply lucked out with the room.

Beyond that, the room was everything a girl’s college dorm should be. Two twin-sized beds, one on either side of the floor. Music, movie and miscellaneous posters tacked up as a makeshift wallpaper. There was a single calendar made up of cartoon cats, only halfway through February. Clothes and shoes and empty Doritos bags and bottles of fizzy water and tubes of mascara littered the floor. Books were stacked on every surface. The beds were just as sloppy as everything around them—the entirety of the space was a fire hazard, really. A single window blocked off by about five layers of black-out curtains.

The girl toed off her boots, flinging them into the mess unceremoniously. She tore the bag from her shoulders and dropped it in front of her closet, which resembled an open mouth, spewing clothes like vomit. She’d taken the door off its hinges and replaced it with strings of wooden beads, and Clarke couldn’t help but wonder if she’d decided to do away with the door because it couldn’t close.

Clarke stood awkwardly in the open doorway, watching as the girl dove into the mass of lingerie and dresses and bomber jackets. She flung unwanted articles out into the battlefield her room was quickly becoming, and inspected each slinky black number closely before discarding it. With each skirt getting tighter and shorter than the last, Clarke felt her nerves returning.

Finally, and with a grunt of smug triumph, the girl leapt up and tossed a dress at Clarke. She wasn’t quick enough to catch it, and it fell to the ground in a floral heap. The girl tossed her hair, loose and wild from the bun, and rolled her eyes. She was the kind of graceful that leant itself to athleticism. She could probably do a handstand in her sleep. Clarke frowned as she inspected the chosen garment.

It was, surprisingly, not black. Or slinky. In fact, it was uncannily similar to Clarke’s actual tastes. It fell tastefully, halfway down her thighs, with a bodice only slightly too tight, and a skirt that flared enough to swirl when she stepped. She loved it instantly.

“I had to wear it to a wedding,” the girl explained with a careless hand wave. She was wearing a drastic, leopard print, skin-tight thing that zipped up in the front. Her boots were pointy and intimidating, with skinny sharp heels they wouldn’t allow on a plane. She was pinning her hair in an elaborate faux-hawk, with rope-like braids down her scalp. Her eyes were dark and vicious—she looked like the lovechild of a girl power-rock band, and a bareknuckle boxer. “You can keep it if you want.” She made a face at her in the mirror, as though the dress had personally offended her.

Clarke didn’t bother trying to say no—in the last forty minutes, she’d drifted from the doorway to perch on O’s—O, like the letter and shit. Don’t even ask what it’s short for; my family is weird.—mattress to watch her get ready. Clarke was, in many ways, more a watcher than anything. Wells used to affectionately call her world-gazer—he said she looked at the world like a museum, and was constantly studying the artworks. Lexa called her something French. Reculer pour mieux sauter; to draw back, so as to leap better. You are waiting, she’d explained. Watching, learning, so that when you jump you will land perfectly.

Raven called her boring. Clarke liked Lexa’s version of her better, possibly better than the real one.

She’d let O do her makeup, which was why her eyelids felt heavy with shimmery gold and glitter. She’d put her foot down at the sultry charcoal, but they’d compromised with the lipstick—a pale lavender that matched the flowers on her dress. O had tried to force her into a pair of deadly-looking shoes, but her feet were considerably smaller and so she was left with the safety of her cowgirl boots, a gag gift from her father.

What, isn’t that what they wear in Kentucky? He’d laughed at her graduation party. She’d only rolled her eyes and slipped them on—real leather, with squiggly patterns embroidered on the sides. Secretly, she loved them.

Finally, O declared herself ready for the outside world. She looked immaculate, and had even woven a single braid down the side of Clarke’s face, so they sort-of matched, but not really. She stomped out into the hallway like a war-hungry Goddess, with Clarke as her dainty flower-picking sidekick. Even delegated to the minor role, Clarke felt more powerful than she had in days. Weeks, actually. Since high school graduation, at least. She felt wired and interesting and hot—maybe it was the braid. Or the dress.

It was definitely the dress.

It swirled around her legs as she walked, just like she knew it would. She kept pace with O, even though she technically didn’t know where they were going, and she definitely wasn’t imagining the heads they turned as they went.

Realistically, she knew it was probably the impressive girl beside her collecting all the stares, but Clarke couldn’t help thinking she’d earned a few of her own.

The Dropship turned out to be a bar just a few blocks from their campus. They walked there, O keeping impressively steady in her outrageous heels, and Clarke fighting to keep up with the much taller girl as they went. The bar itself was actually below ground, with a narrow staircase leading down to the bunker-like room. Inside, it was loud and moderately packed with college kids and grown adults all the same. Grown adults, it was strange to still think like that. Clarke was technically an adult herself, having turned eighteen just three months earlier, but it was hard to remember. Hard to look at her scabby knees and awkward limbs and bedhead, and equate all of that with grown up.

The bar had a kind of half-hearted space theme, with some prints of different planets nailed along the spray-painted walls, and a few glow in the dark stars strung up across the rafters in decoration. A metal sign above the wall of pint glasses read Until your final journey to the ground. She wasn’t sure what it meant, though she thought she might have known the words—maybe it was a song lyric, and the bar’s owner had thought it sounded deep. In any case, she didn’t think on it for long, because suddenly O was dragging her by the arm straight to the bar itself, and Clarke instantly remembered that she was very under-aged.

The bartender seemed to be realizing the same thing, looking very unimpressed as the girls slid onto a pair of stools nonchalantly. Well, O slid on nonchalantly. Clarke hopped up, one foot on the bottom rail because she was too short to manage grace. Also she was nervous, but she mostly blamed her height.

“No,” the bartender—a young-ish woman that looked exactly how the bartender of an underground lounge should—declared, without looking up from the glass she was cleaning. O didn’t seem to agree.

“Come on, Anya,” O whined, though her smile turned smirkish near the tips. Clearly, she knew she was about to get her way.

Anya narrowed her eyes and pointed the wine glass at her. “No. I nearly got fired last time—not to mention what your fucking brother would do. You know he’s working tonight, right?”

O gave a dramatic eye roll. “You were not almost fired, don’t be so dramatic.” She pointedly ignored the comment about her brother, which Clarke filed away for later. Observer.

Anya snorted and reached for another glass to wipe clean. “Coming from you?” She and O shared a wry smile. They held a stare for several moments, before the older woman heaved an enormous sigh. “Beer and wine only,” she ordered.

“Two strawberry daiquiri’s,” O demanded. “One for me, and one for my comrade.” She linked arms with Clarke conspiratorially, and Anya flicked her gaze over to the new girl. Clarke felt herself blush under the attention, which was absurd.

Wasn’t this what she’d wanted? Why she’d chosen an out-of-state school, a thousand miles from home—to knock herself out of her comfort zone? To become someone better, the girl she’d always wanted to be? Wasn’t that why she was out tonight, with this girl, wearing this amazing dress that made her feel eighteen and confident? Wasn’t this her night to finally leap?

Anya jutted her chin towards her. “You here to make sure this one doesn’t get in trouble tonight?”

Clarke gave a smile that toed the line between sweet and wicked. “More like her partner in crime,” she drawled. “I’ll take a Jean Harlow.” Having a bartender for a sister did have its perks, like the ability to impress at strange bars with strange women.

And Anya did look suitably impressed, while O practically purred with pride. As the older woman turned to mix up their drinks, O squeezed the arm she still held. “You’ve been holding out on me, Griff,” she accused fondly.

Anya returned with their cocktails, which O snatched up without paying, and abruptly slid down, heading across the room. Clarke followed, drink in hand, chest burning with the familiar warmth of rum and sweet vermouth. It’d been a while since she’d had any alcohol, and her thoughts were already fuzzing at the edges. She felt good, and she couldn’t help the little bounce and shimmy she did, matching the beat of whatever soft-core rock was playing in the background. O had stepped up to a tall table, the kind Clarke could barely lean her elbows on, ringed by a trio of boys around their age. Two of them, both gangly but in that attractive boy way, stood to offer the girls their stools. The third refused to move, only glancing around the room with a general sort of apathy and distaste. Clarke decided simultaneously that she didn’t like him, and wanted to make him laugh.

It was an annoying habit of hers, the need to seek out the unhappiest person and make them smile. It was far from selfless—more of a challenge to herself. If she succeeded, she’d have an inflated ego for days. And if she failed, she’d be left wondering what she’d done wrong. It was unhealthy to say the least. Sometimes she wished she’d just take up smoking.

“Griff, this is Mon,” O announced, waving a hand wildly towards the boy whose stool she’d just stolen. He flashed Clarke a grin wide enough to make her forget her reservations about the impromptu nickname.

“Monty, actually,” he corrected with an exasperated eye roll, reaching an arm across the table to shake Clarke’s hand.

“Well I’m actually Clarke,” she laughed. O shrugged at both of them, pointing at the second boy, the one Clarke’s stool had belonged to.

“That’s Jas.” Jas waved distractedly, already scoping out two new seats to steal from unsuspecting tables. O moved on to the third, gloomy member of their party. “And that’s Murphey,” she grimaced. “He’s a dick.”

“Gee, thanks,” Murphey frowned, as though it were something he said often. O shrugged unapologetically. “You all invited me,” he reminded her wryly.

O glared and pointed at him with her electric blue straw, accusingly. “No one invited you,” she argued.

Murphey rolled his eyes. “Open invitations count, empress.”

O’s narrowed eyes narrowed even further. “Don’t call me that,” she spat. Murphey only grinned meanly, as though he’d won some sort of argument.

Monty ignored the two, finished off his cider, and went to help Jas swipe a couple of stools from a nearby table. The music changed drastically from some early 2000’s alt-rock ballad, to an electric funk number from the nineties. Clarke didn’t recognize the song itself, but the rum and the giddiness of finally doing something had her shoulders and hips rocking, and she tugged a still-seething O out to the main floor with her.

They were laughing within moments, hands clasped as they shook their shoulders in and out towards and away from each other, twisting their knees and the balls of their feet. The playlist stayed electronic for a few more songs, and by the end Monty, Jas, and half a dozen others had joined the girls in their ridiculous shoulder dance. Eventually, someone started up the karaoke machine and, as promised, I Love Rock n Roll was the first song requested, sung pretty well by a nervous freshman.

A sorority got up to chant I Want Candy; O and Clarke joined them in the chorus from their table, and cheered loudest at the end. They wolf-whistled when the rival fraternity gave a rendition of California Gurls. They sang along to a group’s attempt at Bohemian Rhapsody. O brought out her phone to film Jas and Monty absolutely ace Under Pressure. O dragged Clarke up for The Time of My Life, and then three songs later for Defying Gravity, where O was predictably Elphaba.

They started a drinking game, taking a shot each time someone chose a Michael Jackson song and tried one of his dance moves—but when someone stood up for Thriller, O shouted for everyone to wait, and they moved the tables aside so everyone could dance (even Murphey), all doing their best not to spill their drinks or anyone else’s.

They took shots of spiced rum because Anya straight-up refused them tequila, explaining that karaoke night was rum night—to which O argued that for Anya, every night was rum night—but Anya still didn’t budge. Clarke shrugged and took it in stride; she’d never much liked tequila anyway. And when she went to pick up their third round, and found an old receipt with a phone number hastily scrawled, rolled up and tucked in the change Anya handed back, she took that in stride too. And maybe it was the rum, but she thought Anya was pretty, and interesting, and she’d never tried going out with a woman before—but she’d also never done the Macarena on top of a table in a bar before. She’d never unironically ground out the Ken verse in Barbie World, before. It seemed like the night was all about firsts, so why the hell not?

And when The Dropship closed house at four, Clarke remembered stumbling outside, looped between Monty and O—or maybe Jas and O, or Jas and Monty, or Murphey and someone else. She remembered wobbling up to an RV refashioned into a burrito shack. She remembered ordering something greasy and warm with guacamole and ground beef, and stealing some of Jas’s cheese fries when she thought he wasn’t looking.

She didn’t remember getting home, but she woke up the next morning face-down on her bed, boots and dress and makeup still on. Her mouth tasted like morning-after alcohol and fried food, and her hair was both bone-dry and too greasy. She looked like a walking hangover, and Raven only handed her a bottle of Aspirin, some water, and smirked. What happened to you?

Clarke thought back to the night before. She could feel Anya’s phone number, still tucked in her bra. She shimmied out of the dress and hung it carefully in her closet. She carefully unknotted her braid, and washed away the gold shimmer and lipstick. She said, I took a leap. Raven rolled her eyes good-naturedly, stuffing her bag with Chem notes and physics books.

Whatever, nerd. I’ll see you later.

Clarke waved her off and called Lexa. She got her voicemail, which was expected. It was nearing four p.m. in Paris, on a weekday; she’d be at work. She left a message, to the point and sentimental all at the same time. Ended with Je t’adore, ma chatte, as usual. She told her about the leap. She knew she’d get it.

She didn’t see O again for twelve days, though she did call Anya shortly after Lexa. They went out to eat at a small bakery that Saturday. Anya drove her back to campus in her tiny BMW—bought for cheap on Craigslist and then patched together by her mechanic friend—and kissed her on the mouth before winking and speeding off. It was nice, nicer than the other kisses Clarke had stockpiled. She called her again the next day.

Wells had asked if this meant she was a lesbian now, and she’d said I don’t know, because she didn’t, and anyway, it wasn’t like that was a yes or no question. After so many years of her love life consisting of pining for the boy next door, Anya was new and fun and refreshing.

Raven had asked if she’d tell her parents, as if it was some sort of big unveiling—which Clarke knew to some people, it might be. But not to her. Her father, or sometimes her mother depending on their schedules, called her every Thursday for what they called their Clarke Updates, where she would mildly rant about classes and homework and generally pretend to be much more well-adjusted than she was. The Thursday after her second date with Anya, in between complaining about a Bio-Chem quiz she was worried about, and a philosophy 101 lecture that had been decidedly much longer than the one-hour-forty-five-minutes scheduled, she said oh, and I’m seeing someone. Her name is Anya, and she’s a bartender, and she likes Blues and old-style Jimi Hendrix, and she’s nice. There had been a pause, barely anything, and her father had said she has good taste. And that was that.

She’d told Anya the next day, and she’d blinked at Clarke twice before lunging across the gear shift to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe.

Over the two weeks, Clarke thought about knocking on O’s door a few times, but then decided that might seem creepy or needy or dozens of other adjectives she’d rather not come off as. Besides, she had three more essays due and still hadn’t started on her portfolio for studio art.

And if she’d taken to working on her homework in the common room hoping O might happen by, then, well. At least she’d have a believable excuse.

But she didn’t, and it was Raven who found her knees and elbows-deep in collage paste, creating the Greek Underworld out of shredded Cosmo Girl’s and old newspapers. Raven gave her an unimpressed frown, toeing at her pile of scraps.

“I need new underwear,” she announced, hands on her hips. A few of the other heads in the room turned towards them, though most were too absorbed in writing ten-page essays they’d put off until the end of the week. Clarke looked up at her roommate, lips pursed in confusion

“Okay…?”

Raven sighed; patience had never really been her thing. “And so do you—I’ve seen what you call lingerie, and it’s not cutting it.”

Clarke frowned, equally embarrassed and defensive. She glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on them, but all heads were turned towards computer screens and textbooks. “I like my underwear,” she argued, angrily dipping a picture of Jennifer Lopez’s thigh into her paste.

Raven rolled her eyes and nudged Clarke shoulder with her knee. “I didn’t mean it like that—look, just come with me. I need an opinion, and trying shit on is always easier with someone to help with,” she gestured to her prosthetic, tucked away safely behind jeans. Clarke lips pursed further; Raven didn’t often pull the leg card.

Clarke thought about what she was wearing under her clothes—a pale pink bra she’d had since the ninth grade, with a few paint stains from when she’d forgone wearing an apron. An even older pair of panties, frayed at the edges and with faded green and purple dots all around. So maybe Raven had a point; Clarke’s underclothes did little to inspire the image of adulthood. But they’re comfortable, she reminded herself. And that’s what really matters, anyway. After all, it’s not like anyone else would see them. Well, anyone besides Raven.

She thought of Anya, who she’d gone out with the night before. Whose fingers had dipped up under her shirt in the car, skimming her ribs until Clarke shivered.

She didn’t say yes, but Raven grinned smugly when she started gathering up her unfinished project. She aimed a ruined magazine at her roommate in a vaguely threatening way. “Two hours, tops,” she warned.

Raven smirked. “Three and a half.” Clarke just rolled her eyes and shoved the paste bucket into her arms.

The store that Raven took her to was not a lingerie store. It also wasn’t the Super Walmart just eight miles from campus, like Clarke had been expecting. After all, Raven’s tastes may have run higher than the six-pack cotton low-riders Clarke stocked up on, but she still lived on a salary of student loans and menial waitressing gigs.

Instead, Raven took Clarke to a sex shop. It was called Phoenix, with a sign in big neon pink letters. They sold a few things Clarke recognized—vibrators, anal beads, strap-on dildo’s. They sold a lot of things Clarke had never seen before in her life, and couldn’t begin to guess at. Things made of silicone, rubber, and nylon. All colors, all sizes, and all battery types. Some looked like Easter eggs and some looked like lava lamps and some looked like strange fake plants. Some came with wall chargers, and strange add-on’s that didn’t really make sense to her, like heart rate monitors and GPS. Like some sort of amped up, sexual pedometer.

Raven spared no time in those aisles, though, striding purposefully towards the back of the store. Clarke had assumed this would be where they stored their massive and varied porn collection. Straight-to-DVD rip-off’s like Pride and Prejudice and Pussy, or something. An erotic version of Rush Hour.

Instead, she found herself staring at racks and racks of underwear. Negligees and garter belts with matching socks that ran up the thigh, and corsets and bra-lets and dozens of other types Clarke didn’t know the names of. Some of them bordered on ridiculous, with matching feather boas and cheap lace trim, but most were surprisingly tasteful.

Raven seemed to pick up on Clarke’s train of thought, and her I told you so grin was unbearable. She spent ten minutes snatching matching and mismatching sets and pieces from the racks, dumping a pile into Clarke’s arms and pointing to the changing rooms like a stern mother with no time for funny business. Clarke, with minimal mumbling, shuffled over to the tiny room and pulled the curtain shut tightly behind her.

She wasn’t usually so quick to surrender, but some of the garments in her hands were actually nice and, to be honest, she wanted to know what she would look like dressed like a relatively high class prostitute. Middle class, maybe. Catering to bankers and the regional managers of chain restaurants.

In the end, Raven bullied her way into the room with her, to the passive aggressive distaste of Phoenix employees. She made her try on everything, sometimes the same thing again in a different size or color—Raven liked to be fully convinced before committing to a purchase. Clarke was just as ready to shrug and say oh well if something didn’t fit, or the shade paled her out, but Raven waved no such white flags.

And then, true to her word, Raven had Clarke scrutinize each of her own choices and give her opinions, ignorant as they were. She wasn’t sure why she did—Raven just kept what she liked and tossed what she didn’t, regardless of Clarke’s words.

By the time they poured their spoils onto the front counter, Clarke had discovered she’d somehow grown two cup sizes when she wasn’t looking, and had an affinity for lace decals and the color red. She’d taken a particular shine to bandeaus, and the high-waisted panties that Raven claimed made her look like a pin-up girl. Thongs were decidedly not up her alley, which she’d already known anyway, and boy shorts weren’t nearly as comfortable as they looked. And while she appreciated push-up bras, Clarke found that she preferred simple underwire and thin padding. She even let Raven talk her into a pair of long sheer socks, thicker than most on the shelf, with little red bows where the hems reached her upper thigh.

Raven’s entire alleyway was filled with thongs, which was expected really. Also several varieties of fishnets, each a different shade of black. And garter belts—so, so many garter belts.

They spent two hundred and forty-three dollars, altogether. Clarke nearly passed out at the sight of their total, but Raven only shrugged and handed over her credit card, connected to the emergency account set up with the inheritance from her dead grandmother. Raven was at Sky U on a scholarship, along with several grants connected with how she’d lost her leg, so the card was mostly used for gas, textbooks and tacos at one in the morning.

“You can buy all the groceries for like, the next year,” she smiled wryly at Clarke when she tried to stuff a few twenty dollar bills in her roommate’s bag.

It was dinner time when they started back to campus. They’d taken Raven’s orange Cobalt, which the girls had affectionately nicknamed The Pumpkin. It doubled as their dumpster, with a dozen empty Styrofoam coffee cups and cans of sugary tea and receipts from gas stations littering the floors. The back seat was filled with old gym totes, a half-filled bottle of Malibu rum Raven kept forgetting about, Stilettos they hadn’t felt like wearing home, forgotten class assignments, and plastic shopping bags.

Raven wanted sushi and Clarke wanted pizza, so they compromised; burritos. Raven drove while Clarke directed her to the burrito truck near The Dropship, trying not to wince every time Raven slammed the brake too hard with her prosthetic. If Raven realized they were near the bar where her Clarke’s girlfriend worked, she didn’t say.

The truck looked different in the, admittedly fading, light of day. There wasn’t a line, like the last time she’d been, which made sense—it was Sunday, which meant most people would be on their way home to family dinner around the TV or table. Ah, the joys of dorm living, Raven grimaced.

The last time Clarke had been by the burrito truck, the man inside had been older, at the tail end of forty, with a beard and wire-rimmed glasses. Today, the cashier was a different man, but one she still recognized.

“Hey,” she nodded to him. “Jas, right?” She hoped that was his name—getting someone’s name wrong was always embarrassing for all parties involved.

Jas bobbed his head up and down, in a way that was somehow awkward and graceful at the same time. He took Clarke’s cash with a lopsided smile, and she remembered his shouted jokes on karaoke night, that had everyone—except Murphey—cackling by the end of the night. The way he’d held onto one of O’s elbows as they stumbled down the sidewalk. He’d put an empty beer bottle on his head to see how long it could sit there. And then he’d forgotten about it, and it’d crashed down when he’d jumped up on a chair to dance the Macarena.

“Griff!” he called happily, handing back her change. Raven mouthed Griff to her with raised eyebrows, but Clarke ignored her.

“It’s Clarke, actually,” she said, trying not to frown. Jas chuckled.

“Yeah before I met O, I was Jasper, actually. She’s got a thing for nicknames, and making em stick.”

Raven made a very unsubtle noise in the back of her throat. Clarke rolled her eyes, but gestured to her anyway. “This is my roommate, Raven.”

Jas parroted the name back at her, rolling the r exaggeratedly. Raven glared, but Clarke could tell it was one of her soft ones, so she must not mind him too much. They each ordered a burrito, double-stuffed and the size of their heads, and a bowl of oily chips to split between them. Raven bought the spicy beef—extra spicy, extra beef—while Clarke got the same veggie meal she’s got last time. Raven had shrugged off Clarke’s vegetarianism back when first instituting Pizza Night. Half Hawaiian, half cheese-and-olive quickly became their standard order.

“So do you go to SKY-U?” Clarke asked as they waited for their food. The food truck’s window took up nearly one whole side, so they could easily see through to where Jas was cooking on the mini stove.

Jas gave another nod, keeping his focus on the food as he spoke. “Yeah, I’m majoring in culinary art.” He flipped the stir-fry and caught it back with the pan, flashing them a grin.

“Cute,” Raven dead-panned. Clarke elbowed her in the ribs. Jas didn’t notice.

“What about you guys?” He started pouring meat and vegetables into a pair of flour wraps as he asked. Raven grabbed another handful of their nearly-empty chip bowl.

“I’m doubling; business and art studio,” Clarke had probably said those words a hundred times since starting school. It was the standard get to know you question—she was amazed they hadn’t asked it that night at The Dropship. She waved a lazy hand at Raven, still chewing. “She’s mechanical engineering.”

Jas dressed both burritos tightly in tin foil, before handing them out. “Neat,” he declared happily. “You guys should stop by the bar tonight, we’re doing Drunk Scrabble.”

“Scrabble?” Raven asked incredulously.

“Drunk Scrabble,” Jas amended. “Totally different.”

Clarke glanced at her roommate, whose glare was slowly shifting into dangerous territory. “Maybe,” she answered hastily, grabbing Raven’s wrist. “But we should head home first. Thanks for the food!”

“Thanks for the dinero,” Jas shot back with a wave. Clarke drove back while Raven filled herself with beef and stewed. She parked The Pumpkin in their student lot and sat for a minute, waiting.

Finally, Raven licked the oil from her fingers, tossed her balled up tin foil on the floor, and turned. “So,” she started, “Who’s truck-boy?”

“I met him at The Dropship, the same night I met Anya.” Clarke said with a hand wave, finishing her own supper. “It’s not a big deal.”

Raven gave her a Look that said she knew it was a big deal, but her actual mouth said nothing. Clarke had come to college thinking she’d walk into a half-filled room and everyone would instantly become the sort of friends sitcoms were made of. She’d been incredibly disappointed and, with the exception of the girl she was forced to live with, Clarke hadn’t had an actual conversation with anyone, outside of what’s your major, and when was that thing due?

In fact, for the entire time Raven had known Clarke, there were only three people outside of her own gene pool that she talked to, and only one of them went to her school.

Anya and Raven had met, of course. The night of their second date, when she came up to their door to pick up Clarke. They’d small-talked for the three minutes it took Clarke to grab her bag and cowgirl boots. Raven had said have fun, but didn’t bother looking up from the carburetor shedding powdery grease on her desk.

Raven and Clarke didn’t talk about their love lives. Clarke wasn’t really sure why, but it seemed like an unspoken rule, and she didn’t push it.

“Drunk scrabble?” Raven asks as Clarke adds her tin foil to the collection. Clarke thinks about her half-finished studio project, and the Ancient Greek History essay she has yet to start. She nods.

“I have to shower, first.” It was easy to forget she was still covered in paint and newspaper-glue.

Raven quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

Clarke made a face and grabbed two handfuls of neon pink bags from the back. Raven snatched the rest and led the way to their room.

Clarke was creating a tiny mountain of price tags on her mattress when Raven started stripping. Raven undressed was a common sight by now; she was the least body-shy woman Clarke had ever met. But when she started slipping on one of her newly purchased lingerie sets, Clarke balked.

“No way, do you know who else might have touched those?” She pictured the shelves at Phoenix, old and rickety and with a few mystery stains she’d had to avoid. Raven shrugged, but Clarke shook her head and held a hand out. “Hand them over, I’m gonna go wash mine anyway.”

Raven grimaced, but stripped again, anyway. Clarke collected up all the de-tagged underwear into her plastic laundry basket—it was old and powder blue, with ancient Disney princess and Loony Tunes stickers all over. On top of the pile she laid a towel and her dressing gown, a short and light dark green material, with planets and constellations stitched along in gold thread. She snatched up her toiletry bag and headed to her floor’s laundry room.

The laundry room was a good size, with five washers and three dryers and enough room to sort and fold with ease. Four of the five washers, and two of the dryers were almost always out of order. The room itself was also almost always empty.

The florescent lighting kicked on with a stutter as Clarke opened the door. She paused, wondering if she should Google how to properly wash fancy underwear. Raven would probably know, but she could just see the patronizing smirk on her roommates face. So instead she upended the basket into a washer, poured in some discount detergent, set the cycle on delicate, and hoped for the best.

Clarke set her basket on one of the busted machines, and shuffled off to the showers. She scrubbed her skin and watched as the water by her feet ran red and blue and silver-gray. She stood under the spray until the water ran clear and her skin was pink from the heat. She was dressed in her robe and a pair of white flip-flops, still toweling her hair when she walked back into the laundry room.

The first thing she noticed was that she was no longer alone. There was a boy there. He looked like he might have been tall, but it was hard to tell since he was bent over. His back was to her, as he fished around in one of the machines, and his shirt had risen up above his hips, so she could see the brown skin of his lower back. He also wasn’t wearing shoes.

The second thing she noticed was the washing machine he was bent over, was hers. A mountain of wet lingerie sat clumped together on the machine beside it, and he was adding another bra to the pile when she finally spoke.

“Excuse me,” she announced, a little louder than absolutely necessary since they were the only ones in the room, but he was touching her underwear.

The boy straightened a little, tossing the bra and glancing over his shoulder at her. A single eyebrow was raised, reminding her of Raven, and she would have found the familiarity endearing if he wasn’t touching her underwear. “Yeah?”

Internally, Clarke scoffed. Externally, she glowered. Or tried to. She thought it got the point across, after all the times she’d seen Raven make grown men cower. The boy just looked bored, and maybe a little bit amused.

“What are you doing?” She wanted to cross the room and poke him in the chest, aggressively. Assertively. Like an animal showing dominance. Or something. Instead, she just stood frozen in the doorway, hair dripping and forming a puddle by her feet. She could feel where her gown had soaked through, sticking to her skin. The towel was damp and heavy in her hands. And she was angry, but she wasn’t really sure what to do with that. Clarke didn’t particularly get angry. She got annoyed, just like anyone, but her most common emotions were tired and nostalgic. Raven called her moody, but she didn’t like the sound of that.

“Sorry princess—didn’t realize this washer belonged to you.” As he spoke, he turned back to continue digging her clothes out, dropping a few to the floor in the process, but not bothering to pick them up.

Before she realized, Clarke was finally marching over, bending to snatch up the fallen pieces and mourning their cleanliness. Up close, she could see that he was tall, taller even than Wells, so she had to crane her neck to glare effectively. He didn’t even glance at her, until she pushed him.

She pushed him—shoved, really. In the arm. Hard. He leaned a few inches, and then stood to stare down at her in shock. She tried to school her face into anger or apathy or anything other than the surprise she felt at herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually shoved someone in anger, but it was probably first grade.

“In what world is it okay to just take some stranger’s underwear out of a machine in the communal laundry room?” she demanded, angrily scooping the still-soaked clothes into her laundry basket. She fought the urge to stomp a foot—honestly, this whole situation was turning her into a child. She hoped she wasn’t pouting.

The boy—man, she amended, catching sight of the stubble on his jaw and upper lip. He was definitely older than her—frowned. He actually looked angry, the audacity.

“In the world where entitled little girls think it’s okay to take up the only working machine with their ridiculous amount of underwear—seriously, how many pairs of panties do you need?” As if to punctuate his argument, the stranger lifted up a particularly delicate article—one of Raven’s, no doubt—and let it dangle from his finger. Clarke snatched it away with a huff.

“I was coming back, and they’re not all mine, and—you know what? I don’t need to explain myself to some creep that goes around, touching random girls’ underwear in the laundry room.”

That seemed to throw him for a moment, and he blinked in shocked silence. Clarke chose to take that moment and turn, counting it a victory. Just as she reached the doorway, he called out.

“You missed a spot, by the way.”

From the corner of her eye—because she had not glanced back to see what he was on about—Clarke saw him reach a hand up to the back of his ear. She ignored him and walked out, only pausing once she was out of sight of the laundry room. Shifting the basket to rest on one hip, she reached up to graze the skin behind her ear, feeling the hard flakes of dried paint she must have missed in the shower.

She glowered the rest of the walk to her dorm, and as she and Raven strung up the clotheslines they used to air dry their more delicate clothing. Her roommate only smirked, wondering who pissed in your cornflakes? But Clarke chose to stew in silence, and go to bed early.

She’d just nearly managed to almost get to sleep, with the white noise of Raven tinkering at her cartberuator, when their door slammed open. O stood in the doorway, illuminated from behind by the yellow-tinted dorm lighting, and looking like a some mythological warrior queen that had sex with her victims before eating their skin.

Clarke told her that, and O grinned viciously. “It’s my new aesthetic,” she declared. Raven just scowled.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Clarke sighed tiredly, waving a hand between the two. “She does this,” she told Raven, who wasn’t listening.

O glanced at Raven, as though surprised to find another person in the room. She glanced at the second bed, the second half of the room, as if seeing it all for the first time, the puzzle clicking in her head. She strode inside, kicking the door shut behind her. “I’m O. Who the fuck are you?” She said it in the intense way she said everything, which made it sound aggressive when really she just wanted to know. It made Clarke wonder how she made so many friends. It probably had to do with the fact that she was gorgeous.

“I’m Raven, I fucking live here.”

O nodded, as though she’d known that all along. “Cool,” she answered, marching over and ripping the blankets off of an unsuspecting Clarke. “Get up, asshole. It’s Drunk Scrabble Night.”

Raven stripped, as she always did, and if O was surprised to see a prosthetic from the right knee down, she didn’t show it. In retrospect, Clarke later realized, that was probably a big deal.

O tried to force Clarke into a faux-snakeskin skirt with, to Clarke’s dismay, Raven’s help. She whined and begged off and grumbled but in the end they wrestled her into the skirt, and a purple vest that zipped all the way up her stomach and exposed a little more hipbone than she felt was absolutely necessary. Raven tamed her hair into some pseudo-sophisticated twist that was really just a lot of hairspray, and O drew a purple X in the corners of her eyes.

At least she got to keep her boots.

“So is this, like, gonna be your guys’s thing now?” she asked hotly—she was a sore loser to begin with, but the scene in the laundry room still smarted in the back of her mind.

Raven nodded gravely. “It seems we’ve bonded over your inability to dress yourself like any sort of adult.”

O just wrapped an arm through each of theirs and led the way to The Dropship. “Don’t worry,” she reassured her, “You can totally get us back through inebriated wordplay. I get the feeling you’re a nerd.”

“A total nerd,” Raven agreed. Clarke glowered.

“This coming from the girl building a rocket in our dorm room.”

They were right though, in the end. She totally kicked their asses, with a twenty-eight point word—cocksuckers.

Chapter Text

If Clarke poked her head around the laundry room door to check that it was empty before walking inside, it was only to make sure no one else was using the single washer. She certainly didn’t dare leave her washer unattended, having come prepared this time, with a beginning sketch of Icarus—she was going to glue real bird feathers to his wings later, and drip candle wax on them. With a stretch of her shoulder blades, she hopped up on one of the out-of-order machines, and got to work.

He showed up halfway through the rinse cycle. “I’m not a creep,” he said in place of hello. Clarke rolled her eyes and focused more determinedly on her sketch.

She felt the vibration of his laundry basket being tossed down on the machine neighboring hers. She frowned down at him, only a few inches shorter than her, this close. He ignored her, pretending to sort through his laundry as he waited for hers to finish. Or maybe he really was sorting—whatever, it’s not like she was paying attention.

“I’m not; I just really needed the washer. I didn’t even know what was in there at first—why do you have so many pairs of underwear? Never mind,” he decided as she finally cut her eyes over at him. “I’m not a creep.”

“Fine,” she deadpanned. “Just a dick, then.” If he smiled down at his pile of dirty socks, she didn’t notice.

“I’m sort of a dick,” he relented. He glanced over at her sketchbook, which Clarke pretended not to see. “The Flight of Icarus,” he remarked, sounding somewhere in between impressed and uncaring.

“Congrats,” Clarke said with a roll of her eyes. “You took Mythology 101.” She glanced over to find him already staring at her, with a look she couldn’t read. It somehow made her want to apologize, which was ridiculous because he was ridiculous, and a creep (even if he said he wasn’t), so she ignored it.

“’…He waved his naked arms instead of wings, with no more feathers to sustain his flight. And as he called upon his father's name, his voice was smothered in the dark blue sea, now called Icarian from the dead boy's name.’” he recited, and he could have been making it up for all she knew—Clarke hadn’t exactly memorized the story—but she doubted it. He spoke the words with a soft reverence some people used to pray.

“Great, so you’re a classics major.” Her voice was surprisingly passive, and he grinned at her from under his ridiculous, messy hair—honestly did he not own a comb? It didn’t matter that she’d rolled out of bed that morning and tossed her own snarls up into a bun that now dangled messily at the nape of her neck. At least she was wearing shoes.

She stared down at his feet, long and slender and paler than the rest of him, with ten beige toes peeking out from under the frayed hems of his saggy boy jeans.

He cleared his throat, having caught her staring, and her eyes snapped back up to his. He opened his mouth. The washer stuttered to a halt. Clarke jumped down from her perch so fast he had to stumble back so she didn’t land on him. She didn’t apologize, or say excuse me. She tossed her clothes into her basket—jeans and shirts and socks, this time, thank God.

She could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke. “So you do own normal clothes.”

If he said she smacked him in the cheek with a wet tube sock, well. He had no witnesses.

She was in the doorway when he called out, again. “Same time next week?” She didn’t pause, and she definitely didn’t answer.

She carried her basket of dripping clothes up two flights of stairs to find a working dryer.

The laundry guy became A Thing. She only called him the laundry guy because she didn’t know his name—that had become a sort of game of theirs. They talked everything but themselves, it seemed. Sure, they picked things up here and there—she knew he had a little sister he doted on and fretted over in a paranoid mother hen sort of way, and he knew she was the middle child in her own family, which he found annoyingly fitting. She knew he probably majored in some vein of history, and he could probably guess pretty quickly that hers was art. He knew her roommate was her third-best-friend, and she knew his was probably some sort of drug dealer. Sometimes they brought homework, and he’d taken to basically tutoring her in Bio-Chem, because she was the absolute worst with Kelvin, and she repaid the favor by quizzing him on Latin—freaking Latin, the nerd.

They stayed away from childhoods, and home lives, and birthdays and ex loves and current loves, and future plans and really anything that constituted deep, which Clarke found totally cliché but also very relaxing.

Raven asked about her new love for doing laundry on Sunday evenings once or twice, but Clarke only shrugged and said in a very vague way, “it’s relaxing,” and Raven grew bored and dropped it.

Clarke’s weeks quickly became a regiment—Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays she spent going to classes and studying after classes and generally fretting over school. Sometimes when her vision started to blur she’d make her way to the common room, where it was almost guaranteed Monty, Jas and Murphy were hard at work at their ongoing Mortal Kombat war. Apparently they had a whiteboard hanging up in their dorm, detailing the current score. Monty was nearly always winning. They’d tried to teach Clarke to play, and while she found a certain thrill in virtually kicking ass—Kira was her favorite, naturally—she found she didn’t have enough natural hand eye coordination to be very good, and not nearly enough practice to actually become good, so mostly she just watched.

She did ask the laundry guy if he’d ever played, to which he’s scoffed and shook his head mockingly. “Of course,” he rolled his eyes as if it was obvious, which maybe it was. “Nightwolf’s the best.”

Clarke rolled her eyes back, because of course he’d even find the historian in the martial arts game. So it was obvious.

Thursdays were—or had been—Coffee Thursdays with Wells, and they’d gone to a different café each time searching for the perfect fit, before Wells’s car decided to take an indefinite leave of absence. It had been a terrible car before they’d left Arkadia, and it was an absolute terror after, as if protesting the move.

Thursdays were also, of course, Clarke Update Days. Raven still snickered whenever Clarke’s phone rang at seven forty-five on the dot, but Clarke just ignored her. Or flipped her off.

Thursday night was also Space-Pirate Night at The Dropship, which meant discounts on all rum-centered drinks—which meant it was O’s favorite night. She made everyone wear cheap eyepatches that made Clarke’s forehead itch, and it tangled in her sweaty hair, but when she and O wore them to the bar and growled arr, they got free Rum Sours.

Fridays and Saturdays were Anya’s nights off, and so she’d take Clarke to some local garage band’s grand opening—never the same band twice—or to a house party across town that was the complete opposite of the mixers and keggers that campus offered. Sometimes they’d just hang out at Anya’s apartment, which she shared with two nameless roommates—a middle-aged agoraphobic that did something with computers and stole everyone else’s food—and a pretty brunette that taught Tennis at the Y and seemed to stop by once every few days. Anya and Clarke would build a nest out of the couch and throw blankets, and watch stupid made-for-TV movies and drink strawberry wine coolers because when Anya wasn’t working for tips, she actually refused to mix a drink.

Sundays, though, quickly became Clarke’s favorite. Anya would eventually drop her back at her dorm, or maybe she’d just walk the thirty minutes if her feet didn’t hurt too badly. She and Raven would go grocery shopping, stocking up their mini fridge on peanut butter ice cream and double stuff Oreos and the chunky apple sauce everyone else always made a face at. Sometimes they’d stop by Raven’s favorite hole-in-the-wall liquor store, where she’d flirt with the cashier and he’d sell them tequila beer and the cheap fifths of vodka, although Clarke always reminded her they didn’t need to—along with a sizeable inheritance, Raven’s grandmother had left her a slightly sunk-in farmhouse that was still stocked with an entire collection of ancient, once-expensive alcohol. Raven liked to say she was saving it for an emergency, but Clarke wasn’t sure what sort of emergency would warrant a hundred bottles of aged bourbon.

The afternoons Clarke would spend in her dorm, listening to the Rolling Stones, or Vendetta Red or The Ramones with Raven, upside down in their beds. Sometimes she’d work on her assignments, and sometimes she wouldn’t.

Sometimes she wandered over to O’s room, if Raven decided to switch into her fancy underwear to go study at the library. She and O would rock out to Slant 6 and The Gore Gore girls, trying on terrible dresses and shoes they could barely stand in, and O would braid Clarke’s hair close to her scalp and give her dramatic winged eyeliner, and paint her nails Disney villain red. Sometimes they’d smoke, Clarke in the off handed way of someone who only smoked around others. Cigarettes or pot that O had snuck from her brother’s place. When she was feeling especially affectionate, O would invite her to whatever strange and abstract party she’d been invited to that week, saying But you have to come; you’re part of the pack!—whatever that meant.  Sometimes O’s roommate, a shy girl named Maya who had a fascination with most pretty things, but a certain affection for flowers, would pop in and offer polite conversation while they tried not to look high, chewing words out through their teeth. She kept small pots of lavender and white grapes and forget-me-nots along the windowsill, and the girls liked to bend their noses to the leaves. O plucked a few and glued them to her gray-polished nails. She twisted old grapevines into Clarke’s hair like a crown. Maya drew plants on their wrists and arms in ballpoint pen.

Clarke’s Sunday afternoon usually varied, but her evenings were always spent in the laundry room. She’d collect hers and Raven’s clothes and pillowcases from their floor and beds and sometimes if they didn’t have enough, she’d wash O’s too. She’d toss it all into her baby blue basket and lug it down to the laundry room, start up the washer, and wait. She’d bring her sketchbook, or a textbook, or maybe one of Monroe’s ridiculous romance novels she sent her in care-packages throughout the year. She’d try to look like she wasn’t waiting. She’d kick her cowgirl boots against the machine, looking swallowed whole in one of Anya’s extra-extra-large band tees, with the neck hacked at and the sleeves ripped until they dipped down the length of her ribcage. A pair of Raven’s high-waisted shorts that they both knew belonged to Clarke, now. She’d wait and he’d show up halfway through the first cycle, and he’d halfheartedly sort through his laundry as they debated the merits of Tim Burton’s Batman, or which Russian dictator could probably beat Angela Lansbury at Bridge.

Sometimes she brought a couple of tequila beers, which he always mock-glared at her for before accepting, and sometimes she brought some cold leftover pizza, which he never hesitated to snatch up greedily. Sometimes he brought her a root beer float in a Styrofoam takeaway cup, though he never admitted where he got them from. Those days, he’d come in smelling like cigarettes and gas, and he’d have oil smudged up along his hairline, like he’d been scrubbing too hastily and had missed it. She never let on that she noticed—she guessed he worked at a car shop, sometimes. Or a gas station. Either way, it wasn’t something they talked about, and so she never asked.

It was Sunday evening, the sky was the early shade of orange, Clarke was still blurry on the edges from an hour spent hotboxing in Art’s dorm. She was wearing one of Anya’s ridiculous shirts, meant to show off a pair of toned and tattooed arms—but it just made Clarke’s seem even paler and more flimsy—and a pair of Raven’s shorts, and O’s Catwoman makeup, with Maya’s grape vine still twined through her hair. Only the boots were hers, and she kicked them against the washer, trying to focus on the feel of her tongue tucked safe behind her teeth, and on the flicker of florescent lighting, and the hum of the washer beneath her as it vibrated up her spine.

She’d forgotten her usual modes of distraction, which was fine—everything was fine—because it was Sunday and Sundays were her favorite, and he was definitely a reason for that, and he would be here soon.

She could say that, now—he was a reason, something to look forward to. Something she looked forward to. He was annoying, and obnoxious, and opinionated, and God he really needed to learn some fucking boundaries, but. Well. So did Raven, so did O. So did Lexa, sometimes—it would seem she had a type.

He showed up right on time—halfway through the cycle, she could feel the shift in the machine beneath her thighs—but this time instead of dumping out his clothes beside her, he let the bag fall to the floor, stood in the middle of the room, and watched her.

She hummed in her throat, a hello without words, because words were too tricky at the moment. Her arms felt too warm for her body, like they weren’t really a part of her. She gripped the edge of the washer tightly, hoping her limbs wouldn’t fall off.

He looked at her with an amused half-smile, and shook his head in mock disappointment.

“You’re such a big brother,” Clarke whined, the syllables a little off, but statement otherwise intact. He laughed, tossing his head back in a way that made his hair fly all over the place. She liked it, in the same distant way she liked most things about him. She glared down at his toes. “Why don’t you ever wear shoes?”

“Who’s the big sibling, now?” he teased, stepping towards her. He wanted to move her, she could tell as he reached out for her hips, to leverage her off the machine. He stopped just shy of her knees, frowning down at the skin there. Clarke frowned to match his, and followed his eyes.

Maya had grown bored with wrists and forearms, choosing instead to doodle a maze of ivy on the left side of Clarke’s knee. Not to be outdone, O had taken a pen to the other leg, mapping out a rough sketch of some constellation that made Clarke think of Wells. It made her heart ache in that fond, nostalgic way. She should call him. She should ask Raven if she could borrow The Pumpkin and go out and pick him up and resume their search for the ultimate coffee shop.

The laundry guy stretched a hand out and lightly grazed the stars on her leg, letting a finger drift from point to point, following the lines. She shivered, and suddenly her arms weren’t too warm anymore.

“Andromeda,” he murmured, and even high Clarke couldn’t help rolling her eyes because of course he’d recognize the chicken scrawl on her leg. She bit the inside of her cheek and held her breath as his finger inched higher, tracing the lines of the second drawing, up on her thigh. “And Gemini.”

He glanced up at her and she went lightheaded—why was she lightheaded? Oh, right. She grasped in a shaky breath, and he smiled. She opened her mouth to say…something, she wasn’t sure what, but then someone cleared their throat at the doorway.

As if just realizing his hand was on her thigh—boundaries—he took a step back. A giant one, because Jesus Christ his legs were long, like, so much longer than hers, and it was that image that had Clarke giggling on the washing machine before finally looking up to see who it was that had interrupted…what, exactly?

And then, oh. There was Anya, her girlfriend, because of course it fucking was, even though Anya had only ever been to her dorm once, and only to her dorm room door—not even in the room, just the doorway, just like now. Now, she stood in the doorway, and she wasn’t glaring, but she was staring at him, and he was staring at Anya, and Clarke was trying to remember how to make her eyes focus long enough for her to stare, because she didn’t want to feel left out.

“Anya,” Clarke finally said, flinging an arm wildly in what she supposed might have been a wave. Anya looked unimpressed. Clarke frowned. “You should let me wash your clothes.” She wiggled her hips a little to imitate the running machine, and waggled her eyebrows suggestively, smiling that sloppy way that people do when they’re not sober.

Anya gave a long-suffering sigh, turning the full force of her stare on her girlfriend, which lost most of its intended effect the moment she took in what Clarke was wearing—specifically, the top.

Unless her intention was to make Clarke feel very hot, very quickly, in a full-body-blush sort of way.

Now it was his turn to clear his throat, though Clarke only offered him a tiny glance—enough to see him bend to scoop up his still-full clothes bag, enough for her to think how convenient it was he’d chosen not to dump them all out in his usual way—and he headed for the door. He gave a small nod to Anya, which shouldn’t have seemed as important as it did, or as awkward. Sure, he’d had his hand on or around her leg a moment ago, but honestly, that hardly seemed like enough to build the tension so clearly strung between them.

“Nice to see you, Anya,” he muttered on his way out. Anya didn’t look away from Clarke.

“Bellamy,” she offered back. Ah, Clarke thought lazily, I knew my leg wasn’t at fault. She pat it reassuringly.

And then suddenly he was gone and Anya was across the room, folding her hand over Gemini, lacing her fingers through Clarke’s, and kissing her until she hummed. They kissed, and Anya’s hand drifted, and they kissed some more until the machine cut off and Clarke jolted to a stop, instantly missing the motion beneath her legs. Anya kept kissing her, though.

“My clothes,” Clare breathed in between, “They’ll mold.”

“I’ve got quarters,” Anya grinned. “We can wash em again.”

Clarke was about to congratulate them both on a well-laid plan, when for the second time that day, a throat cleared loudly in the doorway.

Anya pulled her mouth away with a wet smack, turning a glare towards their sudden audience. Clarke peered over her shoulder to find O, looking embarrassed and annoyed and glaring hard up at the ceiling, hands on her hips. She was wearing another of her leotards, her hair swept back from her face, with a gauzy lavender skirt slung low around her hips. She must have just come from the studio, still in the ratty sneakers she swore gave the best traction onstage.

Clarke grinned stupidly at her friend, who looked more uncomfortable than she’d ever seen her, and leaned heavily with both arms on Anya shoulders. She hadn’t even known O could look uncomfortable. She grinned wider.

“That’s my friend,” she said happily to Anya, waving a floppy hand at O. “Octavia. But don’t call her that, she doesn’t like it. O, this is my girlfriend!” She nosed at Anya cheek with a happy sigh and smiled. “I have a girlfriend,” she grinned, pulling back. She winked at her, and Anya had never looked more amused. “A hot girlfriend.” She mimed fanning herself, and Anya laughed. At the door, O gave a long-suffering sigh, and Clarke frowned, wondering why everyone she knew seemed to do that.

“Raven said I could find you here,” O explained hotly, as though she had a strict schedule to keep, and catching Clarke pawing at her girlfriend in the laundry room had not been on the list.

Ah, the roommate, Clarke realized. That’s how they knew. Raven was the only person aware of her ‘weirdass laundry routine,’ as she called it. Clarke wasn’t sure how much Raven suspected about the actual situation—whether she knew there was a guy, or not. Sort of like how Clarke knew the hickeys on Raven’s shoulders hadn’t come from studying at the library, but she didn’t bother asking.

They still didn’t talk about guys. Or girls, in Clarke’s case. Girl. And guy. She frowned—her head hurt.

Anya must have seen her expression, and taken pity. O had no such qualms; Clarke was fairly sure O had about as much empathy as a sociopath. It was a wonder she hadn’t started killing, yet.

“Oh no,” O strode over, roughly tugging Anya—who rolled her eyes, but let her—out of her way until she could stand eye-to-eye, a palm on either of Clarke’s knees. “It’s rum night,” she whined, sounding a little preschool even for her. Clarke gave a raised brow.

“O, every night is rum night,” she drawled. At her side, Anya snickered. O pinned her with a glare.

“I’ll let you pick your own outfit,” O declared, a little grudgingly. Clarke grinned sloppily and pressed a messy kiss to O’s cheek as the girl grimaced and stifled a laugh. Clarke struggled to slide off of the washer, a hand each on O and Anya’s shoulders, their hands grappling for purchase around her waist so she wouldn’t fall, but eventually she was on the ground again.

“Onward, comrades!” she ordered, linking through their arms like O had some nights before. She dragged them to her dorm, but forced them to wait in the hallway after they kept trying to backseat dress her. Well, she forced Raven and O out. Anya she let stay, so she could kiss her between articles of clothing.

Eventually she decided on a jean skirt Lexa had altered for her, adding several useless zippers all over so they caught the light each time she turned, and a sleeveless button-down blouse. She thought about adding the fancy lingerie socks to surprise Anya, but it was fairly warm out, and Anya would have seen her put them on anyway, so she opted for the practical ankle pair, and of course, her boots. She left the grapevine in her hair because it made her feel sort of like a princess, and they could all bite her. Anya smiled her approval and that was what mattered, anyway.

But she was sort of secretly pleased when she opened the door and O’s palm flew to her heart in mock-joy. Raven threw a hand to her forehead as if she might faint. Clarke made a face at them both.

“They grow up so fast,” Raven grinned. Clarke flipped her off and took Anya’s hand.

Anya squeezed her knuckles and pulled away a moment later. Clarke shrugged it off; some people weren’t hand-holders, she knew that. Hell, she wasn’t even sure she was a hand-holder—it’d just seemed like something to try. She skipped ahead to squeeze between O and Raven, who ordered them all to pause so she could snap a picture. Raven, upon first meeting, did not seem like a selfie person, but her Instagram game could put them all to shame. Her self-portraits were all dangerous and moody, in shadows and with bits and pieces of machinery everywhere, painting her as some sort of wicked steampunk queen.

“Won’t that throw off your theme, Ex Machina?” Clarke teased as Raven posted the photo to her dozen accounts. Rita shrugged.

“We look hot—I mean, I look hot usually, but with three extra doses of hotness? How could I not post this?”

They did look hot. Clarke saved the picture to her phone the next day, when she saw that Raven had texted it to her, along with the caption two third wheels with the lovebirds—lame!

The Dropship was packed, enough to make it hard to fight their way through the crowd. Anya worked that night, and gave Clarke a quick peck before heading behind the bar. The rest of the group—mostly Monty and Jas—whooped like thirteen year old's.

She wasn’t high anymore, but she was decidedly tipsy, when she ran into Bellamy at the bar. Rather, at the side of the bar because the rest of the bar was so crowded she couldn’t push her way through. She was a tiny, tiny person, and was reminded of that sad fact every time she needed to see above a group of people. All she wanted was a moment to hit on her girlfriend, and maybe score a few free shots, but it was clear she’d have to wait for the ruckus to die down.

That was when she found Bellamy. Or, when he found her. Someone did the finding, and she was on the heavier end of drunk, and he was laughing at her. He poked a gentle finger at her grape vine, and she swatted at his hand.

“What’re you doing here?” she wondered. Slurred. Had she slurred? It was hard to tell. That was probably a sign, and a bad one. She ignored it.

He raised a brow, amused. Still laughing at her, but quieter. “Working,” he said, waving a hand to the side. Her eyes followed the movement. Oh. They were at the corner of the bar, and she was on one side while he was on the other. The side with the alcohol, with the bartenders, with Anya.

“You work at The Dropship?” she asked, shocked. Sure, she’d only been there a handful of times, but what were the odds she’d never have seen him?

Pretty good, she realized. She knew from Anya there were at least ten other regular bartenders—she only got so many hours because she was the only one with an open schedule. The rest had school or kids, or a social life, she’d smirked.

You have me, Clarke had murmured into her neck. Cheesy, yes, but what the hell? This was her first girlfriend, her first relationship—she was allowed to be a little cheesy. She’d said so when Anya laughed at her, and she’d kissed her until she’d agreed.

“S’that so hard to believe?” he drawled. Not slurred, but he’d let his words run together in a way she’d never noticed, and she suddenly realized it was an accent. He had an accent, and she’d never noticed. Or had he just never let it slip out around her? She knew people that had done that, at home. Hidden their twang because they were embarrassed. Was he embarrassed? Or did he use the drawl to get more tips? She decided to ignore those questions for a moment.

“I thought you worked with cars,” Clarke admitted, more than a little dismayed to find out her guess hadn’t been right after all. She’d been so sure, with the smell of gas and the smudge of oil—maybe it was a hobby, and he just worked on his ride a lot. That made so much sense; why hadn’t she thought of that?

He looked taken aback, and then a little harder. Not quite anger, but drifting towards that lane. “Why’d you think that?” he asked, jaw a little too tight for him to play off. Clarke didn’t know what to make of that, so she ignored that too.

She seemed to be ignoring a lot of things, these days.

“The oil,” she said, like it was obvious. Because it sort of was. She raised a finger to scrape the skin where his forehead met his scalp. “Here. And you smelled like it. Gas and cigarettes and cars. I dunno.” It was strange, she realized, to see him outside of the laundry room. Here, in front of her, he was more than just the Laundry Guy. He was a person, with a name—Bellamy, she remembered—and a job, two jobs, and probably lots of other complexities that generally come with being a full-blown individual.

The hardness had left, but he was still looking at her, still stuck and she didn’t know what to do with that, either. Didn’t he have customers, or like, a job to do? She asked as much, and he laughed again. Chuckled in that endearing way that sometimes let her forget what a massive dick he was most of the time.

“You were right, y’know,” he mumbled, beginning to turn away to take an order from a sorority girl Clarke recognized from her philosophy class. She was cute, and more clever than anyone gave her credit for, because she was also shy. Bellamy winked as he took her money, and Clarke almost didn’t realize he was still talking to her. “I do work with cars. It’s a day job, part-time.”

Clarke shrugged because it didn’t really matter; a job was a job. Then she flicked her eyes from him, to the sorority girl, and back noticeably, shooting a wink and a go get some tips! He laughed again and turned towards the fray. Anya managed to find her a moment later, and they shared an over-the-bar kiss that tasted like rum and toothpaste.

O and Jas danced on the tables again but this time Clarke only watched, helping them stagger back down when they couldn’t handle the vertigo any longer. She and Raven strung O’s arms over their backs like a hammock and half-carried her home. They tucked her into Clarke’s bed, and Clarke tucked herself in next to Raven, who complained about her stealing the covers for half the night, but whatever.

“Your leg can’t even get cold,” Clarke grumbled, and Raven elbowed her in the back.

They woke up grumpy and stayed that way until O slithered out of her blankets, and dragged them both to the dining hall for late-morning-after waffles. They weren’t as good as Waffle House or even Ihop’s, but they were at the dining hall which meant they were free, and there were unlimited refills—until they ran out of batter, but by then they were thoroughly stuffed and in supremely better moods.

“You guys are like little kids,” O muttered good-naturedly, shoveling her own mouth with a stack of peanut butter chip waffles she’d designed herself. Jas and Monty wandered in blearily half an hour later, and whined about the lack of waffles until O showed them the wonders of maple syrup mixed with scrambled eggs.

“They’re potheads,” she explained with a shrug. “Maple syrup over anything, really, and they’re sold.”

“How are you not hungover right now?” Raven asked with narrowed eyes, voice accusatory. O shrugged and swallowed another bite of waffle.

“I have an impeccable liver,” she declared. She cut her eyes at the boys as they snickered. “No, seriously,” she swore. “It’s like, my second favorite body part.”

Intrigued, Clarke asked, “What’s your first?”

O grinned wickedly. Raven tossed a rolled up napkin at her face.

It was Monday, which meant classes and studying in the library, and generally playing the role of responsible college student all day. O made a face when Clarke said as much, but waved her off without too much grumbling. Raven promised to have lunch waiting back in their room for her.

Her first two classes were bearable in length, though the first was a pre-requisite math, which meant she spent the hour-and-forty-five minutes feeling her brain steadily growing number. She allowed herself only four discrete texts to Anya, who was spending the first half of her day in bed before her shift—lucky tramp. Clarke said as much, to which Anya replied only with a picture of herself barely clothed and sprawled out on the mattress. Clarke didn’t bother responding, choosing instead to pointedly engross herself in her work.

Her second class was ceramics, one of her favorites, which she shared with Monty. He didn’t need it for his major, which was tentatively technical design—even though she knew secretly he just wanted to run his own farm. Something about his mother having a vegetable garden he’d helped with as a kid.

But he’d needed a fine arts credit, and she wasn’t complaining because now she had someone to laugh with when the wheel spun out of control, or they didn’t rub all the air out of the clay and their mugs cracked in the kiln. They were working on face jugs now, and Monty kept trying to give his a third eye, or a forked tongue, making their professor frown even deeper each time. Clarke had to cover up her laughs with a series of fake coughing fits. Monty just eyed her every time and mouthed discrete.

By the time her lunch block swung around, Clarke’s stomach seemed to have forgotten all about that morning, when she’d eaten her body weight in waffles. She was practically salivating when she opened the door to her room.

Raven wasn’t there, having a noon mechanics lab, but true to her word she’d left a brown paper bag delicately perched on a stack of pillows, like some sort of throne. She’d scrawled for the princess in messy block letters across the bag, and Clarke frowned down at the words, reminded of the first day she’d met Bellamy. He’d been such a dick—not that he wasn’t now, because, well, he was, but—and she still couldn’t think of that introduction without wincing. She hadn’t exactly taken the high road, either.

Wrenching herself back to the present, Clarke dug into her package with glee; a Californian veggie burger, and a super-sized box of onion rings. Raven had even nabbed extra packets of extra-spicy dipping sauce—she’d have to remember to thank her roommate extra nicely. Maybe she’d leave her another surprise on the whiteboard.

College had an abundance of several things, like windows that didn’t close correctly, too-small closets, faulty shower knobs, and dry erase boards. They hung on practically every door, mini fridge, and classroom wall. Clarke had grown so used to the smell of the markers that she didn’t even notice it anymore. The skin on the side of everyone’s hands was usually stained black, red, blue and green. Erasers—along with cheap lighters, cigarettes, and clean looking towels—were constantly being stolen.

Clarke had developed the habit of leaving little presents on the whiteboards of her friends—and sometimes strangers, if she was bored or their boards were especially barren. Sometimes just a little doodle to let them know she’d stopped by while they were out. Sometimes secret messages were hidden in the sketches; a detailed portrait of a burrito on Jas’s, where the shreds of lettuce actually spelled his and Monty’s and Murphy’s names. A space-pirate armada on the stormy seas for O and Maya—but beneath the waves a secret rose garden grew. She’d said it was their friendship’s inner harbor.

She’d left one for Raven, once—a double of one of her Instagram pictures, with her reimagined as an Amazonian cyborg queen. In her speech bubble, she declared Boys, who needs em? Hell is a teenage girl! Raven had photographed it, keeping it as her profile for a new record of seven days.

Without meaning to, Clarke’s mind trailed back to Bellamy, and she wondered if his door had a whiteboard, and what she might draw on it, if it did. Probably a pile of dirty laundry, with his name on top. Just to piss him off, she’d toss in a quote from The Dark Knight.

It was still strange to think of him outside of the laundry room, but she was gradually getting used to the idea. On a fundamental level, she’d known he had an entire life that spanned beyond their weird Sunday evening meetings, but it’d been easy to compartmentalize him as just a pseudo-stranger that liked ancient history a little too much and rolled his towels instead of folding them.

She finished her lunch, hurriedly sketched Raven as a storm trooper while robots warred in the distance, and dashed off to her studio class.

Clarke had originally planned on majoring in sculpture—which was a real major, regardless of what Raven thought—but this class was making her rethink that. Studio was a sort of free-for-all. Her professor had assigned a handful of papers, but most of the grade would be based on the all-year project; a collection with several pieces, each in a different media, all surrounding some sort of broad theme. Most of her classmates had gone existential with it, choosing themes like love, loneliness, or humanity. Clarke had labored over the decision for a week and a half, until she fell asleep studying for her Ancient Greek History essay, and dreamed about a female Hephaestus that suspiciously resembled Raven, made out of scrap metal.

Her collection, tentatively called The Olympus Series, was relatively simple; a handful of pieces based on her favorite Greek myths. And if some of the figures happened to resemble her real-life friends, well, it was because they all had nice cheekbones, so it’s their own fault, really.

She worked for a bit on her Raven-Hephaestus—shamelessly soldering a replica of her prosthetic, made out of an old bike handlebar. She’d asked her roommate to hand over any useless metal from her garage. Raven hadn’t asked, only shoving a box full of junk transmissions and trashed bicycles, and Clarke hadn’t bothered to explain. She wanted to see Raven’s face, when she finally unveiled the finished product.

She’d finished the Underworld a while ago—all charcoal gray and midnight black, with the River Styx a murky ribbon cutting through the paper mache stonework. She’d added a pair of thrones, one stark and imposing and fit for the king of the dead, and the other made of delicate tree roots coiled in morning glories. She’d always liked the dichotomy of Hades and Persephone, ruling together, opposites that complemented each other perfectly. Even as a girl she’d preferred the version of Persephone that chose to stay with Hades and be his queen. Sure, there was that whole feminist ideal of a woman picking her own destiny rather than having it forced on her—but mostly Clarke liked the romance of it all.

Clarke always turned her phone off during class, more out of respect than anything, and so she didn’t see O’s message until she was headed back to the dorms.

need to talk. meet in p lot. bring snacks!!!

Clarke managed to find a vending machine outside the library, and stuffed her bag with paydays and little bags of Ritz peanut butter crackers before heading to the parking lot.

She assumed O meant the lot just outside their dorm building, where the Pumpkin was parked. O didn’t have a car, something she complained about whenever she remembered, so Clarke didn’t really know why they were meeting in the parking lot. She didn’t understand the message at all, to be honest, and O was one of those people that said I love you, and I hope you’re impaled on a lamp post and set on fire, in the same intonation.

Clarke didn’t have to look for very far, since apparently O had meant that lot, and was in fact standing right beside the Pumpkin. She was leaning on the hood of a very old, very well-kept car that Clarke instantly knew couldn’t belong to her friend. It was too black, too perfectly maintained, and too vintage. If O ever bought her own car, it’d be a loud, cherry red Bug, with leopard spots painted down the sides.

“It’s my brother’s,” O waves a hand dismissively, answering Clarke’s unasked question. The smoke from her cigarette traveled with the movement. She went to slide into the driver’s seat, and Clarke followed.

The radio blasted more of her signature girl-punk-rock, and O smoked through two more cigarettes along the drive. She fiddled with the radio dials a few times, only adjusting the volume and sometimes the air conditioning, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted it on. Clarke kept quiet the entire time, waiting. She’d never seen O so flustered, and she wasn’t really in a hurry to find out what had the girl so stressed.

Eventually they pulled into a gas station, but rather than pull up to a pump, O swung the car into a parking space and parked. She kept the engine on for the music, letting the last song taper out before turning the key. Silence settled, and she lit another cigarette, reaching across Clarke’s lap to snag a payday from her open bag. She ripped it open with her teeth, took a bite and swallowed before speaking.

“So, what are your intentions with my ex-girlfriend?”

Clarke was startled, which she figured was the wanted response, judging by O’s half-grin. “You’re what?” she asked, voice surprisingly mild. She was too confused to respond with anything else.

O swallowed the last of her candy bar with two quick, feral bites, and stubbed out her cigarette on the side of her car door. Clarke winced involuntarily—her dad had always been an avid car buff, and it physically hurt to see such a nice model disrespected—but she kept her mouth shut. Finally, O turned back around with the face of a stern parent.

“Anya, my ex-girlfriend, current friend-friend. What are your intentions?”

Clarke still couldn’t find it in herself to feel anything more than a mild surprise. “You dated Anya?”

O rolled her eyes. “Long time ago, passing ships in the night and all that.” She chewed on her lower lip, her tell for when she wasn’t sure if she should say something. Usually, she did. “I still care about her.”

Ah, there it is—Clarke felt a sudden pang in her chest, like she’d been hit by a baseball. O must have recognized the look, because she was hurry to correct herself. “Not like that, Jesus! Just, she’s a good person, and she deserves to be happy. That’s all I want.” She shrugged, and Clarke tried to not feel offended.

“What exactly do you think I’m doing with her?” she asked, and oops, her tone’s a little bitter. She’d tried to keep that in check.

“Look, Clarke, I like you. You’re good people. But Anya’s your first girlfriend—your first anything, and. She just doesn’t deserve to be someone’s experiment.”

She was trying to placate her, but the words made Clarke’s stomach hurt. “You think I’d do that?” she asked, whispered really, because she’d thought O was her friend—like, invite-to-family-functions-over-break friend. Talk-about-the-deep-stuff friend.

Clarke was an idiot.

O rubbed her face, irritated, though with herself or with Clarke, she couldn’t tell. “Look—ugh, this just came out all wrong! I think you’re great, and I don’t think you’d ever consciously do something to hurt Anya, but she’s looking for something long-term. It’s why we broke up; I’m talking marriage, here. Starting a family. Now, I get that you’re excited about your first girlfriend, or whatever, and everything’s going great and I’m happy for you. But do you really see yourself staying with her for the rest of your life? You’re a freshman in college, Clarke. Just. Think about it.”

Clarke thought about it. A little. Okay, she didn’t, because she was still feeling a little bombarded, trapping in this fantastic car with the smell of cigarettes and pointed questions about her relationship of two months. Surely Anya wasn’t thinking of marriage after only two months? This was O being O, bumrushing boundaries and kicking them in the shins.

“O, I appreciate your concern. My intentions are to stay with Anya for as long as it makes us both happy. She knows that. And, honestly, she’s the one that should be having this conversation with me.”

O looked ready to argue for a moment, then paused to light a cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, and said, “You’re right. Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry—tacos? Can we do tacos?”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Are you seriously trying to buy my forgiveness with tacos?”

O chewed at her lower lip and gave a crooked smile. “Uh, yeah?”

Clarke snorted. “Then we really are friends.”

She’d meant it as a joke, and O smiled, but then she nodded and said, seriously, “Yeah. We really are. Just so you know—I had the intentions talk with Anya yesterday, about you.”

And Clarke knew it was still a problem, still crossing a line, but she couldn’t help smiling at the thought of O interrogating someone on her behalf. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d it go?”

“She said she only wants you for your body.” Clarke snorted. “I warned her not to fuck it up.”

Clarke waited till they were at a red light, to squeeze O’s shoulder. “Thanks, O.”

“Of course,” O scoffs, smirking at her sideways. “You’re part of the pack, now. I keep telling you.”

Chapter Text

Lexa calls the next day, which is new.

“Hey, you’re calling me,” Clarke blurts instead of hello. She can practically hear Lexa raise one eyebrow.

“Astute as always, Clarke,” she deadpans, and Clarke can’t even be mad because she hasn’t heard her best friend’s voice since she moved to Kentucky, and she’s missed her. She still misses her.

“It’s just, international. Usually I have to call you...” She can hear voices in the background, and then Lexa snaps something in French—Clarke can’t make it all out, but she catches a few curses, and the word imbecile, so. Good to know nothing’s changed.

“Yes, well, Paris finally got their shit together with international calling,” Lexa explains bluntly. A pause. “It’s good to hear you,” she says softly. “Not in a voicemail capacity.”

“It’s good to hear you too,” Clarke smiles. And if she has to wipe at her eyes a little, so what? Lexa’s her best friend, and she misses her, and she’s been cramming for a Calculus test, so she hasn’t slept in thirty-two hours. Sue her.

“So what is this about a new woman in your life,” Lexa demands. “I leave for four months and suddenly you’re in love—I mean honestly, it’s disturbing. Is this going to happen every time I leave the country? Should I reschedule my vacation times?” She sounds amused, and just a little offended, which yeah, Clarke can understand. Lexa has always been a little over-invested in her love life. She’s probably most upset about not having anything to do with the whole Anya thing.

“Don’t worry, you’re still my number one girl,” Clarke coos. She means it, but with Lexa it’s best to layer affection with either sarcasm or Jean Renoir references. “And I wouldn’t say I’m in love, but. I could be, I think. Eventually.”

“How very quaint.”

“You’re such a bitch,” Clarke says, fond. “Why do I talk to you?”

“You don’t; we’re both very busy people with opposing time zones,” Lexa shoots back. She yells in French at someone, but Clarke can’t keep up. Then, “I’m surrounded by imbeciles. One of the models tried to eat a fake gardenia this morning. Save me, won’t you?”

“I’ll get right on that,” Clarke grins. “You should tell her to try eating a few brain cells. It can’t hurt.”

“Ah, yes. Nothing like a zombie apocalypse on the catwalk.”

“I bet you’d make all the headlines,” Clarke assures her. There’s a pause, which means Lexa is about to say something serious, and is trying to decide on the most non-blunt wording.

“So are you over Wells, then?” Subtlety is not Lexa’s forte.

Clarke sighs. She’d met Wells when they were both children—so young she doesn’t remember ever not knowing him. Their mothers had met in a pregnancy class, and then his family moved in next door, and this has been the first time in her life that they’ve spent more than two days apart. She doesn’t know when she fell in love with him; she’d sort of always just assumed they’d grow up, get married, and live a few houses down from their parents. It was a childish fantasy, a kiddy love, but it’d still hurt when he said he didn’t feel the same. Lexa had been there when it all came to a head, which means she remembers Clarke crying in the upstairs bathroom for hours.

They’d gotten over it, of course. After being best friends for seventeen years, it’s pretty impossible not to. And now they can do things like talk about her first kiss with Anya, and his ineffectual flirting with some girl in his astronomy lecture. They’re okay, and she’s profoundly grateful for it.

“I don’t know,” Clarke admits. “I mean, I don’t want to marry him anymore, or anything. I don’t think I’d even say yes if he asked me out, but he was the only person I even liked, until Anya. It’s new, and weird. But a good weird.”

“Monroe’s gotten to you, hasn’t she?” Lexa asks, sounding sad and serious. “Her and those ridiculous books.”

“Hey, you liked some of those books,” Clarke reminds her. “Especially the one with the dragon.”

“That one doesn’t count,” Lexa says irritably. “Everyone likes dragons.”

“She says hello, by the way,” Clarke teases.

“Who? The dragon?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “No, you loser. Monroe.” Lexa snorts derisively.

Lexa is good at liking exactly two people—everyone else she either tolerates, or loathes.

“Is this you changing the subject, or has her crush on me regenerated?”

Monroe met Lexa when she was fourteen, gangly and unsure of herself, and in the midst of a fashion crisis. Lexa spent the afternoon revising Monroe’s entire wardrobe, sometimes threatening to burn entire piles of clothing, before swearing in angry French. Clarke spent that afternoon making a cool, life-size paper mache arm and painting it green. Monroe spent that afternoon making two important life decisions; to embrace the undercut, and that Lexa would always be her personal hero.

Clarke debates telling Lexa that her little sister’s crush on her never degenerated—also pointing out that Lexa brought up Monroe, not the other way around—but decides to play it safe. Lexa is good at liking two people. “My mom still blames you for her hair, you know.”

“I know,” Lexa agrees. “As she should; it was my idea, and I take credit for it, gladly.”

Clarke’s phone gives two beeps, and she glances at the screen. A text from Wells:

Won bet with roommate, got car for the day. See you in 45?

She’s distantly aware of a bet he and his roommate had, involving the girl from his astronomy lecture. She thinks it probably means he at least got her number, and she’s happy for him, and she’s glad that this is where they’re at, now.

“I have to go,” she tells Lexa. “Wells has his roommate’s car for the day, which I’m pretty sure means he got laid.”

“And you’re not currently in a panic—every step may be fruitful,” Lexa muses. “Aujourd'hui, je prends de la hauteur.”

Clarke snorts. “God, you’re pretentious.”

“Lui carrer dans l’oignon,” Lexa says mildly.

“I heard ass in there somewhere.” Clarke’s also pretty sure there was something about an onion, but she won’t ask. “I really do have to go,” she says slowly, not really ready to go at all.

“Alright,” Lexa chirps. “Je t’adore.” And then she hangs up.

She texts Wells and then spends the next forty-five minutes texting O and Raven gifs of cats riding roombas.

Wells picks her up in his roommate’s shitty Saturn. Clarke has never actually met Wells’s roommate, but she knows his name is Wick, he’s an engineering major, and he’s currently building a robot in their dorm room. She’s thinking of setting him up with Raven, but she’s also pretty sure they might become super villains together which, not ideal.

Also apparently he and Wells have a running bet that’s really just a shoddy attempt at encouraging each other to talk to girls. Wells has apparently found a friend as inept with the female population as he is, and Clarke is proud.

“It’s not like you’re much better,” he argues, only a little petulantly.

“I’m sorry, who’s the one with an actual girlfriend?” she teases. He makes a face.

They’re sitting in a coffee shop just ten minutes from her campus. It’s called Grounders, which is a little strange but at least it’s more creative than Common Grounds or all the other coffee pun names. It’s small, but comfortable, with soft easy chairs instead of the metal food court kind, and The Wombats is playing in the background, which Clarke could get used to. It’s definitely the best prospect they’ve found so far.

“How is that, by the way?” Wells asks politely, not at all uncomfortable. She smiles.

“Good,” she says. “Apparently O—the loud, pretty one—dated her a while ago, so she gave me the what are your intentions talk, but. Things are good. She’s good. I’m happy.”

Wells looks amused. “You don’t have to sell me on her, you know,” he jokes. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Clarke beams. “I know. How’s the astronomy girl?”

“Hot,” Wells groans, throwing his head back against the wall. Clarke fights a laugh—she’s not used to seeing him so flustered. It’s awesome. “She’s so hot, Clarke. And brilliant; she knows all the stars by name. All the ones we’re studying, anyway. It’s awful.”

So apparently Wells is terrible with crushes. She’d already sort of known that, from when Lexa first showed up and he promptly tripped over the dog and fell on his face, but she’d been too wrapped up in her own feelings to really enjoy it then. Now, she can sit back and watch, and it’s great.

“But you talked to her, right?” she fishes. “Isn’t that how you got the car?”

Wells shrugs noncommittally, still staring up at the ceiling. “We got grouped together for a project,” he admits. “I didn’t actually make a conscious effort, or anything.” He smiles down at his hands, where Clarke can see the faded lines of his usual notes. Wells is not at all forgetful, but it’s one of his greatest fears, so he constantly writes memos to himself across the backs of his hands. They never make sense, always in his impossible short-hand, but sometimes he’ll add in little symbols and his hands will resemble hieroglyphics. “She said she liked the stuff on my hands.”

“Why didn’t you ask her out?”

He grimaces. “It’s not that easy!” he protests.

Clarke shrugs. “Sure it is.” He gives her a look.

“Fine; since after one relationship you’re obviously the expert, what should I have said?” He takes a long sip from his latte.

“I’d like to have you on my hands.” She says it in an exaggerated version of his voice, and he spills coffee out of his nose. The barista and a few other customers turn to glare at them, but they’re laughing too hard to notice.

“You’re impossible,” he gasps.

“I know,” she chirps. “Finish your coffee, Wells.”

He accidentally drops her off at the other side of her dorm, and she’s passing the P.O. boxes when she remembers she hasn’t checked hers in a week. Maybe longer—it’s easy to forget, when she doesn’t see them every day.

There are a few newsletters, a postcard from some dentist company she’s never heard of, and another care package from Monroe. They’re her passive aggressive way of letting Clarke know she’s still bitter about being abandoned, but loves her anyway.

There’s some bright molding clay, the kind found in the dollar store for kids’ arts and crafts, a pair of socks with glow-in-the-dark cat eyes, and a few cheesy romance novels. The dragon one is there, so Clarke takes a picture of the cover and sends it to Lexa with the caption, Does this get u hot?

Lexa sends back a picture of dog genitalia, and Clarke laughs so hard she cries. Raven sees and makes a face.

“Your other friends are lame.” She winks so Clarke knows she’s not serious. “Guess you deserve each other.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, wiping the tears from her eyes. She googles goat with monkey tightrope, and sends Lexa the clip. “You’re probably right.”

Chapter Text

Monty knocks on Clarke’s door sometime after her last afternoon class. She’s working on an economics essay—or she’s supposed to be. Mostly she’s been writing fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck for the past few minutes.

Raven is at the garage—or studying, Clarke never really knows anymore—so when she opens the door, she’s in a pair of zebra-print pajama shorts, her glow-in-the-dark cat socks, and a sweatshirt she’s pretty sure she accidentally stole from the laundry guy. (Bellamy, she reminds herself; he has a name, now. It’s weird. She’s getting used to it.)

“Er, hi,” Monty says, suddenly bashful. Well, he’s always bashful, but at least he seems relatively sure of himself around Clarke. Of their little group, they’re definitely the most mild-mannered, so she supposes it makes sense. She’s still a little smug about it.

“Hi,” Clarke grins, waving him in. “What’s up? Need someone to kick your butt at Mortal Kombat?”

Monty snorts and she shuts the door after him. He seems to be debating his seating options—there’s Raven’s bed, covered in a mess of lingerie and spare car parts; Clarke’s bed, only a little less messy and with no potentially hazardous bits of metal; Raven’s desk chair, which acts as a sort of catch-all since it’s so close to their door; Clarke’s desk chair, which she’s now sitting in, because it’s her chair; and the floor.

“So,” he starts, folding himself down on the ground, “Are you doing anything?”

Clarke raises a brow and glances down at herself—zebra-print shorts and cat socks. Monty tracks the movement and blushes adorably. “Right,” he clears his throat. “So, would you maybe like to come to this thing with me?”

Clarke studies him for a moment. She and Monty have never actually spent much time just the two of them. Usually they have Murphy or Jas or O or a spinning wheel between them as a buffer, so they’ve never really interacted like this. It’s awkward, and she doesn’t think it should be. Mostly it’s just odd.

“Monty, I have a girlfriend,” she says wryly. Monty positively flushes. It’s great; she’s going to make it her new goal to make him do it more often.

“It’s not like that!” he swears. “It’s like a club meeting, and I just don’t want to go alone.”

Oh. Well, now she feels bad. “Where’s O?” she wonders. “Or Jas?” Clarke suffers no delusions; she can’t have been Monty’s first choice.

“O’s with this week’s boyfriend,” he admits. “And Jas…I just—I don’t think he’d really be comfortable with it.”

Well, now she’s intrigued, so she’s sort of got to go. She looks back down at her shorts-and-socks combo, and gives a small sigh. She’ll probably have to change; she’d never hear the end of it from O and Raven. Ever since their last night at the Dropship, they’ve seemed to raise their expectations when it comes to her fashion choices. It’s pretty much unbearable.

She doesn’t have to ask him to wait outside, because Monty is quick to pink and rush out on his own. She puts on a pair of jeans and her boots. They’ve become a sort of signature, which she likes the thought of. She keeps the socks on, and the sweatshirt, and puts her hair in a braid that looks kind of messy-on-purpose, so you know. Good enough.

She follows Monty across the campus. SKY-U isn’t the biggest school in the state, but it’s pretty sizeable; enough to make a trek from building to building take nearly twenty minutes. It’s not terrible; the weather’s nice, and Monty’s back to his assured self, and they talk about classes and complain about the ceramic masks they’re working on. It’s nice, and comfortable, and she’s almost forgotten the awkwardness from her room by the time they arrive.

He leads her into an empty classroom in the basement of a building she’s never been in. She can’t immediately tell what class is taught there, and the whiteboard only says LGBTQA in big, green letters.

Ah.

Clarke turns to Monty and restudies him. He’s blushing again, and nervous, and she realizes belatedly that he’s waiting for her reaction. It’s a strange way for someone to come out to her, she thinks—but then again, she’s never really had anyone come out to her before, besides Lexa, who just waved a hand nonchalantly towards Wells one day and said Don’t worry, he’s not my type.

In retrospect, that was also a strange way to come out to someone. Maybe there is no normal way; who knows?

So Clarke shrugs and says, “So which letter do you fall under?”

Monty turns a little pinker and smiles and says, “G.” Clarke nods, and they find a pair of seats in the haphazard circle someone’s put together.

There are a few other students milling about, but not many, and they all seem to be paired off a little, making small talk before the meeting actually starts.

Soon a crowd starts trickling in, finding friends and nabbing seats, until the circle is mostly full. Someone slides into the chair beside Clarke with a huff, and she turns to offer a smile, and then freezes.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Bellamy grins.

Clarke stares at him stupidly for a minute before speaking. “I didn’t know you were…” she trails off, not wanting to be rude, and Bellamy gives a laugh. Just one. More like a chuckle.

He shakes his head. “I’m not. S for Support, I guess?” He nods towards the boy on the other side of Monty. “That’s my friend Miller. Didn’t want to come alone.”

“Neither did Monty,” Clarke nods. “I didn’t even know about this place, but I guess it’s nice? They didn’t have anything like this at my high school.” She turns to introduce Bellamy to Monty, and sees him glancing at Miller while trying not to glance at Miller, which is confusing. At first. Then it’s awesome, and she turns away quickly so he doesn’t catch her smiling.

Bellamy seems to catch on. “So have you always been,” he waves a hand noncommittally to the board.

Clarke shakes her head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t one of those girls who knew at five years old, or anything. I liked boys.” Boy, she corrects herself in her head. She doesn’t need to tell him everything. “I still do. But, I like girls too.” She flushes, suddenly remembering that they don’t do this. They talk comics and movies and classes and dumb siblings—her history of sexual orientation seems a bit forward, in comparison.

But Bellamy just nods understandingly. “My sister’s the same,” he says. “Girls and boys. It just meant I had to give twice as many death threats.” He grins to let her know he’s kidding, but she’s not really sure.

“Yeah, I can definitely see you holding a shotgun on Prom night,” she jokes.

He scoffs. “C’mon, princess, give me a little more credit. It was definitely a broadsword.” Again, she’s pretty sure he’s not kidding, at least not completely.

Before she can reply, a Junior named Roma calls the club to order, and starts off with a speech about unity and other similar things. It’s alright, mostly made up of well-known quotes from famous dead people, but it gets the point across.

Then they pass around a trilby filled with blank slips of paper, and a few Sharpies.

“Everyone write down your name, and phone number,” Roma explains, “Then put it back in the hat, and at the end we’ll pass it back around and we’ll each pick one out. This way, whenever you’re having trouble, you’ll have someone to call.”

Clarke thinks it’s a nice sentiment, but doubts she’ll feel comfortable texting some random stranger if she’s having problems with her sexuality—which, what does that even mean, really? But she writes her name and phone number, and tosses it in with the rest, and then plucks one out when it comes back around. She ends up with Fox Gilmore, which could go either way, really—though her name isn’t much better, so it’s not like she can talk.

She takes a moment to hope that Monty ended up with Miller, or vice versa.

The meeting wraps up relatively quickly, after that. She peeks over Bellamy’s shoulder to see he ended up with Roma’s information, which seems a little too lucky, but whatever.

Someone brought in muffins, so everyone stays after for a few minutes, stuffing their mouths with bananas and pecans. Monty and Miller are standing a little away from everyone else, and Miller says something that makes Monty laugh so hard he spews muffin all over the place, and Miller looks at him so fondly Clarke forgets to breathe.

Bellamy nudges her in the shoulder to make her stop staring, and she pokes him back in the ribs.

“You better make Miller give him his number,” she demands.

Bellamy snorts and says, “Obviously.”

She and Miller have a quick last-minute introduction before they all pair off and go their separate ways.

“Miller lives in Mecha Wing,” Bellamy explains. Miller gives him an odd look Clarke notices but doesn’t really get, and then they’re gone.

“So how do you know Bellamy?” Monty asks as they walk across the quad.

Clarke shrugs. How does she know Bellamy? To be honest, she’s sort of been dreading that question. She’d been sure at least Anya would want to know, but her girlfriend hadn’t mentioned him again and so Clarke hadn’t either. It’s strange, having someone to talk to about him. Everything about them is strange, really, and she’s not really sure how to explain.

“We met in the laundry room,” she decides on. “He was sort of a dick.” Monty snorts. “But he's not so bad, I guess.”

“Miller said they went to high school together,” Monty offers. Clarke looks at him slyly.

“Miller seemed to say a lot of things,” she says. “And all of them to you.”

Monty goes pink. “Stop,” he smiles, bumping her shoulder with his.

“Bet you weren’t saying that to Miller,” and she sounds like a twelve year old, but she doesn’t really care. Monty flushes all over and says nothing.

They play Final Fantasy in the common room until Jas wanders in and takes Clarke’s controller after she’d died for the ninth time. Clarke knows she should probably work on her economics essay, but she’s sort of hoping Bellamy will come back to his own dorm soon, and see her when he passes through the common. It’s a little weird how she’s never seen him anywhere else in the dorm; he has to live here—he does his laundry here, after all—but she’s never actually seen him outside that room.

In the end, Raven finds them and snatches up the last controller before anyone else can. Murphy shows up a few minutes later, and splits his time between glowering from the easy chair, and mocking their gameplay until Raven hits him in the face with a pillow, and then threatens him with her leg.

She likes pulling off her leg and wielding it like a weapon. It usually shocks people into complacency so she gets her way, or scares them off. Plus, she said once, it makes me feel like a badass cyborg.

O never shows, which isn’t unheard of. O comes and goes the way she does everything else; suddenly and without warning, and exactly by her terms. She is also addicted to speed dating; it’s a problem. They’ve all talked to her about it, but.

Eventually she drags herself back to her room and forces the rest of the essay. Raven storms in some hours later—not in an upset sort of way, Raven just tends to storm everywhere. They watch a few episodes of Falling Skies, before Raven orders her back into her own bed, clutching her blankets protectively. Clarke rolls her eyes, and then rolls across the room. She’s nearly asleep when her phone goes off.

“I swear to fucking God, Griffin,” Raven grouses from her mattress.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clarke snaps, groping through the dark for her phone. She puts it on silent and then checks the text.

Unknown Number: so i’m having trouble

Her mind is still sleep-bleary, so it takes her a moment to process the words. And then another one to realize what they might mean. Someone from the meeting. She’s still coming up with an appropriate response, when the screen blinks again.

Unknown Number: lavender detergent or reg

She blinks for a long minute. The realization smacks her like a wet sock. Bellamy.

Clarke: Please tell me you did not bribe someone for my number

Unknown Number: psh no thatd be dumb why would i do that when i could just steal it

She bites back a groan and rolls over, stuffing her head under the covers so the LED light won’t bother Raven.

Clarke: Sorry can’t talk I’m busy helping someone who actually needs it

Unknown Number: rude. i need ur help

Clarke: With laundry detergent?

Unknown Number: i have sensitive skin it is a real issue

Clarke: I don’t have time for your prima donna hygiene, I have things to do

Unknown Number: right, let me guess: sleep and then more sleep

Clarke: I’m a college student what do you expect? I have needs

Unknown Number: oh i don’t doubt that princess

Clarke: Goodnight, Bellamy

Unknown Number: just for that ur not getting to borrow my refreshingly scented detergent on sunday

Unknown Number: and i’m stealing ur ridiculous underwear collection

Clarke: I knew you were a creep

CREEP: we all have needs princess

Clarke saves his new contact name, turns off her phone, and falls asleep smiling.

Chapter Text

After that, Bellamy becomes a regular fixture in her life. They still don’t hang out outside of the laundry room, but sometimes she’ll see him at The Dropship and he’ll put extra umbrellas in all her drinks, and she’ll leave him doodles of customers on cocktail napkins.

He texts irregularly throughout the day—sometimes going hours without responding, and then sending a series of them at two in the morning. They have an ongoing Words With Friends war. She’ll often wake up to some obscure historical fact blinking on her phone.

CREEP: the shortest war ever recorded was 38 mins

Clarke: I’ve taken longer naps.

CREEP: napoleon was once attacked by rabbits

Clarke: But did he become their rabbit king that’s the real question.

CREEP: lord byron kept a pet bear in his dorm room

Clarke: Clearly, we’re slacking.

 In return, she’ll find herself telling him things about herself, her friends, her family. Just because she wants him to know, which is a new feeling. Clarke has a deep fondness for her privacy, and is for the most part fine with keeping herself company. She’s played the part of listener for so long that she’s not really used to wanting to talk about herself. He takes it in stride, with his usual asshole footnotes.

Clarke: Orange is my favorite color.

CREEP: cool now i kno what to dye ur hair while ur sleeping

Clarke: You don’t even know which room is mine.

CREEP: so now when i do it u’ll be really impressed

Clarke: I’m pretty sure I prefer Percy Jackson to the real myths.

CREEP: ur dead to me

Clarke: I’m just saying, Percy’s a lot easier to root for than “Oh you don’t want to have sex with me cool I’ll just rape you as some dust” Zeus.

CREEP: im writing ur eulogy as we speak

CREEP: so far i have: here lies the princess, she had too much underwear and terrible taste in everything

Clarke: I never learned to ride a bike.

CREEP: why would u when u could just ride ponies everywhere

Clarke: How many hypothetical ponies do you think I had?

CREEP: aprox. 12

 “So is mystery-texter the same person you wash clothes with?” Raven asks mildly, sipping at her chai tea latte. She’d been ranting about the campus coffee shop’s broken espresso machine, and so Clarke had driven them to Grounders—mostly to sort of prove she did go off-campus sometimes.

Clarke flushes and slides her phone back in her pocket—she and Bellamy are in a heated debate about which dead language is currently the most used; Bellamy stands firm on Latin, while Clarke’s pretty partial to Gaelic—mostly because of how much it pisses him off. She knows he’s probably right, but. It’s fun messing with him.

“He’s just a friend,” Clarke says, probably too defensively, which is more telling than if she’d just said nothing at all. Raven quirks a brow and gives her an Oh, really? look, so Clarke stuffs half a scone in her mouth before she can let anything else slip.

They’ve just gotten back from another impromptu trip to the lingerie store—porn store, really, but Clarke likes to think of it as a Victoria’s Secret with a broader range—and the hot pink bags are sitting by their knees like some sort of scandalous luggage. It’s silly, Clarke knows, but it gives her a sort of thrill, knowing they’re sitting in a family-friendly café during daytime hours, with decidedly not-safe-for-work attire hidden at their feet.

It’s times like these that Clarke remembers she’s a virgin. It never really bothered her before, and still doesn’t most of the time, but sometimes she’ll watch Raven slip into one of her matching garter sets and go prowling, or she’ll see one of the more risqué sex toys at Phoenix, and she’ll blush all the way to her toes. It’s a little embarrassing.

Raven, naturally, is very supportive. “So you’ve still got your v-card,” she’d said the first night they got drunk together, and Clarke had spilled the secret. “So what? Wait till you’re ready, or married—you can never have sex at all and it wouldn’t be anybody’s motherfucking business. But if you ever want me to hook you up, let me know.”

“Are you still studying with your astronaut?” Clarke asks pointedly. She and Raven don’t talk guys, but she knows some things—like how there’s a boy in Raven’s physics lab that wants to be an astronaut, and sometimes lets her copy his notes when she’s forgotten hers.

Raven scoffs. “The boy’s a freshman, Clarke,” she waves a hand dismissively. “You know I don’t bother with juvenile delinquents.”

“Right,” Clarke deadpans. “You like your men tried as adults.” Raven gives a wolfish grin.

“Damn straight,” she declares, shooting back the last of her latte like a shot of tequila—Raven tends to drink everything like a shot of tequila, even slamming the cup back down. “You’re picking up the tab, right?”

Clarke frowns down at her wallet—she’d agreed to pay, since Raven had shelled out for their fancy underwear the last time, but she’s slowly coming to realize that late-night burritos and double espressos cost a lot more than she’d originally thought. She digs the cash out and leaves it on the table.

“I should probably get a job,” she decides—she hadn’t really been thinking about it, but it makes sense, and Raven nods in agreement.

She points at the red NOW HIRING sign tucked in the corner of their window and raises a brow. “Convenient.”

Clarke grabs an application from the cashier, fills it out at the counter and then hands it back. He promises they’ll call within the week, and she leaves feeling at least a little productive. She still hasn’t managed to start on her Economics essay, or work on her studio project, but. Baby steps.

Raven slings an arm around her on their way out. “So you’re wearing matching underwear, texting a boy on the sly, and probably have a job at some indie coffee shop,” she lists off. “How does that make you feel, Griffin?”

Clarke grins as she slides into the Pumpkin. “Like a college student,” she declares.

She wakes to a text from Bellamy the next day.

CREEP: did u kno i model on the side sometimes

Clarke: That does not surprise me at all. You are absolutely vain enough to be a model.

CREEP: someone has to admire my nice bone structure princess

Clarke: Do you at least get to keep the clothes?

CREEP: not that kind of modeling (;

Clarke: It is too early for you to reference your junk, Bellamy.

She rolls out of bed without waiting for a reply, trying to insist that her stomach not begin fluttering. Bellamy is her friend. Her admittedly attractive friend who apparently models naked sometimes.

Or he was bullshitting her; at this point, it’s hard to tell.

She decides to text Anya as the equivalent of a cold shower, which doesn’t work at all because they end up sexting—so Clarke is pinker and more frustrated than ever by the time she has to leave for her still life class.

She gets there with ten minutes to spare—just enough time for her to set up her easel and charcoal, nabbing one of the good seats at the front. They’ve mostly been working on bowls of fruit, but last class the professor mentioned bringing the actual life into still life, so she thinks there’s going to maybe be a caged bird or something.

Instead, there’s a chair in the center of the circle, which. Well it’s kind of a disappointment; Clarke mastered chairs in sixth grade.

But then, just thirty seconds before the class is due to start, the door opens, and Bellamy strolls in. She knows instantly why he’s there—and even if she didn’t, the white bathrobe would kind of give it away. She’s pretty sure he did this on purpose, sending her the text as some sort of half-warning, half-tease. But then he catches her eye and looks so pleasantly surprised that she realizes it’s just another weird coincidence.

She cannot seem to escape Bellamy Blake.

It’s not that she even wants to—she likes him, when he’s not being terrible; he’s funny and clever, and unfairly smart. He’s also nice to look at, but she tries not to out of sheer embarrassment, and loyalty to Anya. She knows it’s not cheating, but. The thought makes her uncomfortable anyway. She’s not sure how she’d feel if she knew Anya was constantly checking out one of her friends.

Bellamy strolls in as confidently as he does everything, and with a smirk. He lets the robe fall just as casually, before sprawling out on the chair in a mixture of grace and gangly disinterest. Clarke can feel the pheromones erupting in the room as her classmates take him in, and she can’t really blame them—he’s all bronze skin and dark eyes and dimpled chin and freckles. Clarke never really knew she had a thing for freckles, until now.

Anya has freckles, she thinks petulantly. Just a few on her shoulders, but still.

She sketches out his shoulders, his neck, his jawbone. She perfects the messy curls of his hair, the lilt of his mouth, and those freckles. She leaves the eyes for last, and doesn’t dare stray past his naval. Her professor compliments the surety of her lines, saying “It’s almost as if you really know him,” which is practically unbearable. And then the hour-and-forty-five minutes are up, and everyone’s collecting supplies and trying to subtly slip Bellamy their phone numbers. He takes a few, and Clarke tries not to care.

It’s so, so stupid, but she can’t help thinking he’s hers. Not romantically, but. She likes to think she found him first, in the laundry room, digging through his layers carefully and over time—which is absolutely ridiculous. She knows next to nothing about him besides the shallow sort of details anyone could find on an internet bio.

He catches up to her just as she’s leaving, mostly because she’d slowed down for him. She’s still flushed and embarrassed and a little unnecessarily irritated by the whole thing, but. He’s her friend, and he looks relaxed and happy and he obviously wants to speak with her.

“I swear I didn’t know this was your class,” he chirps pleasantly, and she believes him. If he had, he’d have been insufferable and smug about it. Instead, he just looks delighted.

“I swear I didn’t know I’d be drawing your junk,” Clarke shoots back. Bellamy beams.

“You drew my dick?” he asks. “Can I see it?”

“Not really,” Clarke says. “It’s pretty small.”

Bellamy gives her an unimpressed look that says he knows she’s lying, which.

Yeah, she definitely is. She’s not going to apologize for it.

“So I guess our dynamic’s pretty uneven now,” he muses. Clarke glances at him curiously.

“How so?” she presses—she still can’t really look him in the eye, but it’s not like she can completely ignore him, either.

“Well now you’ve seen me naked,” he explains. “And the least I’ve ever seen you in were those ridiculous shorts made out of ties.”

“Hey,” Clarke defends mildly, “I like those shorts. And you’ve seen all my underwear, so we’re even.” Bellamy raises a brow.

“I’m pretty sure enormous underwear collection is not the same as completely nude.” Clarke shrugs.

“So show me your underwear collection, and then we’re even.”

Bellamy barks out a laugh and waves her off as they turn down separate halls. She stops by the nearest bathroom to splash her face with water. Then she dunks her face under the faucet because she deserves it.

She manages to power through her Econ essay just twelve minutes before it’s due, and then tries to work on her Contemporary British Lit reading, but can’t really focus on the words. Her gaze keeps drifting back to the unfinished portrait of Bellamy, now sitting on her desk. The fifth time she glances at it, she decides to just surrender, and reaches for her charcoal.

She covers him with a thick textured cloak, latched with the skull of a vulture. She piles more skulls at his feet, and puts him in a toga beneath the cloak. She crowns him with a wreath of holly, and details his smirk to perfection. She really shouldn’t be surprised that he fits Hades to a fucking T.

Raven walks in as she’s finishing up the shadows of the Underworld. She glances from the picture—which has turned out pretty badass, to be honest—to Clarke’s tinged cheeks, and frowns, entirely unimpressed.

Clarke hides the portrait in her desk drawer and goes back to her Lit book. She reads the same sentence fifteen times.

As promised, someone from Grounders calls her that week, and she goes in for an interview, which turns out to be mostly them giving her the job instantly, and then a tour of the shop. It’s a pretty standard layout; lobby, pastry case, counter, kitchen and back room. There’s an employee’s lounge, which is really just a large closet with a few lawn chairs inside, and each worker gets three free coffees a shift, which would have sold Clarke on the job more than the paycheck, to be honest. They send her home with an apron, a fresh nametag, and a schedule for the next week.

Clarke learns pretty quickly that between her new job, and growing amount of schoolwork, she has very little personal time. Since most of her classes are in the afternoon, she works the morning shift at Grounders three days a week, which means she also learns to say no whenever the group wants to go to The Dropship the night before.

She also learns that being a barista is not just mixing cool drinks and chatting with customers. Mostly she mops up spilled coffee and refills the toilet paper. It’s not at all glamorous, and it’s hard on her feet, and she always sweats through her polo within the first hour.

She’d made the mistake of complaining to Raven about it, but her roommate had just rolled her eyes sighing, “Oh, poor baby.”

Halfway through her second week, they’re short a cashier, so she runs a register for the first time, and is appropriately awful at it. She’d always thought she was alright with numbers, but within the first fifteen minutes that idea is completely dissolved. She’s terrible with numbers, and with remembering the right cream/sugar ratio, and with the espresso machine.

The espresso machine hates her.

“I’m quitting,” she announces after, tossing her newly stained apron at Raven’s desk chair.

Raven is perched on her bed, surrounded by her usual nest of Cosmo’s and machinery. “Oh, good,” she chirps. “I was worried I’d lose the betting pool.”

“The—wait, what?” Clarke asks, peeling off her sweaty polo with disgust.

“The pool. Pot. Pile of money. Whatever,” Raven waves a hand in explanation. “On when you’d quit.”

Clarke stares at her roommate for a long moment—long enough for the air between them to turn awkward. “You,” she tries to find a way to not feel insulted, but. Well, it’s hard. “You bet on me quitting?”

Raven shrugs, actively refusing to feel guilty. “You’re a quitter,” she says. “It’s not, like, a bad thing. It’s just what you do.”

“I am not a quitter,” Clarke blurts, and she can feel her neck going splotchy with irritation.

“Point: piano,” Raven ticks off on her fingers, “Softball, law internship, med school. Now, the coffee shop.”

“I didn’t quit med school,” Clarke huffs. “I just didn’t go in the first place—and that internship was fucking awful.” She glares. “Who else bet against me?”

Raven rolls her eyes. “We weren’t betting against you--Christ—if anything, we were for you. We had complete faith in you succeeding at quitting your job.”

Clarke rolls her eyes because she’s fucking mature. “Who else, Raven?”

“Jasper,” Raven admits. “And Murphy put in last week.”

Clarke bristles. “Great,” she mutters. “Good to know my friends think I can’t hack it.” She pauses. “And Murphy.”

“Well if I knew you’d be such a baby about it, I might have been more supportive,” Raven grumbles, clearly uncomfortable with the thought that she might be in the wrong. “I just thought…I mean, you quit! It’s what you do—I thought you’d just embraced that.”

“Well sorry to put you out,” Clarke says, not at all sorry. “But looks like you’re losing the bet. All of you—because I’m not quitting.”

“Can’t you at least pretend?” Raven whines. “Jasper promised to do all my Bio-Chem write-ups for two months, Clarke—be a pal.”

“I have complete faith in you,” Clarke shoots back, grabbing her laundry basket. It’s only half-full, and it’s a Thursday, but she storms to the laundry room anyway.

There’s another student there, because it’s mid-afternoon on a weekday, and she’s suddenly thrown. Bellamy's the only other person she’s ever actually seen in the laundry room, and she’d forgotten it was open to literally everyone else. She waits awkwardly, checking emails on her phone, until the stranger leaves. She sends a quick text to Bellamy and stuffs her clothes in the washer.

He shows up fifteen minutes later, half-full duffel bag in tow.

“My roommate made a bet on when I’d quit my job,” Clarke blurts, still jittery from annoyance and a little because ever since he modeled for her class, she’s had trouble not picturing him naked. It’s awful. “Because she thinks I’m a quitter.”

“Really?” Bellamy asks, genuinely surprised. “You don't seem like that at all.”

Clarke tries to school her expression—she’s cool. She’s collected. She’s fucking together. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy nods.

“How do I, uh,” Clarke clears her throat. “How do I seem to you?”

Bellamy shrugs. “You refused to stop coming here, even after I was a dick about your underwear. Seems like the opposite of what a quitter might do.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but then I’d have to find a different laundry room,” she points out. “Maybe I’m just lazy.”

“Clarke I’ve seen your course load,” Bellamy grins wryly. “No one can accuse you of being lazy.” Clarke squints back at him until he frowns. “What?”

“You’re secretly very nice,” she decides. He barks out a laugh.

“Don’t tell anybody,” he warns. She nods, feeling intensely fond of the man beside her—even if he’s mostly a dick.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she promises.

She ends up missing her parents’ call because she’d left her phone in her dorm room, and then when they go to The Dropship, Anya acts strange the whole night, refusing to catch Clarke’s eye, or send her her trademark smirk.

Clarke’s glowering, hovering near the bar when O finds her. “So who peed in your cereal?” O asks, heaving herself up on the stool beside Clarke’s.

“Raven,” Clarke decides, although to be honest it’s several things all at once; she doesn’t feel like getting too complicated. “Did you know she and Jas had a bet that I’d quit my job?”

“Yeah,” O shrugs. “Monty’s pretty stoked; he collected all the winnings.”

Clarke looks at her, surprised. She hadn’t figured Monty for the gambling type. “Monty thought I wouldn’t quit?”

O rolls her eyes, like it’s obvious. “Well, yeah,” she nods. “I didn’t put anything in; I knew you’d make it. Even if your espressos are shitty.”

“The machine hates me,” Clarke frowns. She leans a head on O’s shoulder. “You’re the best.”

O scoffs. “Obviously.”

Monty buys an Apple TV with his winnings from the bet. He hooks it up in the common room though, so no one can really feel too bad about it.

At work the next day, she’s stopped by her supervisor Luke. “Clarke, can you work the closing shift tomorrow?”

Clarke pauses mid-sweep. She’s never actually stayed late enough to work with the closing crew, but her shift usually overlaps just enough for her to see them saunter in. As far as shifts at Grounders go, closing is the veritable rock star.

“Sure,” Clarke agrees. “I don’t have any classes on Saturday.”

Luke grins appreciatively. “Thanks,” he gushes. “You’re a doll. Be here at five.”

Clarke arrives five minutes early, to find the shop practically empty, and only one worker behind the counter. It’s a girl, and her back is turned so Clarke can’t see her face. She tries to remember if she’s ever seen her during the overlap, but she can’t recall.

“Hi,” Clarke calls, tying her apron. “I’m Clarke, I’m—” She pauses mid-sentence as O turns, grinning wolfishly. Clarke just stares stupidly. “You work here?”

“For a few months now,” O confirms. “I saw your application, so I decided to surprise you.” She grins wider. “Surprised?”

“Definitely,” Clarke agrees with a laugh. “I was so worried I’d be stuck with some asshole.” She smirks. “I guess you’re only half-bad.”

O shrugs merrily. “Watch out, I’m the senior crew member here,” she warns. “I’ll make you clean the espresso machine.”

Clarke glares. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would,” O nods sagely. “And the urinals.”

The rest of the night passes in a blur—Clarke learns very quickly that O at work is exactly the same as O at The Dropship, or the dorm. Constantly in motion, impatient and strikingly abrupt. She leads Clarke all around the shop, restocking the pastry case, refilling hoppers, grinding beans, brewing dark roasts, and greeting customers through it all with a sharp smile and smooth sales pitches.

Once she sends off the last customer and locks the doors, Clarke slumps against the counter. Her feet are aching again, her shirt’s damp with sweat, and her head hurts from all the mindless action. O laughs and does something complicated at three different machines, sliding the finished product over to her.

“Try it,” O demands. Clarke, too tired and mildly amused to say no, takes a cautious sip.

And then a more enthusiastic one. O looks entirely too smug, but. Well, she’s kind of earned that.

“Good?” she needles. Clarke rolls her eyes.

“You know it is,” she accuses. “What is it, exactly?”

“Soy hazelnut-toasted almond macchiato,” O says, like it’s obvious. She gives Clarke a sheepish look. “I know you don’t eat meat, but I wasn’t sure about dairy, so.” She looks bashful, which is new. Clarke tries not to tease her for it--she wants to encourage O being bashful at all times.

“Dairy and I are friends,” she clarifies. “But soy’s good too. It’s delicious, O. Thanks.” She doesn’t mean just for the coffee—Clarke’s touched her friend remembered. Even Wells forgets sometimes, and offers her a sausage link—Lexa has ordered pepperoni pizza before, completely oblivious. It’s not something that occurs automatically to most people.

“Yeah, well,” O shrugs. “I’m the best. Now go clean the urinals.”

So she starts working closing on Saturdays, which she soon finds out she prefers anyway. Morning shifts are hectic and tense, with everyone constantly in a hurry, to work or to classes, so that by the end Clarke feels completely drained.

Closing shifts are relaxed, with time to chat with customers, or experiment with drinks in between customers. Clarke’s taken to putting little doodles on the to-go cups when she has time. Usually she tries to tie them in with the customer’s name—a rose trellis for Rosa, a ghost for Casper, a toilet for John. She’d been nervous at first, but then she started getting a few requests from the regulars, and Luke keeps the one of Darth Vader she made him up on his desk, so.

Plus, O works every other Saturday, and they spend the shift locked in a competition to see who can come up with a drink good enough for the main menu. O’s winning, of course, but Clarke only really even agreed to do it so she could taste O’s latest creations. The girl’s a wizard with the espresso machine. Clarke tries not to feel bitter about it.

It’s near seven PM on a Saturday, and Clarke’s leaning against the counter drawing on a to-go cup. It’s O, decked out in what could pass as a Roman toga, with sandals and a laurel wreath. She’s glaring, clutching a sword. Her speech bubble says Who says I can’t be a Gladiator? It’s some of her best Styrofoam work, definitely. This is how Anya finds her.

Things have been strange with her girlfriend all week, which Clarke’s trying not to worry about. She knows it’s normal for couples to have rough patches—not that things between them are rough, just. Strange.

“Hey,” Clarke grins, pleased. Anya hasn’t come to see her at work yet, and she kind of likes being the one behind the bar, for once.

“Hi,” Anya says, weird as ever. Clarke ignores it, flashing her the doodle of O. Anya’s lips quirk up, just a little. “You’re good,” she decides.

“Thanks,” Clarke smirks. “This is what I’m going to do with my art degree—custom to-go cups.”

Anya nods, clearly distracted, and leans in for a kiss.

It’s stupid; the only people even in the store are Clarke, O, Anya, and the older lady that always does Sudoku in the corner. She knows she won’t get in trouble; even if Luke was there, he probably wouldn’t mind terribly.

But she can’t help flinching, and Anya stares at her surprised. A glimpse of hurt, and then she masks it with anger.

“What the hell?” she growls, a little loudly. Clarke winces.

“Sorry,” she placates. “It’s just—I’m at work, you know?”

“I kiss you at The Dropship,” Anya points out, and it’s true. Clarke winces again.

“Yeah, but it’s different,” she defends. “You work at a bar.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, because Anya’s face twists up meanly. “Sorry if my workplace isn’t as fucking professional as yours—we can’t all have our bills paid by mommy and daddy.”

It’s the most worked up Clarke’s ever seen her, and the meanest, and Clarke isn’t really used to getting yelled at in the first place, so she can’t help the tears she feels sprouting up. Anya looks taken aback, and Clarke tries to wave it off, wiping hurriedly at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Anya mutters, while Clarke waves.

“No, I’m fine,” she promises, “I’m fine! I just—I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to,” she pauses, unsure how to finish the statement. It’s true; she hadn’t meant to offend Anya, or even dodge the kiss really. She’d meant that the bar was more relaxed than Grounders, which it is.

The old woman turns a page in her Sudoku book, pointedly. Her cheeks are looking a little pink, and Clarke tries not to feel embarrassed.

Anya nods abruptly. “I know,” she says. “You’re not like that. I get it, just—I’ll see you tonight?” Saturdays are Anya’s nights off, and usually Clarke just wanders over to her apartment whenever she feels like it, but she’d been a little nervous to, lately.

“Yeah,” Clarke assures her. “I’ll come over after work.”

Anya gives a last, curt nod before leaving. Once she’s out the door, O slinks in from the back room, glancing at Clarke nervously.

“How much did you hear?” Clarke asks, more amused than anything. O isn’t used to boundaries, but she’s been making an effort since their conversation in her brother’s car.

“Not a lot,” O answers. “Just, like, all of it.” She rolls her eyes and huffs. “It’s not like you guys were being discrete, or anything,” she defends. Clarke hands her the finished cup and she eyes it, delighted.

“I know,” Clarke nods. “It’s fine—I would have asked your advice, anyway.” She pauses. “Is this weird for you?” It’d been easier than expected, to forget that O and Anya had once dated. The whole situation’s still new to her, and she’s not really sure how to approach it.

O shakes her head with a snort. “Anya and I were never serious,” she shrugs. “It was fun until it wasn’t, and that’s when we broke up.”

Clarke shrugs back, bending to wipe the shelves. She needs something to distract her hands, otherwise she’ll end up cracking her knuckles all night. “Things have been weird, lately,” she admits.

“Weird how?” O hops up on the counter, staring down at her.

“Just, weird. I don’t know, I’ve never done this before.” She’s frustrated; Clarke isn’t really used to not knowing how to do something, and she’s pretty bad at it. It’s throwing her off.

“O-kay,” O drawls. “When did the weirdness start?”

Clarke tries to pinpoint a specific time, but can’t. “I don’t know. It feels like it’s just been steadily getting weird? Like, gradually building. Until now.”

O looks at her for a moment, frowning a little, which Clarke pointedly ignores. “It sounds like you’re about to have The Talk,” O decides.

Clarke stares up at her wryly. “Pretty sure my dad covered that,” she says. O snorts.

“Not that Talk,” she explains. “The “What are we?” Talk. It’s a biggie.”

Clarke frowns. She thought they knew what they were—girlfriends. Partners. They were dating, and it was great. Did Anya think something different? “Did you have The Talk?” she wonders.

O nods. “It turned into The Breakup pretty quickly.”

Clarke swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “Right.”

O slides off the counter quickly. “You good to lock up tonight?” she wonders, clearly only asking to be polite; she’s already changed out of her apron and polo, into one of her leotards. Clarke’s willing to bet that under her jeans, she’s wearing some of her gray leggings, and has her sneakers in her bag.

“It’s almost eleven,” Clarke points out. She didn’t even think the studio stayed open this late.

O shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “My partner has his own apartment. We have a lot to do with the choreography, so,” she trails off, glancing shyly at Clarke. “Plus he works weird hours, so nights are best for both of us.”

“You’re not going to The Dropship?” Clarke asks, incredulous. O never passes up free Rum Sours. She’s not sure O even knows how to pass up free drinks.

“I’m not a complete alcoholic,” she scowls. “I am at school for a reason.”

Clarke shrugs. “Sure, I can close. Have fun dancing.” She wiggles her eyebrows for added effect as O rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

Clarke finishes cleaning the shop pretty quickly, and for the last half hour there’s nothing to distract her from worrying over Anya, so by the time she reaches the apartment, she’s worked herself up pretty well.

And in the end, she’s the one to blurt out the question. “What are we?”

Anya quirks a brow. She’s wearing a pair of men’s boxers and one of her drooping tanks. Clarke’s still standing in her open doorway. “Humans,” Anya decides, stepping aside so Clarke can walk in.

“You weren’t worried about us?” Clarke asks.

Anya frowns. “No. Why? Are you worried about us?” Clarke huffs.

“I don’t know—it’s been weird, lately.”

Anya’s frown deepens. “What do you think we are?”

“Girlfriends,” Clarke says, adamant. Anya nods down to the floor.

“And what do you want to be?” she asks softly.

Clarke blinks back at her, confused. “I want to be what we are,” she says. “I like us. I think we’re great.”

“And what if I want more than that?” Anya asks, finally raising her gaze. She’s schooled her expression into stony aggression—the look she turns towards drunk frat boys that get too handsy with tipsy girls at the bar.

“Anya,” Clarke pleads—this is not how she’d meant the night to go. “It’s been two months!”

Anya shakes her head. “I’m not asking you to marry me, Clarke,” she smiles grimly. “But that’s what I want. A wife, not a girlfriend. I’m twenty-nine, for Christ’s sake.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, unsure how to respond.

“Yeah,” Anya agrees. “Oh.”

“I don’t,” Clarke hesitates. “I don’t not want to marry you,” she tries weakly.

“What a proposal,” Anya deadpans. She sighs. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says slowly, and Clarke may not have gone through many breakups, but she’s pretty sure that’s what this is.

“Okay,” she says, and walks home in a daze.

Chapter Text

“What a bitch,” Raven declares for the fourth time since Clarke and Anya’s breakup. They’re in the common room, with Monty and Jas. Raven, Monty and Jas are engaged in a race to the death in Mario Kart. Clarke’s just watching and sort of half-heartedly tossing bananas. She’s Princess Peach, obviously, and she kind of wishes Bellamy was there so he would make fun of her for it.

“She’s not a bitch, Raven,” Clarke sighs. She’s not really that upset about the breakup. She and Anya have seen each other a few times since, and they’ve been cordial enough. It’s a little strange to not be able to just casually text what are you wearing? to her, or show up at her apartment, but. Mostly she’s just disappointed, and a little guilty that she doesn’t feel worse.

“Total bitch,” Jasper nods decidedly, never taking his eyes off the screen. “Clarke, you’re a total bombshell—Anya’s crazy. And a bitch.”

Clarke ducks her head to hide the stupid grin she knows she’s sporting. “Not a bitch,” she chides, but there’s no real heat to it. Jasper just smirks back.

O has been doing her best to remain Switzerland in the breakup, going dutifully between her two friends to offer condolences, but otherwise staying clear. Clarke appreciates the effort—though she’s pretty sure O’s just using it as an excuse to spend more time practicing with her dance partner.

Between Raven’s studying and O’s practicing, Clarke’s pretty much drowning in euphemisms. She’d add her Sunday laundry to the list, but that actually is what she and Bellamy do.

It’s more than that, of course—they talk, about more than just broad ideas now, and sometimes drink and sometimes he’ll wrap an arm around her shoulders in some weird boy-affection—but they always walk out with washed and folded clothes.

She thinks about him more than is normal, probably. She tries not to focus on it. He’s her friend, and she’s in the post-breakup I might die alone mindset, so it’s probably not a good idea. She doesn’t want to make him a rebound, he deserves better than that, and anyway she’s not even sure that she likes him that way, let alone know if he likes her.

(She’s pretty sure, though.)

Clarke doesn’t head to the laundry room until Monty manages to trounce Raven and Jasper three more times. Monty, she thinks, might possibly be a closeted badass. She thinks. It’s hard to tell behind his cartoon shirts and dimples.

Bellamy’s already there sorting colors when she walks in, which is new. He never shows up before her, and it feels like that means something, so.

“What’s wrong?” Clarke demands, setting her basket on one of the out-of-order machines.

Bellamy shrugs a shoulder, irritated. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Why?”

Clarke looks at him pointedly. “Because you’re being cruel to those gym shorts, and they don’t deserve it. Have a heart, Bellamy.”

He glances down to where he’s balled the shorts up in white-knuckled fists, a few of which she belatedly realizes are bruised and recently scabbed over.

“You got in a fight,” she observes.

“I won a fight,” he corrects, grinning meanly.

“Against whom?” she wonders, entirely unsurprised, though a little thrown. Bellamy absolutely seems like the fist-fighting type, but she hadn’t actually realized it before now.

His grin softens, just an inch. “Do you know how hot it is that you use whom correctly in conversation?”

Clarke shrugs, because exactly what is she supposed to say to that? “I’m good with ellipsis, too.”

Bellamy tips his head back to laugh, and she definitely notices him avoiding her question, but he’s also a lot less tense than he was when she arrived, and she’s feeling smug about that, so she’ll let it go.

“Anya and I broke up,” she declares. Not because she’s trying to send him hints or anything like that—but they’re friends, and this is her very first breakup, which seems like the sort of thing friends might talk about.

Bellamy nods. “Yeah I figured, when you guys stopped making moon eyes over the bar.” He grins cheekily to let her know he’s kidding, but. Well he’s not wrong. She’d been appropriately pathetic with Anya.

“I’m not that sad,” she remarks. “I thought I’d be sadder.”

He raises a brow. “You’re sad that you’re not sad?” he asks, and yeah, when he puts it like that it sounds a little ridiculous. Clarke sighs.

“Not really. Just—this was my first relationship,” if the admission surprises him, he makes no sign. “And first breakup, so I thought I’d be more…devastated? Or something. Instead I’m just, I don’t know, disappointed?”

Bellamy shrugs. “Every relationship’s different,” he offers. “This one may be pretty boring, but the next one might knock you on your ass, Edgar Allen Poe-style.”

“Awesome,” Clarke deadpans. “So motivating.”

Bellamy snorts. “I try.” He gives her that grin again, the one that makes her picture him naked—it’s awful. She clears her throat.

“So do you not have any friends?” she blurts, and then winces, because that sounded a lot less insulting in her head. But Bellamy just chuckles, surprised.

“Coming from the girl who spends her weekends in the laundry room.”

“So do you,” she points out.

“Yeah but that doesn’t count,” he argues. “I only come here to piss you off. See? It’s working.”

Clarke makes a face. “Seriously though—I’ve never seen you go out.”

“I go out,” Bellamy says, petulant.

“Working at the bar doesn’t count, Bellamy.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, and then turns to face her abruptly. “Alright,” he declares. “Challenge accepted—we’re going out.”

“Tonight?” she asks, surprised. Bellamy can certainly pull off literally any look, but he’s currently barefoot in a pair of basketball shorts and a sweater vest with no shirt underneath. She’s wearing oversized chef pants and one of Raven’s black bandeaus. They certainly don’t look ready for a night on the town.

“Tonight,” he nods. “Don’t worry,” he waves a hand at her outfit. “Nowhere fancy, or anything. You look fine.”

“Where are we going?” she asks suspiciously. He gives a smirk and raised brow.

“To prove I friends,” he says wryly.

“Oh, so the zoo then,” Clarke decides happily.

He laughs and they finish their laundry in record time, chatting amiably about absolutely nothing, with the excitement of an actual plan humming between them. Clarke is entirely too curious about Bellamy’s life, the sides of him she never sees. She wonders if his friends are also obsessed with history, if they live on campus, if they’ll like her.

She dissolves the last thought instantly; it shouldn’t matter if they like her or not. She likes her, and her friends like her, and Bellamy does, she’s pretty sure. That’s enough.

He walks her to her room to drop off her laundry, but he leaves his basket in the laundry room. “I’ll get it later,” he waves it off, and leads her outside.

She expects him to head towards the parking lot, but instead they walk. The house is just twenty minutes from campus, and he doesn’t want to waste the gas.

The house itself is a small two-story, with pale gray siding and large bay windows in the front. It’s old, and blue-collar, and lovely. He doesn’t knock before striding in through the unlocked front door, and she follows only a little nervously. She resists the urge to grab his hand. She’s an adult, she’s interacted with other adults before, she can do this.

The inside of the house looks a lot like the outside, in that it’s old and rough around the edges but still warm. There are stairs, and a mostly-unfurnished hallway, and then a wide open living room with only some milk crates of empty beer bottles, and an old ping pong table. There’s a crowd of people around their age, forming the loose thought of a circle on the floor. A few notice Bellamy and Clarke as they walk in, but most seem deeply invested in a card game.

“Rummy?” Bellamy asks, and one of the girls—Roma, Clarke recognizes belatedly, from the LGBTQ meeting—scowls.

“War,” she spits. “Fucking War.” The majority of the circle gives out cries in agreement, and clink beers all around.

Bellamy grins and turns to Clarke, pointing at the boy closest to them, hunched over his cards. “This is Connor,” he points to the next, “And Myles, Roma, Lilly, Glass, and you remember Miller.”

Miller nods his acknowledgement towards them, eyes never straying from the cards in play.

“Clarke?”

Clarke and Bellamy turn as one towards the doorway, where Luke stands, beer in hand. He looks pleasantly surprised, and a little bewildered.

“You know Luke?” asks Bellamy. Clarke sends Luke a wave and nods.

“He’s my boss,” she says. Luke crosses over to sit next to the girl named Glass, pressing a dry kiss to her head.

“This is my girlfriend’s house,” Luke smiles. “You’re welcome to sit down you know—you’re off the clock.”

Clarke grins back and turns to Bellamy in question. These are his friends, she’s following his lead. He tips his head towards the back of the house. “Drinks first?”

“Drinks first,” she agrees.

He leads her through to the kitchen, obviously comfortable in this house that isn’t his. There’s a boy leaning over the counter, sorting through what looks like parsley. It takes her an embarrassingly long time to realize it’s weed.

“Finn,” Bellamy greets amiably. The boy looks up with a boyish smile. He’s cute, Clarke thinks, in a conventional way. Long, thick hair and deep eyes and straight jawline.

“My roommate,” Bellamy adds for her benefit. “Finn, this is Clarke. My…portraitist.” He smiles down at her, plucking two beers from the open case in the fridge. They’re in blue bottles, cold, and entirely average-looking. She takes a sip—entirely average-tasting, too.

Finn smiles at her warmly. “Great to meet you princess,” he says nonchalantly, and Clarke sneaks a look at Bellamy only to find he’s pointedly turned away. “You’re way prettier than he says.”

Clarke raises a brow and flashes him a smirk. “How pretty does he say I am?”

“Not at all,” Bellamy declares hotly. He turns a glare at Finn. “Make sure all the scraps make it in the trash this time,” he orders, and then ushers her out with a hand stretched across her back.

“He was nice,” Clarke decides, still grinning messily. Bellamy told his roommate about her—specifically, about princess—and said she’s pretty. She’s pretty much at her most charitable.

“Not really,” he snorts. “Just really high.”

Clarke shrugs. “He can be both.” Bellamy scoffs, but doesn’t argue.

They join the others for a few rounds of War, but realize pretty quickly that what their opponents lack in actual strategy, they make up for in violent threats and dangerous reflexes. They also have to drink every time they lose a card, so. Things get altogether too complicated.

Bellamy leans in close to her ear—she’s pretty sure she’s drunk. The floor is moving in circles, and she’s not, so she thinks it’s a fair assumption. Bellamy’s breath is hot and wet on her skin and she’s definitely drunk enough to do something foolish, so she tries not to lean against him.

“Wanna go somewhere quiet?” he offers, and she nods. Roma’s just stabbed Connor in the hand with a plastic fork—it was terrifying.

He leads her to a door under the stairs and she slurs something about Harry Potter, which makes him laugh. The door opens to stairs that lead to the basement. There isn’t much there, besides the washer and dryer, and a pile of laundry that could go either way. Clarke immediately erupts into laughter.

“What?” Bellamy wonders, bewildered. Clarke shakes her head, still giggling too hard to really explain. She slumps against the dryer for emotional support. Also, her legs aren’t working anymore.

“Even when we go out,” she gasps, “We still end up in the laundry room.”

Bellamy’s mouth splits into a smile, and then fades to a smirk as she tries to hop up on the dryer, with very little success. “Need some assistance?” he asks, smugly.

She sticks her tongue out because she’s a fucking adult. And then, “Maybe,” she admits, because she is also fucking mature.

With a final, soft grin, Bellamy sets down his beer and puts a hand on each of her hip bones, gently scooping her up on the machine. She sighs, content, and he keeps his hands against her, warming her through her clothes.

“I want to kiss you,” Clarke blurts, alcohol curbing her embarrassment. Bellamy looks at her, eyes wide and mouth adorably hanging. She giggles some more, and then sighs. “But I’m drunk,” she says sadly.

A noise leaks from Bellamy’s throat, and he leans in, and for a moment she’s almost sure he’s about to kiss her. But then his head lands on hers, forehead pressed against the bridge of her nose so she’s eye-level with his messy curls. She wants to run her hands through them, so she does, and he whines a little.

“You’re softer than you look,” she observes happily. Everything seems a little wet around the edges now, or maybe that’s just her eyes.

“You too,” Bellamy breathes, and the air hits her skin above her shirt collar. He peeks up at her through his lashes, and he’s still smiling, but it’s sad at the corners and she frowns. She doesn’t want Bellamy to have sad corners. “When did you stop hating me?” he asks.

“A while ago,” she admits because she hasn’t hated him since that first day, and even then it was more of just an intense dislike.

He grins into her shoulder. “Me too.”

She doesn’t know what happens after that because she blacks out, but when she comes to, it’s on a sofa she doesn’t recognize. She can feel someone pressed against her back, an arm around her stomach, and she hopes it’s Bellamy or at least Roma or Miller. Someone whose name she knows.

She chances a glance over her shoulder, and is met with an eyeful of messy dark curls and freckles. He’s still asleep, breath hot and even against the back of her neck. They’re both fully clothed, so she’s inclined to believe they didn’t have sex, but it’s entirely possible they made out a little. She remembers admitting she wanted to kiss him, and is appropriately horrified.

Clarke manages to slip out from under him quickly, only once getting her hair caught on his fingers. It’s gnarled and matted, so she piles it all up on her head in a coil. They’re in a room she doesn’t remember from the night before, though she’s pretty sure it’s the same house. The sky’s still a sunny shade of blue, so she thinks it might be late-morning. Her first class is at ten, and she hopes she hasn’t missed it.

Monroe calls as she’s walking home, and she takes a moment to consider how strange it feels to be having a conversation with her little sister while on her first walk of shame.

“Hey, Money,” she says with a sigh.

“Did you know Lexa’s in this month’s issue of Life Magazine? She is—page thirty-two, five whole pictures. She looks terrifying, it’s great. Also don’t tell mom and dad but I dyed my hair purple.”

“I’m pretty sure they’ll notice regardless,” Clarke says, amused.

“I mean, probably eventually, but you know how they are. I had the undercut for like two weeks before mom said anything.” There’s a pause. “What’s wrong?” she demands. “Did you have unprotected sex?”

The night before Clarke had left for university, Monroe had slipped into her room looking more serious than Clarke had ever seen her. With a fierce glare, she’d thrust four boxes of variously sized condoms into Clarke’s arms. “You can never be too safe,” Monroe had declared, and then given a particularly detailed lecture on the human anatomy, and history of sexually transmitted diseases.

“Not lately,” Clarke chirps. Across the line, Monroe heaves an enormous sigh.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack,” she decides. “Or premature grays. This is why I dye my hair, Clarke, and so when mom asks, I’m blaming you.”

“Sooner or later you’ll have to claim responsibility for your own hair.”

“Later, probably,” Monroe quips. “Seriously, what’s wrong? Is this about the bartender? I don’t approve.”

“You’ve never met her.”

“I still don’t approve. It’s a sister thing; I just know.” Monroe pauses. “What did she do? Did she cheat on you? Has she been tested? Lesbians can get STDs too, you know—I looked it up. I can send you some Wikipedia links—”

“We broke up,” Clarke says mildly. “So you don’t need to approve her, or anything. It was all very cordial, to be honest. No broken hearts here.”

There’s a long silence, and Clarke hopes Monroe isn’t about to cry. Monroe cries at commercials with small dogs and small humans, whenever she accidentally kills a spider, and at the wedding articles in newspapers. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“I’m okay,” Clarke assures her. “Like I said—very cordial. No broken hearts.”

“I’m still sorry,” Monroe declares, adamant. “And it’s okay for you to feel sad.”

Now it’s Clarke’s turn to pause; she loves her sister. “Thanks,” she smiles. “I miss you.”

“Then you should come back,” Monroe huffs, like it’s obvious. “I miss you too, and now that you and Jackson are gone, I’m all mom has to focus on. It’s terrible.”

“Try to survive,” Clarke says wryly.

“Come home,” Monroe whines. “Tell Wells I said hi.”

“I will,” Clarke promises, and then smirks. “And Lexa.”

“Do not,” Monroe orders. “I’m drafting a new email, to congratulate her on the magazine. I’m reading a thesaurus so she’ll be impressed with all my big words.”

“She asked about you the other day,” Clarke says breezily. She hears Monroe’s breath stutter.

“She did not,” she argues. “What did you say?”

“That mom still blames her for your hair, and you’re still in love with her.”

“I hate you,” Monroe declares. “I hope you get crabs.” She hangs up, and Clarke’s phone beeps with a text message within seconds.

MONEY: i dont actually hope u get crabs and also i love u

MONEY: still hate u tho

It’s eleven-thirty by the time Clarke reaches campus, so she spends half an hour moping in the shower before heading to Ceramics. Monty gives her a knowing look she can’t really read, but she blushes anyway.

“Shut up,” she mutters, and he laughs so hard he spills the water bucket.

“If you keep laughing at me,” she warns, “I won’t tell you about hanging out with Miller last night.” And that, that shuts him up instantly. She grins, smug. “We talked about you.”

Monty stares dumbly for a moment, wheel spinning aimlessly before him. “What did you say?” he asks suspiciously, and Clarke wonders how she’s managed to become her friends’ (and sister’s) matchmaker. She doesn’t really mind the role, she just never really thought she had that particular talent.

She shrugs. She vaguely remembers nudging Miller in the shoulder and bragging about Monty in a drunkenly obvious way. “I told him you’re great,” she says lamely. Monty looks unimpressed. “And he agreed.” Monty’s ears go red.

“Where’d you find him?” he wonders. “Everyone says he’s sort of a recluse.”

Clarke frowns, thinking back to the night before. He’d certainly been more reserved than the others, but had looked pleasant enough. “Maybe he just spends time with certain people,” she suggests.

“He asked if I wanted to watch the new Daredevil with him,” he admits shyly. Clarke grins and high-fives him, clay-covered hands and all.

Clarke’s phone goes off as she’s headed towards the library.

CREEP: u left ur coat at the house

CREEP: idek why u brought a coat it was 80 degrees jfc r u a reptile

CREEP: ill bring it to u

CREEP: where r u?

Clarke: Campus library.

Clarke: You can never be too safe when it comes to hypothermia, Bellamy.

CREEP: live a little princess

She’s sitting cross-legged on a bench outside when he pulls into the parking lot. She doesn’t recognize him at first, because the windows are so tinted, but she recognizes the car instantly. The very old, very well-kept beauty O had borrowed just some weeks earlier. The one that belongs to her brother.

He steps out and hands her the jacket, and he doesn’t seem awkward or shy or anything, so she decides she won’t, either. So they got drunk, and she said she wanted to kiss him, and then they spooned. So what? In the grand scheme of things, not that much happened. Sure, she made it a little weird, but she definitely could have made it a lot weirder, so.

“Thanks,” she says, uncertain. She’s still eyeing the car. He notices and smirks.

“Hot, right?” She instantly knows he’s used that car to pick up girls before, and the thought makes her uncomfortable.

“Sure,” she nods, and then decides to just go for it. “Are you O’s brother?”

Bellamy literally jumps back, a good half-step in surprise. “You know O?” he asks, and his voice is strained. She frowns.

“Yeah,” she admits. “She’s one of my best friends. I knew she had a brother, but…” She trails off, letting him fill in the blanks. She didn’t know it was him. He glances back at his car and scoffs.

“The day she borrowed it?” he guesses, and Clarke nods.

“How come you don’t hang out?” she wonders. “At The Dropship—you have to see each other there a lot.”

Bellamy nods, scuffing a shoe against the pavement irritably. “She wants space,” he shrugs. “We, uh, grew up basically living on top of each other. So,” he waves a hand helplessly, looking suddenly lost. “She said, I just need to find out who I am without you, Bell. Jesus,” he shakes his head. “What does that even mean?”

Clarke shrugs; she’s never been in this situation, so she can’t exactly offer any solutions. “It’s good,” she decides. “That you listened to her. You’re giving her what she needs, or what she thinks she needs. And when she’s ready, she’ll let you know. It’s O; she doesn’t abandon people.”

Bellamy tips his head at her in thought, and she knows she’s blushing again, and she refuses to be embarrassed.

“You’re secretly nice too,” he resolves.

He ends up staying with her at the library, helping her make flashcards and quizzing her vocabulary. He drops her off for her shift at Grounders, but doesn’t go inside.

Clarke finds O traying croissants in the kitchen. “So, I’m friends with your brother, apparently.”

O turns to look at her sharply. “Weird,” she decides, and hands Clarke a full tray.

Chapter Text

After that, it really is impossible to escape him. O decides she’s had enough space from her brother and starts inviting him out with them—Clarke learns pretty quickly that he’ll never turn her down. O texts sends him a snapchat of their group playing Mortal Kombat in the commons, and he appears just fifteen minutes later.

“Scooch,” he orders, nudging Clarke over on the loveseat. She frowns, grudgingly shifting down so he can sink in beside her.

“The recliner’s free,” she grumbles, clutching her sketchpad a little closer to her chest. It’s a copy of her Hades, drawn to a slightly larger scale. She’s started from the outside in, with his cloak and the skulls at his feet, saving his face for last. Bellamy probably won’t recognize she’s based it off him, but it’s still pretty embarrassing.

“I know,” he shrugs, grinning cheekily, and it really doesn’t help when he just keeps doing that.

Clarke has pretty much come to terms with the fact that she has a crush on Bellamy Blake, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it.

“What are you working on?” he asks, predictably. Bellamy is extremely nosy.

Clarke sighs, but lowers the pad so he can see the sketch. There really isn’t much yet—just the cloak and skulls, a bit of Grecian sandals poking out, and the strong neck of a man. Bellamy’s eyes pour over the page, and she isn’t sure she’s seen him this serious.

“You’re good,” he decides, looking back to her. Clarke rolls her eyes.

“No need to sound so surprised,” she mutters. “I am an art major.”

Bellamy grins softly and shakes his head, mostly to himself she thinks. “No, I didn’t mean,” he pauses. “Art means different things to different people,” he explains. “I don’t always get other people’s art, but. I get yours,” he shrugs, like he hasn’t just completely altered her world.

She’s saved from having to respond when his phone goes off, and he taps along at it for a moment while she collects her thoughts.

There aren’t that many: she definitely likes Bellamy Blake, in more than a friendship capacity.

Bellamy Blake is one of her best friends’ brother, which she’s pretty sure means he’s off-limits or something, but she’s never really navigated this sort of situation before.

She’s never navigated this sort of situation before. It’s kind of freaking her out, a little. She’s never liked a boy that wasn’t Wells, and now she’s pretty sure she didn’t even like Wells that much, so. She’s not sure what to do about it.

Bellamy snorts down at his phone, and Clarke suddenly hopes he isn’t talking to someone. At least, a girl someone. Who isn’t her.

She’s so fucked.

He slips his phone back in his pocket and turns back to her with a conspiratorial smirk. “I invited Miller,” he grins. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Way more than okay,” Clarke grins back, and an uncomfortable portion of it is from relief that he’d been texting Miller. “Bellamy Blake, you are such a matchmaker.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “Just doing my part, princess,” he shrugs. He waves a hand towards her sketchbook, forgotten in her lap. “So tell me more about this headless skull-lord.”

Clarke snorts. “That sounds like a tacky D&D card,” she teases. Bellamy shrugs mildly. “It’s Hades,” Clarke admits, a little nervous. She hasn’t really talked about her project with anyone outside of the class, except sometimes Raven, but she only ever half-listens anyway. “Or it will be, when I’m done.”

“Every time I see you, you’re drawing a Greek myth,” Bellamy smiles, and Clarke actively does not picture him naked. Self-restraint; she’s learning.

“Yeah,” she nods. “It’s, uh, my studio project? For the year. We had to have some sort of broad theme, and I chose Ancient Greece. Specifically, the aspects of humanity they put in their deities; all the flaws and everything. Or at least, that’s what I’m telling my Professor.” She grins. “Secretly, I just really like the stories and wanted to draw them.”

Bellamy’s outright staring at her by now, and it feels like his eyes are peeling her clothes and skin away until he can see right through her. She shudders, and then tries not to fidget too obviously. Finally, he looks away, back towards the TV. “You,” he pauses to shake his head at the floor. “Jesus,” he hisses. “You—”

“Blake this better be goddamned important,” Miller declares mildly, sliding into the empty recliner between their loveseat and Monty’s spot on the floor.

“It is,” Bellamy nods, and Clarke’s pretty sure she’s not imagining the clench of his jaw, or his tightened fists. His knuckles are healing nicely, and she still hasn’t asked about the fight, and he still hasn’t offered to explain. It’s all she can do not to lay her hand over his, to smooth them open—she’s worried the scabs will break if he keeps them bent.

“Oh, uh,” Monty stutters, completely failing at a spin kick. “Hey, Nate.” Clarke whips around to Bellamy mouthing Nate? He just smirks back at her.

Miller smiles down at Monty. “Hey.”

Monty loses the next three rounds, which leave Jasper and O mystified but pleased; they’d never have a chance, otherwise. Eventually the RA, Sinclair, comes out to kindly-but-firmly ask them to wrap it up.

Bellamy tugs one of Clarke’s braids, courtesy of O, as they stand. He gives a last glance to her drawing, muttering “Night, princess,” before walking Miller back to his dorm.

Raven corners Clarke as soon as their door’s closed. “Bellamy’s the laundry guy,” she accuses, arms crossed over her chest, and Clarke knows better than to try a lie.

“Yeah,” she admits. “Neither of us knew who each other was for a while,” she says, suddenly needing to explain everything about her and Bellamy, if only to be told it isn’t all in her head—she isn’t alone in this. She’s pretty sure.

She falls down on her bed, staring at the ceiling. “I like him,” she says, and then internally scoffs, because that might be the understatement of the year. She doesn’t like him.

She’s kind of obsessed with him. She always wants to be with him, or talking to him, or about him. She’s always thinking about him. She has six versions of Hades tucked in her desk drawer, all with his face. It’s probably the worst thing she’s ever had to go through—she’s not sure how people do this.

Apparently Wells isn’t the only one that’s inept with crushes, it seems. She feels profoundly sorry about ever making fun of him for that.

Raven looks at her, completely unimpressed. Raven doesn’t do crushes; she has lots of hot, quick sex with people, and then makes fun of them in the morning. Anger is like foreplay for her. Also, cars.

Clarke would bet enormous amounts of money that Raven has regular sex in the garage. She probably keeps a stash of condoms in with the carburetors.

“Get a grip, Griffin,” she orders, and turns out the light.

“Yeah,” Clarke says doubtfully.

He’s taken to showing up at Grounders whenever O works, demanding he drive her home because it’s unsafe at night.

Clarke and O share matching looks of incredulity. “I could literally run outside naked and begging to be mugged, Bell,” O deadpans, “And the first person would just give me a coat.” Bellamy flinches at the visual.

“I know that you’re a strong, capable and independent young woman,” Bellamy recites, just like he and Clarke had rehearsed. He winks at her over O’s shoulder. “But I’m still driving you home.” He ignores O’s eye roll, and turns to Clarke happily. “You too, princess.”

Clarke rolls her eyes at him too, but he just laughs and spends the last half hour flicking sugar packets at them, and helping them wash all the tables. Clarke gets used to his easy smile as he leans on the counter, and the way he lifts chairs for her one-handed as she mops. The smell of his car—old leather and cheap cigarettes—and his radio station of choice, Classical.

She gets used to him. It isn’t as hard as she thinks it should be.

She runs into O while crossing the green, and it’s clear she’s just come from the studio, because her hair is falling out of its bun, and a few strands are still stuck to her neck. She’s walking with a man—he’s clearly older, with neck tattoos and a full sleeve of what looks like solid black lines down his arm. He’s bigger probably than even Bellamy, and he’s staring softly at Octavia as she laughs. He seems distantly familiar, but Clarke can’t place his face at all.

Clarke clears her throat a little awkwardly, but mostly she’s just amused. O looks positively stricken—it’s great. “Hey, O.”

“Clarke,” O says. “Hey. Uh. This is Lincoln,” she gestures to the man, and Clarke instantly remembers how she knows him.

“You’re in my painting class,” she declares, proud of her memory. She’s absolutely terrible with faces; Lincoln should feel honored.

He looks down at her, amused. “Yeah,” he nods. “You’re the Greek girl.”

“Greek girl?” O asks, confused and more than a little curt. Clearly, Clarke had interrupted something. She refuses to feel guilty.

Lincoln nods. “She’s doing a project on Greek myths,” he explains, while Clarke fidgets like she always does when people talk about her work. She’s deeply private when it comes to her art—which seems stupid, since it’s her major, but.

“Really?” O asks gleefully, which Clarke doesn’t really understand. As far as she knows, O isn’t particularly interested in Ancient Greece.

“Yeah,” she says, still confused, but also running late for her class, so. “It was nice seeing you guys,” she shrugs, turning to go, but O catches her arm.

“Go ahead Lincoln,” she says. “I’ll catch up.” He shrugs and heads off, and O turns back to Clarke. “He’s my dance partner,” she explains shortly. “We’re dating. It’s not a big deal. Bellamy doesn’t know.” She cuts her eyes at her, and Clarke lays a hand on her shoulder.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me O,” she says softly. She knows what it’s like to have to defend her life choices to someone who thinks they know what’s best for her—she’s not about to put O through that. “It’s none of mine or Bellamy’s or anyone else’s business.”

O grins, probably the warmest she’s ever seen her, and tugs at Clarke’s hair fondly. “You’re good people,” she decides, running after her boyfriend. Clarke shows up at class only seven minutes late.

Classes are canceled for Columbus Day, and Clarke isn’t scheduled at Grounders for Saturday or Sunday, which means she has a three-day weekend, and completely plans on spending it in her dorm. Maybe the library.

Definitely the laundry room. If she was lucky, Bellamy would invite her back to the house, or maybe somewhere new. Somewhere even quieter.

She still tries not to picture him naked while having conversations, mostly because it’s distracting, but she’s pretty much given up on ditching the wet dreams. The first time, she woke up gasping, with sheets soaked in sweat and other dampness. She’d taken a cold, fifteen-minute shower, but Raven had still looked at her knowingly.

They still don’t really talk about guys, but. Clarke doesn’t mind so much anymore. She’s not even sure what she’d say.

Bellamy models for her class again on Friday. It’s only his second time, and her classmates are clearly happy about his return, but he just makes a face at Clarke before schooling his features for the next hour and a half.

She pointedly avoids looking below his hips again, because personal restraint, slowly but surely, is becoming her new mantra.

She does maybe peek at her neighbor’s sketch—they pretty much focused solely on his dick; he’d be pleased—but only out of artistic curiosity. It absolutely does not make her mouth water, or her spine itch, or anything. She has control. She is fucking together.

“Do you ever get muscle cramps?” she asks once Bellamy is safely in his robe again. “Staying in one position for so long?”

“Yeah usually I like to switch the positions up,” he smirks down at her. “Once I got a Charlie-horse in the middle of a class,” he admits. “That was a bitch.”

He walks her to her class, swings an arm around her shoulders in some kind of pseudo-hug, and grunts “Have a good break, Clarke.”

She spends the rest of the day in a daze. He’d called her by her name, and she doesn’t know what to do with that.

In the end she texts him.

Clarke: You called me Clarke.

CREEP: like I said I like to switch things up

CREEP: dont get used to it princess

Raven’s waiting in their room when Clarke gets back, which is a surprise in itself—usually Raven stays out at the garage until sundown at least, and sometimes even later. Clarke can’t remember the last time her roommate was home before her.

Clarke’s green checkered suitcase is also waiting for her, on her mattress. She looks between the two, confused. “Are you kicking me out?”

Raven snorts. “Not yet,” she promises. “C’mon. Three-day weekend means we’re grabbing the booze, and the Trilogy, and heading up to my Tia’s place.”

For all that Raven has mentioned the house her elderly grandmother left to her, Clarke’s never actually been there. It’s a two hour drive west, and they just haven’t really found the time for a daytrip.

“Okay,” Clarke shrugs. It’s not like she had any plans to begin with; mostly she was going to study, and lay around waiting for Monty or O or Bellamy to call.

They pack quickly, load up the Pumpkin, and are on the road in record time. Raven listens to nothing but Exile on Main Street on repeat, and the sun is just setting as they pull up a winding drive made of loose rocks.

The house itself is fairly old, but well-maintained, with two stories and probably a basement, and a wrap-around porch that only sags a little. It’s perched on a hill, out of the way enough so if you didn’t know where it was, you wouldn’t be able to find it very easily. Clarke almost hadn’t even noticed the drive, until Raven turned.

They carry the tequila beer and Star Wars boxset and their bags inside, change into pajamas, put in A New Hope, and each grab a bottle.

Halfway through the movie, they’ve started in on Tia’s collection of aged bourbon, and Clarke finds she likes the taste much better than any mixed drink, free rum, or beer she’s ever had before. She’s still not really sure why Raven doesn’t brink any back with them, but she doesn’t want to pry.

Twenty minutes later, and that sense of decorum is nowhere to be found. “Why don’t you bring any of this back to the dorm?” Clarke slurs, waving her empty glass towards the kitchen in general. The cabinets are filled with an abundance of alcohol, ramen, and oatmeal. She’s pretty sure there’s a few cans of baked beans, but mostly there’s alcohol.

Raven shrugs, not at all offended. “If I get busted, I don’t want any of the good stuff getting confiscated,” she shrugs, and Clarke nods because that makes sense. “What’s up with you and Bellamy?”

Clarke’s a little surprised; since Raven had found out, she hasn’t brought him up again. They don’t talk about guys. “I don’t know,” Clarke says, because she doesn’t. Then, “I think I’m in love with him,” because she does.

She doesn’t care about him the way she did Wells, which she’s glad for; she doesn’t want Bellamy to be a replacement Wells. She’d thought she and Wells would grow up and be together, because that’s what boys and girls do. She’d grown up on the childhood best friends to lovers trope, in movies and books and music. She’d thought it was inevitable.

With Bellamy, it’s more than that. She doesn’t think they’ll get married and be together forever. She doesn’t think he’s going to fall head over heels for her, or carry her to his room and lock the door.

But she wants him to. She’s not taking it for granted. She’s in love with Bellamy Blake, and it’s horrible.

Raven takes a swig from the bottle. They’re on The Empire Strikes Back now, and it’s coming up on Clarke’s favorite part, but it’s hard for her eyes to focus on anything. “Be careful,” Raven warns. “Guys can be dicks.”

Clarke grins sloppily. She loves Raven—different love, but. “I like girls too,” she reminds her.

“Girls can be dicks too,” Raven declares. They toast, and fall asleep on shag carpeting.

The weekend passes in a haze of science fiction, oatmeal, and whiskey. There are cans of baked beans, and Raven mixes them with some ramen, which should taste absolutely disgusting but is actually kind of great. They get drunk and have a bubble bath in their underwear.

There’s no cell service at the house, and Clarke finds it refreshing. Three days of uninterrupted peace and quiet.

Well, as quiet as Raven gets when drunk and hopped up on sugary coffee. She wraps a pillowcase around her head at one point and then just refuses to take it off.

Early Tuesday morning they make the trip back, exhausted and more hungover than Clarke has ever felt, but somehow refreshed underneath it. Once they’re within satellite range, her phone beeps with unread messages.

O: u guys suck balls I cant believe u left w/o me !!!

WELLS: Hey, what are you doing this weekend? Can you somehow manage to bribe one of your less terrifying friends into being a date? Sasha wants to meet you and I don’t trust leaving you alone with her.

LEXA: Please have your sister contain herself.

MONTY: hey are you still going to the meeting with me on Thursday?

MONEY: lexa sent me an email!

MONEY: she just corrected my grammar in the last one but progress, clarke

O: u and rav can keep ur lame girls weekend jokes on u i just got laid SUCK IT

CREEP: my shift is so boring rn with no drunk princesses trying to dance to thriller

CREEP: wow the washing machine is so empty and open i can now do my laundry in peace how do i make this permanent

CREEP: so be honest which neanderthal is my sister dating now

CREEP: text me when u get back and i may let u use my nice detergent

CREEP: no promises tho

“What is it?” Raven asks. Clarke’s been staring at her phone in surprise for the last three minutes.

“Apparently I have friends,” Clarke says. “Raven, I think I might be popular.”

Raven snorts, pulling into their parking lot. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Clarke ignores her, and sends out replies. She starts with Bellamy.

Clarke: His name is Lincoln and he’s a sweetheart. Don’t say ANYTHING I cannot stress this enough. Be cool.

CREEP: cool is my middle name princess

Clarke: We should work on your lying skills.

CREEP: im game

CREEP: laundry room 15 mins?

CREEP: ill even let u hog the machine w all ur underwear

Clarke: You have a strange fascination with my underwear.

BELLAMY: im a romantic

Clarke finishes responding to the others, feeling a little guilty about missing out on the double date with Wells, but there isn’t much she can do about it now. She and Raven had washed all their clothes at the house, so she heads to the laundry room empty-handed, pointedly ignoring Raven’s smirk.

She’s waiting when Bellamy shows up, his duffel less than half full. She’s sitting on one of the broken machines, swinging her boots back and forth. She’s still wearing her pajamas, and she has a class in thirty minutes, and she probably still smells like old rug and whiskey.

“How was your break?” Bellamy asks, still standing frozen in the doorway. He looks around. “Where’s your laundry?”

“My room,” Clarke says breezily. He’s wearing a tee shirt just a little too short, so every time he moves his hip bones peek out at her. It’s making it hard for her to concentrate on anything else. “We washed it at the house.”

Bellamy closes the door—which, that’s new, but she’s not about to complain, if it means what she thinks it does—and steps forward, letting his bag fall to the ground. He’s grinning happily. “You came to see me,” he teases, and he definitely expects her to deny it, or laugh it off.

“Yeah,” she nods. “I missed you.”

Bellamy stops at that, and he looks so confused at the words that she wants to repeat them, over and over, until she gets her point across. He deserves to be missed.

“Me too,” he agrees softly, crossing over until he’s leaning against her machine, a hand on either side of her thighs. His stomach’s pressed against her knees, and he’s so tall they’re nearly at eye-level. “I missed you,” he whispers, breath cool on her lips. He tastes like toothpaste; he brushed his teeth before he came to see her, and she smiles at the thought.

Well, she smiles because he missed her too, and because his thumb is stroking the skin of her leg, toying with the hem of her shorts. She smiles because he’s about to kiss her, and she wants him to. God, she wants him to.

“You can kiss me,” she sighs, quietly so she won’t scare him off. He laughs, tucking his head against the point where her neck and shoulder meet.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he mumbles, and then his mouth is on hers, and it’s hot and wet and he swallows her whimper with a low groan.

Her legs open instinctively, and he steps inside, gripping her hips and yanking her against her. He moves her, grinding her against him, until she’s shaking in his hands and mewling in his mouth. He moves his lips against her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, the skin behind her ear, messily, and leaving pools of spit along the way. Clarke feels her toes curl in her boots, so she wraps her legs around him to press in even closer. He shivers and she grips his arms to anchor them together.

Without warning, he scoops her up from the machine and walks a few steps before dropping her down to her feet. She’s against the wall now, and she goes to ask why, but then his teeth latch onto the base of her neck, and she forgets the meaning of words.

He turns her so she’s facing the wall, and presses her into it gently. The cement is cold on her cheek, but he’s warm at her back, and she’s so giddy with anticipation that she doesn’t mind.

“I’ve wanted you,” he breathes against the skin of her shoulder, moving the strap of bra down with his nose so he can suck a bruise there. “Like this,” he says, strained. “I want you.”

“Show me,” Clarke demands, but it comes out as a plea. Bellamy groans into her spine, sending a shiver down her legs. Heat is pooling in her stomach, and her thighs feel slick and wet, and she rubs them together to quench the aching. She can’t find it in her to be embarrassed—he’s lost for her, too.

Bellamy snakes an arm around her front, grazing her breast and then trailing down her stomach before slipping down in her shorts.

“Don’t tease me,” Clarke warns shakily, and Bellamy laughs.

“I do know what I’m doing, princess.” And she can hear his smirk, and is about to say so, when she feels his thumb brush between her legs, and everything goes blurry.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and bites viciously at her neck. “You’re not wearing underwear,” he pants, and surges around to kiss her. The angle’s a little awkward, but his tongue is strong and warm against the roof of her mouth, and Clarke grins. She hadn’t done it as a conscious decision, but if it makes him kiss her like that, she’ll stop wearing underwear altogether. It’ll certainly cost less.

“I washed them all,” she gasps as he snakes a finger inside her, and he curses, letting his head fall against her shoulder.

He keeps at it, slipping a second inside her when she starts grinding back—he was right, Bellamy does know what he’s doing, and when her moans get too loud, he slips his other hand around and shoves two fingers in her mouth. She sucks at them, to keep from screaming, and he breathes curses against her hair and ruts against her back desperately.

She realizes blearily that he’s speaking in a different language, one she doesn’t recognize, and that just spurs her on—a kink she didn’t even know she had. She thinks about the unlocked door, the glass pane set in it, where anyone could peek through and see them—him, with one hand between her legs and another in her mouth, and her pressed against the wall and fucking loving it.

She comes with a shudder, and open mouth but no noise. Bellamy wrenches his hands away, only to grip her hips and pull her back against him as he grinds forward three more times. He lets out a shaky breath, and his hands go slack, so she turns to face him.

His hair has rioted, with curls stuck to the sweat on his forehead. She goes to smooth them away, but he flinches, and she drops her hand stupidly.

“Well,” he says awkwardly, and Clarke isn’t really sure what’s happening, but it’s making her nauseas. “See you,” he finishes, snatching his bag of unwashed laundry from the floor and practically sprinting out the door.

Clarke stares after him, still a little shaky from her orgasm, and about to vomit.

She nearly texts him every five minutes. She barely makes it through her classes, and then her shift at Grounders, before she finds herself waiting at the window, searching for his familiar car.

O finds her like that, and shrugs saying “He called me earlier, said he couldn’t pick us up. Guess we have to walk back.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, and throws up on someone’s lawn on the walk home.

Chapter Text

Lexa is on a three-day no cell phones work trip on some Spanish island, Raven still doesn’t talk about guys, and O is Bellamy’s sister, so Clarke finds herself turning to Wells for guy advice, which is probably the most surreal thing that’s ever happened to her.

They’re at a different coffee shop, because Clarke didn’t really feel like discussing her sex life at her place of work, and she can tell Wells is a little disappointed—the coffee’s subpar, the music is a little pretentious, and the chairs all wobble uncomfortably. He’s trying very hard not to seem annoyed.

“So he just left you there?” he asks, licking the remains of a blueberry muffin from his fingers. Clarke shifts, only a little uncomfortable—she’d skimmed most of the details, but it’s still a little weird.

She was fingered in the laundry room. There’s not really a delicate way to put that.

“Yeah,” she nods, sipping at a mostly-cold chai latte. “He said, and I quote, Well, see you, and then just ran off.”

“He ran away?” Wells snorts, and Clarke glares at him.

“It’s not funny,” she says, because it’s not. It’s nothing short of humiliating, really, and it took a lot for her to even admit that it happened.

Wells seems to catch on, and sobers. “You’re right,” he says, apologetic. “Sorry, you’re right—that’s a dick move. Maybe you’re better off.” He shrugs.

Clarke throws herself back in her chair, but the back is hard and straight, not at all like the cushioned seats at Grounder’s, so she can’t sprawl as much as she’d like. “It’s not,” she pauses. “You don’t know him,” she decides. “It’s—it was weird, okay? It’s not that I want to date him or anything,” although, God, she really wants to date him, “It’s just. I want to know why, you know?”

“I get it,” Wells says, and Clarke suddenly remembers why she turned to him in the first place. Wells seems to instinctively get things, even when he has zero experience in the situation. “But at this point, would any possible reason be good enough?”

Clarke bites her lip, considering. She really likes Bellamy, and would prefer it if he isn’t actually an asshole. Or, at least this kind of asshole. “Maybe his pet dog was dying,” she suggests, only half joking.

Wells snorts. “Or maybe he’s actually very virginal, and your sexual prowess intimidated him,” he says. Clarke chokes on her drink. He looks smug about it.

“He’s definitely not a virgin,” she assures Wells, and then hesitates because what if he is? It’s not like she knows definitively.

Now that she thinks about it, she doesn’t actually know that much about him, at all. She says as much to Wells, but he just shrugs and says, “Well, what do you know?”

“Um,” she thinks back to all their meaningless talks over laundry and texts. “His favorite color’s blue. He works at The Dropship, and as a mechanic at some car shop. He’s super overprotective of O—his sister. He models sometimes for art classes, and has a really nice car that he uses to hit on girls. He never wears shoes when he does his laundry—”

“Gross,” Wells makes a face, but Clarke rolls her eyes and ignores him.

“He’s a history grad student, and I think he might have a hard on for Greek myths.”

“Charming,” Wells quips. “I can see why you like him.”

Clarke glares. “You don’t know him,” she argues. “He took me to this house party, and I got really drunk and basically tried to make out with him, and then passed out.” Wells looks ready to interrupt again, so Clarke cuts him off. “And he just, took care of me. Put me on the couch to sleep it off, and made sure I was okay.”

“That doesn’t make you obligated to like him,” Wells points out. “So he was a decent human being—so what? I didn’t think you were one for the hero complex.”

“I—” Clarke hesitates. Discussing her whatever-it-is with Bellamy is just as difficult and infuriating as she’d predicted. “You don’t know him,” she mutters lamely.

“You’re right,” Wells agrees. “I’m just an outsider’s perspective. Maybe you should talk to someone who actually knows him.”

Clarke looks at him suspiciously. She’s pretty sure he’s just tired of talking about the soap opera her love life has turned into. “You just want to talk about yourself,” she accuses fondly.

“Oh, definitely,” he chirps. “Sasha and I are great, thanks for asking. Wick owes me like, a hundred cranberry vodkas. I’m acing all my classes and essentially kicking ass at school, and my father’s still holding out hope that I’ll eventually rule the world.”

Clarke feels a pang of guilt; she’s been essentially monopolizing their friendship with the intricacies of her social life. “That’s great,” she says, and she means it. “Sorry I’ve been so distracted. Why do you even keep me around?” she jokes, only half serious.

“You make me look better,” Wells says instantly. “Way more well-adjusted.” Clarke tosses a napkin at his head.

She meets up with Monty an hour before the meeting, and gives him essentially the same watered-down version she’d given Wells.

“Sorry,” Monty shakes his head. “I don’t really know Bellamy that well—it was always just O, you know? When we met, she still hated him.”

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs, frustrated. She’s tried texting Bellamy, and called him in an especially desperate moment, but he’s proved pretty good at ignoring her. To keep herself from feeling pathetic, she’s been coming up with increasingly violent ways to force an explanation out of him.

“Maybe Miller can help,” Monty suggests, and so when they get to the meeting, he slides effortlessly in beside Miller and says, “So what’s up with Bellamy?”

Miller gives them both a raised brow, lingering on Clarke, slouching irritably in her chair. “He said he had an essay to work on,” he shrugs.

“Not that,” Monty explains. “What’s his deal with Clarke?” He looks so serious and protective, Clarke can’t help feeling a little fond.

Miller makes a little ah, that, noise. “He likes you,” he tells Clarke, and she’s pretty sure he’s telling the truth, but.

“Funny way of showing it,” she huffs, petulantly.

“He’s pretty shitty at liking people,” Miller shrugs. “And he’s kind of a dick.”

Monty shoots Clarke an apologetic look, and she spends the rest of the meeting flirting with all the girls.

She’s forcing her way through her British Lit essay when Monty shows up at her door that night. He doesn’t look nearly as awkward as he did the first time, but still rather shy, so Clarke is quick to scoop the clutter from her bed so he can perch delicately on the edge. He still blushes about it.

“Miller invited me to hang out at his friend’s house,” Monty says slowly. “He sent me the address, but I’m horrible with directions, and since you’ve already been there—”

“You want me to show you the way?” Clarke asks. She gives Monty a sideways look; she’s pretty sure that under the dimples and blush, he’s smirking a little smugly. “I don’t suppose Bellamy Blake will be at this house?” Monty flushes a little more, and grins a little wider.

“One way to find out,” he chirps. “So, you coming?”

She was right; Monty Green is definitely a closeted badass.

It turns out, Clarke doesn’t really remember the way to the house at all—it was dark when she and Bellamy had walked there, and she’d been a little preoccupied with reinforcing her decision to not make out with him. So she and Monty comb through the blocks, using their phones to illuminate each street sign until they find the right one, because googlemaps can’t get a read on their location.

“It’s Skynet,” Monty swore under his breath, and Clarke snorted.

“Yeah, Skynet doesn’t want you getting laid.”

They find the house eventually, and it’s just as Clarke remembers. They walk in without knocking—well, Monty knocks a little, mainly just so they can say they tried—and find the others camped out in the backroom, circled around the small kind of TV that comes with a built-in VHS player. Clarke hadn’t known those even still existed.

They’re playing the classic Sonic game, and Miller seems to be beating Roma, but only just. The room is filled with the same tension from War night, and Clarke involuntarily flinches, glancing around to make sure there are no plastic forks.

Bellamy isn’t there, and Clarke tries not to feel too disappointed; she shouldn’t want to see him. He was an asshole, and he still hasn’t apologized, and she’s still fucking pissed.

Luke is there though, and he glances up at the new arrivals, flashing a grin before slithering out from under his girlfriend. “Hey guys,” he says happily, though Clarke’s pretty sure he’s never even met Monty. “Want a drink? I’ve got milk and juice if alcohol’s not your thing.”

Clarke had already liked Luke; he’s a good boss, and he seems like a good boyfriend, but this endears her to him even more. “I’ll take alcohol,” she nods, turning to Monty. He’s making weird sultry eye contact with Miller, who’s now down fifteen points. “He will too,” she shrugs. If he doesn’t want it, she’ll drink it and they’ll find him some milk or something.

She follows Luke to the kitchen, while Monty manages to somehow squeeze himself on the arm of the couch beside Miller, leaning over his shoulder under the pretense of watching the game. Clarke had sort of come, expecting to have to wingman Monty into Miller’s arms, but clearly she’d underestimated him.

Luke gets a pair of Coors Light’s from the fridge, and Clarke instantly thinks of her hometown; during Nascar season, Coors cans and bottles fill every storefront and garbage can for miles. She takes one and pulls herself onto the counter, while Luke takes the other to Monty.

She’s just gathering up the courage to head back into the room of friends that aren’t hers, when a boy stumbles in through the back door.

She recognizes him instantly; Finn, Bellamy’s roommate. He’s wearing some fast food uniform, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He flashes a smile when he notices her, eyes brightening in recognition.

“Princess,” he grins. “Nice to see you again.” He glances around the room. “Blake here?”

“No,” Clarke says, and she’s trying for casual, but she must miss her mark because he looks at her sharply, studying.

“Ah,” he says, and pulls the cigarette from his lips. “Want a hit?” he asks, holding it. Oh, so not a cigarette. She thinks it might be a joint, but she’s never seen one; she and O always smoke out of apple pipes they make with Bic pens.

“You’ll have to show me how,” Clarke warns, refusing to be embarrassed. Lots of people haven’t used joints before, and anyway, it’s not like she’s never been high.

Finn smiles indulgently. “Of course,” he says. “Am I taking your marijuana virginity?” He means it to be a joke, and he’s not even being particularly gross about it, but Clarke still prickles a little.

“No,” she says sharply, but he only nods and shows her how to hold it while he lights the end.

“So, you and Blake…” Finn fishes as she hands the joint back. She’s not high yet, but she feels a little lightheaded. O says Clarke’s weed tolerance is the lowest she’s ever seen.

“We’re friends,” Clarke says, a little dismally. She’s not about to whine to his roommate about him; she’s pretty sure she’s already told too many mutual friends. She doesn’t want to make things weird, or force them to choose sides, or anything.

“Cool,” Finn says, inhales, exhales. “He’s crazy.”

“Crazy?” Clarke asks, thinking back to the blood on his knuckles. Finn only smiles and shakes his head a little.

“Crazy for not tapping this down,” he makes a vague gesture towards all of her. “I would in a heartbeat.” He leans over to hold the joint to her lips. “Have you ever shotgunned?”

O had shown her how, the first time they got high together. Clarke had choked a little because she’d been laughing too hard. She thinks about Finn’s mouth on hers, shooting smoke down her throat, and shakes her head.

“Not tonight,” she says with an air of finality. Finn just shrugs and grabs a beer from the fridge.

“I figured,” he says. “Blake’s a little bit messed up over you.”

“Messed up how?” she asks. The joint’s almost gone now, and her fingertips are starting to burn.

Finn makes a noncommittal gesture, sweeping the hair from his eyes. “I dunno. Messed up. Talks about you a lot. He doesn’t really do that. Must really like you.”

“So everyone’s been telling me,” Clarke mutters.

“It’s true,” Finn says mildly, and Clarke rolls her eyes, stubbing the ash out on the sink rim.

“Then he should tell me himself.” She hops down from the counter. “Thanks for the weed.” She walks in a mostly straight line all the way home.

The next day, her studio professor reminds them about the art show coming up in the next week, which she’d mentioned on the first day of class and then Clarke had promptly forgotten about. She’s not particularly worried about it; most of her large pieces are already finished, or just about. It helps that art is her choice method of de-stressing. She thinks, not for the first time, that she’d probably have flunked out of premed by now.

Each student has to submit a few pieces that day, for Vera and the other art department professors to pick through and choose for the show. The only pieces Clarke feels pretty confident about are her Raven-Hephaestus, Athena-O, and Hades-Bellamy, so she sticks them in the pile. She thinks it’s probably a little weird that her latest hobby has been turning all her friends into ancient deities, but they all look pretty badass, so she can’t really feel sorry for it.

O slams into their dorm room just after sundown. Raven’s knee-deep in machinery, and Clarke’s ticking away at a Calculus problem-set that has her brain leaking from her ears. She so would have flunked premed.

“Get dressed, peasants,” O orders gleefully. “Tonight we’re going out!”

“I’m not shoving rum sours down my throat while some frat guy pretends to run into me as an excuse to grab my ass,” Raven declares darkly. She’s been in a rough mood all day, which Clarke knows means she should stay on her side of the room and only speak when absolutely necessary. O, it seems, has not received that particular memo.

O scrunches her nose, disgusted. “What do you do?” she asks. “I usually just pretend to stumble, and knee them in the crotch.” Clarke doesn’t doubt her. “Anyway we’re not going to The Dropship,” she says, and both girls look at her sharply.

Clarke wasn’t aware O even knew any bars other than The Dropship. She thought it was some sort of loyalty thing.

“Where are we going?” Raven asks suspiciously, and O gives a feral grin.

“Polis,” she says. “It’s a club downtown, and a guy I know said he’d get us drinks.”

“A guy you know?” Raven’s clearly skeptical, and O frowns.

“You don’t know him,” she says. “I do have other friends, Raven.”

Raven rolls her eyes, but stands, shedding bits of metal all over the floor. Clarke looks at the mess helplessly. “There better not be frat guys,” she mutters.

There don’t seem to be any frat guys, although it’s hard for Clarke to tell since the only lights are flickering strobe lights, and everyone is sort of pressed together in a mass of writhing limbs.

O had led them straight to the front door, and smiled shyly at the bouncer—Lincoln, Clarke realized—before they filed inside. She turned to give O a knowing wink, and Raven glanced behind to stare at Lincoln pointedly.

“Nice,” she told O. “Very nice. Good job.” O rolled her eyes at them both, but she was still blushing, so Clarke and Raven high fived.

Where The Dropship is a bar—occasionally a karaoke bar—Polis is definitely a dance club. The music is so loud Clarke can hardly hear her own thoughts, which she prefers anyway, and the bass is making the floor bounce under them. The lights make it hard to clearly see anyone unless they’re just inches away, so Clarke grips Raven and O tightly as they forge a path through to the center of the throng. O always has to be in the center—she says there’s more room there, which is absolutely not true.

It doesn’t take long for them to find the song’s rhythm, and Clarke’s hair is sticking to the sweat on the back of her neck, her skirt is riding up so she’s pretty sure she’s flashing some people, and she absolutely did not wear the right bra for this, but she can’t bring herself to care. She’s dancing—well, jumping and flailing around in some sort of pattern—and Raven is twirling O in a circle beside her, and she’s never heard this song before but she’s pretty sure she loves it.

She doesn’t remember stumbling home, but when she wakes it’s in O’s bed, with the other girl digging her sharp little nose in between Clarke’s shoulder blade. Raven is nowhere to be found, but it’s Saturday, which means she’s probably at the garage. Maya is sketching away at her desk, and when she notices Clarke’s eyes are open, she gives her a soft smile.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she says softly. Clarke shakes her head, hoping her migraine will fade by sheer willpower.

“You didn’t,” she says, and squirms out of O’s iron grip.

Her phone chirps from her bag, lying in a clump with her borrowed sparkly dress and cowgirl boots. She digs it out, feeling only a little embarrassed about being mostly naked in front of O’s roommate.

It’s a text, from Bellamy.

hey i’m in the laundry room. can we talk?

Her mouth tastes like old vodka and orange juice, her hair is a matted, sweaty nest, and she desperately needs to wash the smell of nightclub off her. Plus, she has no clothes here that aren’t obvious day-after clothes. She really, really wants to say no.

Clarke: Give me 15 mins.

There isn’t much to be done without a shower, so she just washes a little with the baby wipes Raven uses to scrub motor oil off her face, and then coils her hair up on top of her head. She puts on a pair of pajama shorts and a shirt she’s pretty sure was Wells’, because she refuses to dress up for the guy that ran out on her. Also because her brain hurts, and she’s too tired to put in much effort. She does brush her teeth, though, but maintains that’s mostly for herself.

Bellamy is waiting for her, no laundry bag in sight. He jumps up when she walks in, and he stumbles a little, which she takes a certain amount of glee in. He looks nervous, which. Good. He should be.

She moves past him to haul herself up on the washer, and then looks at him pointedly, expression carefully schooled into neutral. Just because his friends have told her he likes her, doesn’t make it true. She wants to hear it from him, and until then, she wants to make him squirm a little.

“I have something for you,” he blurts, passing her a giant Styrofoam cup. It’s a root beer float, bigger than any of the other ones he’s ever brought her, and she instantly knows this is his apology. She thinks back to O, and tacos, and wonders if it’s a family trait.

“You’re a jerk,” she says mildly. To be honest, most of her anger left her as soon as he sent that text, but she’s not about to tell him that. She’s also not about to forgive him, just because he’s bribing her with childhood favorite drinks.

“I know,” he says, and then sighs, glancing away. “I told you; I’m a dick.”

“That’s not good enough,” Clarke snaps. Okay, so maybe she’s still a little mad. “You don’t get to just do something shitty, and then blanket it by saying, well I told you I’m a dick—it doesn’t work like that.”

Bellamy stares at her, and she’s surprised to see his eyes aren’t even a little heated. Mostly they’re just sad, which. Well, that’s not good enough either. She chugs her float and winces at the brain freeze.

“Slow down, tiger,” he warns, amused, and she glares at him.

“I’ll go as quickly as I want, thank you,” she snaps, and takes a pointed sip.

“I shouldn’t have run out on you,” he says softly. “It was shitty, you’re right, and I don’t really know how to fix it, but.” He steps closer, until there’s only a few feet of space between them, and she’s pretty sure he can see the smears of mascara she hadn’t managed to clean away, and she can definitely see the oil stains around his jaw and the sides of his neck. “But I want to fix it.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, just as softly, glancing down. “You’re wearing shoes,” she notes, and he snorts.

“I do that sometimes,” he teases, and then sobers. “Can we maybe start again?” he asks. “As friends?”

Clarke wants to demand a proper explanation. She wants to know who left the scabs on his knuckles, and why he seems to tell everyone but her that he likes her, and why he kissed her so warmly but then ran from the room like a child.

“Friends,” she echoes, and then holds out a hand. “Hi,” she says, awkward, because he’s had his hand inside her, and he wants to be friends. “I’m Clarke. Nice to meet you.”

He grins, only a little painfully, and shakes her hand. “Bellamy,” he nods. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

This is hell, Clarke thinks, as he pulls himself up to sit beside her.

“So,” he starts. “How’s your day been?”

Chapter Text

Things don’t go back to normal after their conversation, but they’re as normal as they can be.

They don’t do laundry together, anymore. Clarke’s taken to using the room on the second floor, because whenever she goes to the first floor’s, she just stares at the patch of wall he’d had her pressed against.

He doesn’t send her history facts. She doesn’t send random gifs or anecdotes. They’re never alone together.

She still sees him, of course. Playing video games with Jasper and Monty, sometimes Murphy when he isn’t being an ass. Sprawled on O’s bed with a book while she rants to Clarke and Maya about some idiot in her Women’s Studies seminar. He still drives her home with his sister after work. They make small talk. He’s unfailingly polite, and always tips her when he buys a coffee—sometimes tipping more than the drink even cost. He always turns the AC in his car down because he knows she likes to have her window open. He doesn’t call her princess, ever, and he doesn’t make fun of her underwear or anything else. He’s perfectly nice, and she hates it.

So when she gets the tickets for the art show, she almost doesn’t bother asking him. But she’d put in for the tickets back when they were still friends, so she has exactly seven. She could give Bellamy’s to Murphy, she guesses, but she doesn’t really even like Murphy, and he’d probably just complain about the lack of alcohol, anyway. She could maybe give it to Wells, to bring his roommate, but she’s already given him an extra for Sasha, and she’s never even met Wick, so she’s not sure why he’d want to come.

This is ridiculous, she thinks. They’re friends; they had a conversation about it and everything. So she texts him, short and to the point: Hey so I’m in this art thing next Saturday, you want to come? No booze, but there’ll probably be those little meat things wrapped in croissants.

She only has to wait three minutes for his reply.

LAUNDRY GUY: how could i say no to free meat things in croissants?

Clarke: Yeah, I know how to phrase an invitation. It’s at 7

LAUNDRY GUY: whats the dress code? suit & tie?

Clarke: I wasn’t aware you owned a suit, Bellamy

LAUNDRY GUY: dont get too excited its a tear away from my stripper days

It’s the most normal she’s felt in days.

Clarke doesn’t really stress about the upcoming show until the morning of, which is a miracle in itself. She wakes up early, because it’s mandatory for the students to help set up the gallery, and stares at the ceiling for a long moment trying to even her breathing.

“I’m going to fuck up,” she declares. “All my pieces are shit, this is a mistake, I shouldn’t do this.”

Across the room, Raven gives a raised brow. She’s tinkering with some wires and metal, and Clarke is pretty sure she was in the exact same place when she fell asleep last night, so she’s not sure if she’s slept. “You mean the badass project you’ve been working on for weeks now?” she deadpans. “Oh, yeah. Total shit. You should probably run off to Canada or something to escape the shame of it all.” She rolls her eyes and sighs heavily, which is pretty much as supportive as Raven gets.

“You’re coming to the show, right?” Clarke asks, a little desperate. She probably has crazy eyes. She’s not proud.

Raven softens a little and offers a small smile. “Yeah, babe,” she nods. “I’ve got your back. Go do your art thing.”

Clarke wears a pair of stained cotton shorts, and one of her dad’s old Harvard shirts, and carries her formal wear in a cloth grocery bag from Aldi’s. All the student work was carried over from campus by Vera, the head of the art department, so Clarke just has to separate her pieces from the mass and set up her little section, just some feet from the side door. She waves to a few of her classmates, admires their work and flushes at their compliments, and is fully expecting to freak out solitarily for the next five and a half hours, when Lincoln appears at her side.

“You’re very talented,” he says, taking in her work. He’s studying it like an artist, which is different than if he were just a casual observer or friend, and she holds her breath and waits for him to speak again. He seems to come to a conclusion and glances down at her with a tiny smile. “You have nothing to be nervous about,” he says kindly. He’s enormous, both in size and presence, but his voice is soft and warm. Clarke can see why O likes him.

“Where’s your space?” she asks, mostly to be polite. She’s still too jittery to try at an actual conversation. He leads her over to the opposite side of the room, where his paintings are hung from the ceiling with chicken wire, like some sort of decrepit, post-apocalyptic shower curtain. It’s pretty badass, and must have taken him forever.

The paintings themselves are good too—abstract, with moody, luminescent spray paint. They give the impression of some cosmic forest after dark, or maybe the sewers the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lived in. “These are amazing,” she says, and he blushes.

“Octavia said she told you about us,” he says, a little awkwardly.

“Am I not supposed to know?” she asks mildly. It doesn’t really matter either way—she knows, so there’s no going back on it. She does notice he refers to O as Octavia, and files it away.

Lincoln sighs a little. “She doesn’t want to tell people, yet,” he admits.

“Do you want to tell people?”

Lincoln shrugs. “I want what Octavia wants,” he says. “If she wanted to elope in Las Vegas, I would.” He grins down at her. “I’d have a real ceremony afterward, though,” he decides. “My mother would be heartbroken if I didn’t.”

“Is your mother coming tonight?” she wonders. She’s already given O her ticket—in retrospect, Lincoln probably would have gotten her one as well, but—and she wonders how he might introduce her to his mom.

“Yes,” Lincoln nods. “She lives only forty minutes away, so it’s not a big deal. What about your parents?”

Clarke shakes her head. They’d called her the night before, letting her know they’re proud of her, and sorry that they can’t make it. She hadn’t really expected them to; hadn’t even tried to get them tickets. Monroe demanded she Facetime her sometime during the actual show, so she can tell Clarke how her art is so much better than everyone else’s.

“They live in Raleigh,” she shrugs. “It’s kind of a long drive just for a showcase.”

“I’m sure you’ll have others,” Lincoln says, and Clarke might like him better than O.

(She doesn’t, of course, but she’ll probably joke about it just to make O irritated.)

She changes in the gallery’s bathroom, along with most of the other girls who don’t feel like going all the way back to the dorms. Her dress isn’t anything special—she’d worn it to some fundraiser for her mom’s hospital—but it’s nice enough. She wears her hair in a crown braid because she’s predictable.

Raven shows up at 6:59, so she can say that since she arrived first, she’s clearly better than Clarke’s other friends. Wells shows up right after, though, and Raven glares at him a little so Clarke’s almost worried she’s going to fight him for the title.

Instead of Sasha, there’s a boy with him. He’s a tall and sort of scruffy-looking blond, wearing a tuxedo-printed t-shirt under a dinner jacket obviously borrowed from Wells. He doesn’t look nearly so awkward as anyone else would in the outfit, and Wells introduces him cheerily.

“This is Wick, my roommate,” he says. Clarke had figured; Wells doesn’t have very many friends—at least, not friends he’d bring to her art show.

“Kyle,” Wick corrects pretty much immediately, shaking her hand. “So you’re the next Picasso?”

“I prefer Degas,” Clarke chirps. “This is Raven, my roommate, and Lincoln.”

Wick and Lincoln shake, but when he turns to Raven, she’s studying him a little skeptically. “God, you’re not a Physics major too, are you?” Wells snorts and shakes his head, but he’s given up on arguing with Raven about his major—It’s Astro-physics, it’s completely different! had been muttered too many times for Clarke to count.

Wick smiles broadly. “Close,” he says. “Engineering.” Raven scoffs derisively.

“Jesus, that’s even worse.”

Wick’s still grinning. “You are an absolute delight,” he declares. “I knew I shouldn’t believe Jaha.”

Raven cuts her eyes at Wells, who’s trying to discretely find the buffet table. The others pick that moment to walk in, and Clarke suddenly realizes why she was nervous in the first place.

Her paintings are of them—well, Raven and O. And Bellamy, fuck. She’s pretty sure she’s sweating from every part of her body, and shaking a little too. Lincoln discretely squeezes her arm in support, which is nice but also lets her know her discomfort is obvious, which is less than ideal.

“So where are your masterpieces?” Monty asks cheekily. Clarke thinks she probably should have asked for a ticket for Miller, but she’s not very close to him. Still, it might have been nice for Monty, and she feels a little bad.

“Uh, this way,” she says weakly. It’s a little past seven, and Bellamy isn’t there, which. Well it’s not exactly a tragedy, but it’s a little disheartening. He had said he’d come, but it wouldn’t be the first time he didn’t show, so. She tries not to think about it.

Instead she focuses on biting the inside of her cheek while they study her work. She spent a lot of time choosing and perfecting her pieces, and she really wants them to like them. She’s also a little nervous Raven and O might be embarrassed, or mad, like she’d overstepped some boundary. At the least, they’d probably wish she warned them.

But when Raven finally speaks, she says “Wow. I look badass.” She has Wick take a picture of her with it, striking the same pose, and sets it to her default profile.

O still hasn’t spoken, or looked away from her Athena portrait. Lincoln is standing beside her, definitely closer than a platonic friend would, but no one mentions it. Clarke lays a tentative hand on her shoulder, feeling sick. “O, I—”

She doesn’t get to finish, because O snaps “Shut up,” and turns around to clutch her fiercely. She sniffs a little against the skin of Clarke’s neck, and she realizes belatedly that she’s crying. “It’s fucking great,” she says, a little muffled. “Thank you.”

They pull apart just as Bellamy walks in, looking ruffled and a little annoyed. He’s wearing a suit—a real one, not tear-away, but not expensive either—but his bowtie hangs untied around his neck, and he’s striding quickly over to them. “Sorry I’m late,” he frowns, rambling. “There was an accident on South 16^th and then I got tied up in parking, and—” He gives Lincoln’s proximity to his sister a slow glance, and then freezes altogether as his eyes land on the first painting. The one of him.

“Oh look,” Monty says pointedly. “They have those cool mini fruit cups—Jas, you love those.”

“What?” Jasper asks, still watching Bellamy like some excited spectator at a sporting event. Monty kicks his foot. “Oh, right,” he says, a little petulantly, and they wander off. Clarke grimaces.

The others seem to take their cues from the boys, and drift away to compliment Lincoln’s set, and soon it’s just her and Bellamy and the painting, which is definitely worse.

Bellamy clears his throat and opens his mouth, but then closes it again. He’s staring at O as Athena now, and Clarke can’t bear the silence anymore. “I told you I didn’t draw your dick,” she blurts, and he turns to stare at her.

“You’re—” He’s cut off by Clarke’s phone, displaying Monroe’s Facetime picture. She fumbles to hit accept.

“Hey, Money,” she grins, only a little strained, at her little sister.

Monroe looks around before focusing on Clarke and says, “Yep, I knew it. You’re definitely the best in the room. Probably the city. Maybe the state.”

“Not the country?” Clarke asks wryly, glancing up to find Bellamy smirking down on her. He must have heard.

“Don’t get cocky,” Monroe warns and Clarke rolls her eyes. “Is there an open bar? I hear art shows have that fancy champagne Mom keeps in the cabinet.”

“It’s a college show, Monroe,” Clarke points out. “Most of the people here aren’t legal to drink.”

“You drink,” Monroe argues.

“Not legally,” Bellamy chimes in, and Monroe frowns.

“Who’s that?” she demands, and Clarke turns so Bellamy’s in the shot. He’s taller than her, so she can only get most of his chest and the lower half of his face, but then he stoops down a little so he can wave.

“This is Bellamy,” Clarke says, turning a little. “This is my sister Monroe.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bellamy smiles. Monroe eyes him a little skeptically.

“Your bowtie looks stupid,” she decides, and he grins.

“Your sister called me a creep the first time we met,” he says, glancing at Clarke a little fondly. “Are all Griffin’s this rude?”

“Just us,” Monroe says. “We’re the best ones. Why’d she call you a creep?”

Clarke rushes to turn around again, trying not to blush too obviously, because there is no way she’s getting into her history with Bellamy with her little sister, at her first showcase. She hopes the pixilation covers up the red on her cheeks. “Okay Money, I have to go,” she lies. “Thanks for calling!”

Monroe eyes her, clearly not believing a word. “Sure,” she allows. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Clarke says, and hangs up. When she chances a glance up at Bellamy, he’s still studying her, warm and open and fond, which is fucking unfair, so she decides to ruin it. “You were being a creep.”

Bellamy barks out a laugh, sliding an arm around her shoulders so comfortably it’s like he’s done it a million times before. “Whatever you say, princess,” he concedes, turning them towards the others, all clumped around the buffet table because these are her friends. “I believe you promised me little meat things wrapped in croissants.”

Halloween is two days after the art show, on a Monday, which Raven says is the universe being fucking unfair.

“We’re still going to a party, though,” Clarke guesses.

“We are definitely still going to a party,” Raven says. “It’s Halloween, Clarke—don’t be stupid.”

Clarke has been the same thing for Halloween every year since she was thirteen. Raven, apparently, has also been the same thing every year since she was thirteen.

“I’m switching it up this year though,” she declares as Clarke digs through her closet, looking for her 3D film glasses with the lenses popped out. She finds them and slides them on, tucking her hair up in a tight bun. She’d usually spray it with temporary dye, but she forgot to buy some at the drug store, so she’s hoping people will recognize her character anyway.

“How so?” she asks, because she knows Raven wants to tell her. She’s currently hooking plates of beaten metal together around her arm like a sleeve. She’d had Clarke paint them with thick black lines, like some prop from a sci-fi thriller.

“You’ll see,” Raven says smugly.

O storms through their door, a little more vicious than necessary. She’s dressed in a pair of tiny black shorts and camisole, with tall leather boots like Jessica Roberts. She’s painted three lines on each of her cheeks, and a black dot on the tip of her nose. There’s a pair of black rhinestoned cat ears on her head, and a thin black scarf tied around her waist so it dangles down behind her.

“What the fuck are you?” Raven asks, unnecessarily. Mostly she just likes pissing O off.

“I’m a sexy cat,” O says matter of fact, swishing her hips so her tail wags a little. “What the fuck are you?”

Raven grins meanly, strapping on the last bit of metal around her good leg. She’s taken sharpies to her prosthetic, drawing the same sort of lines that Clarke painted on the rest. She straps on one of their pirate eyepatches, refurbished to look like metal, with a red marble set in a hole in the middle. She looks like the Terminator. “Your worst nightmare,” she says in what might be a British accent. O snorts and turns to Clarke.

She doesn’t bother asking, just raises a brow in question, and Clarke sighs. Clearly it’s not as obvious as she’d hoped. “Clark Kent,” she explains, unbuttoning her shirt a little so the Superman tank shows. O snorts a little louder.

“Cute,” she decides. “Let’s roll.”

They’re almost to the party—it’s being held at a house near campus, that belongs to some grad student that everyone seems to know about without actually knowing—when O glances at Clarke a little more pointed than usual.

“So you and Bell,” she says, purposefully letting Clarke fill in the blank. She chokes a little first though, and Raven’s trying not to laugh.

“It’s nothing,” she says, a little too quickly. “We’re friends.”

“Probably for the best,” O shrugs. “He’s a little stupid when it comes to emotions.”

“We’re just friends,” Clarke mutters, and O looks skeptical but graciously drops it, probably because they’re at the house now and Lincoln’s waiting for her on the front porch, dressed as Deadpool. He and Clarke fistbump since they’re both superheroes, and Raven demands to be included since she’s practically a superhero.

Someone hooked their playlist up to the giant speakers in the living room, so some punk song about zombies is making the floor pound beneath them. The house isn’t uncomfortably crowded, but there are enough people that when Clarke tries to make her way to the kitchen, she collides with someone’s chest.

She pulls back to apologize, and catches sight of their costume—black cloak with a bedsheet toga underneath, revealing toned legs leading down into a pair of Grecian sandals. She stares up at Bellamy Blake, grinning smugly.

“Hades, really?” she says, hoping he attributes her blush to the alcohol she hasn’t had yet. “How appropriate.”

“I thought so,” he shrugs, and then squints down at her. “Are you, by any chance, a reporter for The Daily Planet?”

Clarke tries not to smile, but it’s a little hard. She’s spent all night being asked about her costume, so it’s nice to not have to explain it. She’s also maybe a little pleased that he’s based his costume off her painting. He’d driven her to her dorm the night before, and walked her to the door. She’d been sure he was going to kiss her, but he’d only tugged a strand free from her braid and said goodnight.

Bellamy leads her to the kitchen, hand firm around her wrist so they aren’t separated, and fetches her a drink from the fridge. It’s some sort of margarita in a Capri Sun pouch, and she pokes the straw in and sips at it. It’s too sweet, but she drinks it anyway.

“So do you just go around to strangers’ fridges, getting girls drinks?” she asks.

“It’s my favorite hobby,” he grins. “That, and poking around strangers’ underwear.”

“Such a creep,” she shakes her head sadly, and she’s pretty sure they’re flirting.

But then Miller pokes his head in. “Bellamy,” he says, “The light’s on the fritz.” Bellamy gives her an apologetic frown and follows him out.

Clarke finishes her margarita pouch and heads out to the living room, which has been emptied of furniture and turned into an impromptu dance floor. It’s Halloween, and she’s at a party, and she’s buzzed. She’s not going to wait around for him in the kitchen all night; she’s going to have fun, and maybe meet someone that won’t run out on her afterwards.

She dances for a while, sometimes with people she recognizes from classes—once or twice with Raven, O and Lincoln, and Monty when he shows up—but she doesn’t really pay attention too much. She drinks a little more, until she’s pretty sure her dance moves have disintegrated from charmingly silly, to stupidly lame, but whatever. She’s having fun. There’s a boy behind her, breathing hot on her neck, but she likes it. His hands are curled over her hips, trying to make her move with him, and she catches on to the rhythm.

And then the hands move back a little, and he’s stepping back. Clarke glances up to see why. Bellamy’s glaring from his space in the doorway. They lock eyes, and his jaw tenses a little, and it might be the alcohol or maybe the endorphins from dancing but suddenly Clarke wants to kick his ass.

Or make out with him. Could go either way.

She storms over a little unsteadily, until she’s just inches away and has to crane her neck all the way back to meet his glare with her own. “You can’t do that,” she spits, and Bellamy stops her with a flick of his head, towards the stairs. He leads her up to the bathroom, and locks the door behind him before turning. The washer is there, and she hops up on it. For old time’s sake. She glares over, where he’s leaning against the door, staring back at her. “You can’t just say let’s be friends, and then freak out when I dance with another guy,” she says, voice pitching into hysterical. She’s still blaming the alcohol.

Bellamy sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “I know,” he says into his palm. “I know, I just—fuck.” He drops his hand and crosses over until he’s standing across from her. “I can’t help it.”

“Try,” she insists, voice a little steadier now. She’s breathing heavy, but she can pretend it’s the dancing. “Look, I get it; it’s fine that you’re not into me, but—”

“Is that what you think?” Bellamy laughs sardonically. “That I’m not into you?”

Clarke stares dumbly for a moment. Of course that’s what she thought; he wanted to be friends. He’d made it pretty fucking clear. “Well, yeah, I mean—”

Bellamy steps forward until his mouth hovers over hers, forehead pressing hers back until she’s looking up at him. He’s staring down at her firmly. “I’m into you,” he whispers, lips grazing hers. His hands clench the metal on either side of her hips. “I’m so fucking into you, but I,” he makes a vague flailing gesture. “I’ve got all this, this bullshit going on, and I don’t know how to do the whole boyfriend thing.” They’re so close that she’s basically breathing his exhales now, and she’s pretty sure the carbon dioxide is making her dizzy. “I’m not that guy.”

“It’s Halloween,” Clarke whispers. Any louder and she’s worried whatever spell they’re under will break. “You can be anyone you want.”

Bellamy grins down at her, and this kiss is nothing like their first. It’s soft and smooth and fucking wet, and he tastes like cheap alcohol and sweat, and she’s sure she tastes worse, but it still burns her from the inside out.

Someone bangs on the door, swearing, and Bellamy pulls apart to laugh into her neck. He peeks up at her through his lashes. “Wanna get out of here?”

Clarke tugs him all the way outside without a word, fingers warm and wound in hers.

Chapter Text

Once outside, the air between them shifts. Instead of the heady charge of need between them, there’s a sort of self-conscious nervousness. But then he squeezes her hand and says, “We don’t have to, you know,” he offers. “I’d be happy just hanging out in your room, judging your stuff.”

“You like my stuff,” Clarke smirks, reassured. “And it’s too late for you to back out now. I’m definitely getting laid tonight, so prepare yourself.”

Bellamy snorts. “I think I’ll manage.”

She does send Raven a quick text, just in case. She’d really rather her roommate not walk in on whatever they decide to do in her room. Raven responds instantly with ok get some, and then don’t u dare touch my bed, and finally, or the robots.

Bellamy grins at the whiteboard as she unlocks the door—she’d drawn O and Raven playing tug of war with her closet, and Jasper had scrawled in a chibi Clarke hiding behind a robot. He isn’t a very good artist, but the bare bones are there. Bellamy thumbs at the sketch, so his finger comes back smudged with black. He wipes it along the bridge of her nose as they walk through the door.

“Maybe we should talk first,” Clarke says, voice shaky, looking doubtfully down at her bed. Now that she’s here, she can see what a potentially catastrophic this idea is. What if he decides to leave again? What if it’s too different—she’s never had sex with a boy before, and what if she doesn’t like it? What if he doesn’t like it?

Oh, God—what if she isn’t good at it?

That is a stupid thing to think, she reminds herself. If she isn’t good at it, she’ll practice and get better. That’s just good sense.

“You still haven’t told me why you ran out,” she explains, turning back towards him. “I’m not sure if I forgive you, yet.”

“No, yeah,” Bellamy nods, as Clarke’s mouth runs dry. While her back was turned, he must have decided to shed the cloak—she doesn’t blame him, it looks suffocating, puddled in rows of black on the floor. His bedsheet toga has come mostly undone, hanging a little limply from one shoulder, so his right nipple and most of his sides are visible. He doesn’t seem to care, and is looking at her, earnest and anxious. “That makes total sense—let’s talk.”

He goes to sit on the edge of her bed, but Clarke steps in between, putting a hand up on his chest. To stop him. Obviously. It’s not like she’s groping him or anything. She has more self-restraint than that.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she says, whispers really because her throat is still too dry. Her other hand rises up to the skin of his neck, so she can feel when he swallows. “I forgive you. I’m feeling very forgiving tonight.”

Bellamy snorts. “I think you mean horny,” he smirks, but his voice sounds just as hoarse as hers, and his hands are soft on her hips but his fingers are digging into the hem of her trousers, so. She’s feeling pretty confident that he’s not about to fight her.

“I can be both,” she argues, and kisses him.

It’s smoother than the one in the bathroom, but just as hot. Just as dirty. Bellamy slides his tongue in between her lips but no further, waiting for her to come to him. He swings them around so when he does sit on her bed, he’s dragging her down on top of him. She grins against his mouth, pleased—secretly, she likes being on top. But he smirks into the skin below her jaw, so maybe not so secretly.

He pops the button of her pants almost too easily, and she can tell he’s smug about it. She kicks off her dress shoes and then the trousers, and the dress shirt comes off next. Bellamy stares at the Superman tank for a minute, before laughing, leaning his head in between her breasts.

“I wanted to stay true to the character,” Clarke defends, squirming a little self-consciously. She bought the shirt when she was sixteen, and she’s grown a bit since then, so it’s a little tight. But Bellamy, still grinning sloppily, just sits up and tugs her back down until she can feel him, which. Well, it’s a little hard for her to think, after that.

“Trust me,” Bellamy says, voice low as he stares heatedly at the S stretched over her chest, “I’m not complaining.” He nips at her from over her shirt and bra, and laughs again when she squeaks, and then the tank joins the rest of her costume on the floor.

Her hair comes unpinned as they tug the material over, and the curls fall in weirdly bent angles over her shoulders. Bellamy pulls it all back behind her, and tugs it a little, and she whimpers at the feel, which is new. He seems pleased about it. “For later,” he warns, and then unsnaps her bra with one hand.

And then he just sort of stares at her breasts for a while, which is a little amusing but mostly awkward, until he puts his hands on them and just holds. He’s not even doing anything really, and she’s still embarrassingly wet. She grinds down a little, until he groans with his teeth around a nipple.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whines, tugging at the knot keeping his toga in place. “You could be a lot more naked, you know.”

Bellamy grins wickedly and tugs her hands away before unknotting the bedsheet expertly, letting it pool around his hips on the mattress. He still has his sandals on, which is a little absurd, and a pair of boxers, which are easily discarded.

Clarke proves it in a matter of seconds, and then unstraps his shoes, and crawls back into his lap. She’s seen him naked before, but it’s different having all of that skin under her hands. She reaches down and gives his dick an experimental tug, and he sighs into her mouth before biting her lip harshly.

“Do you have a condom?” he pants, whining like a dog as she gives another pull. She grins against his cheek, wetting the skin there with her tongue. She wants to taste every inch of him. He tastes like the ocean, all salt and heat and water.

“What, you didn’t bring any?” she teases. She’d sort of assumed all boys did, at least in their wallets. She’d seen more than a few flashing the foil packets at each other throughout high school.

But he’s not a boy, she reminds herself, grazing her lips against the stubble on his jaw.

Bellamy flushes, looking shy. “I didn’t want to jinx it,” he admits, and Clarke giggles into the skin of his shoulder. It’s freckled, just like the rest of him. She presses a kiss to the first one she sees, and then the next. She loves his freckles.

“One sec,” she says, hopping up and trying to forget she’s completely naked. It’s kind of hard, since she can feel Bellamy staring blatantly, as she digs around for the old Nutcracker Prince jewelry box from when she was eight. She pulls it from the clutter and offers it to him. Inside are all the different flavors, types and sizes of condoms Monroe had forced upon her. Bellamy stares at the collection a little warily.

“How much sex do you plan on having tonight?” he asks, raising a brow. Clarke rolls her eyes.

“My sister is weirdly invested in me having safe sex,” she explains. “Do you need help choosing?”

Bellamy makes a face and plucks one of the gold foil packets—Magnum, she thinks, which she’s pretty sure means extra-large or something. He certainly looks big enough, but she hadn’t wanted to assume; she didn’t have anything to compare him to, after all.

“Can I, um,” Clarke falters a little, kicking the jewelry box under her bed so Raven won’t see it. Bellamy stops and looks up at her, waiting for her to continue. “I’ve never, uh, done this with a guy,” she explains, feeling her skin go pink. She refuses to feel embarrassed. “Can I,” she gestures to the condom in his hand. “Watch how you put it on?”

If she felt at all silly while asking, she doesn’t anymore, watching Bellamy’s eyes bleed into black. He’s staring up at her with so much want it makes her stomach flip, and suddenly he’s tearing into the foil with his teeth, and snatching her hand up. He has her fingers trace his as he folds the latex down, and then pulls her close until she’s hovering just over him.

“Tell me what you like,” he says, “And what you don’t. I’ll go slow.”

“Don’t,” Clarke says, and sinks down.

Clarke doesn’t know she’s expecting to wake up alone, until she opens her eyes to find Bellamy watching her, faces just a few inches apart. She tries not to seem so happy, but it’s hard. She is really happy.

“I thought you’d be gone,” she admits, quiet because it’s early morning and she’s just woken up. Also her throat is sore from last night.

Bellamy grins. “I like proving you wrong,” he teases, and kisses her. His mouth tastes like old alcohol, and a little like her cunt still, but she imagines hers can’t taste much better. She can still taste his dick in her mouth.

“How long were you staring at me while I was sleeping, you creep?”

Bellamy laughs, turning to press his face in the pillows. “Not long?” he offers. She doesn’t believe him for a second.

She’s tracing idle patterns across the bare skin of his back—connecting freckles, mostly; it’s a problem, she knows—when she next speaks. “I meant what I said,” she starts, “I do forgive you. But I’d still like to know why.”

Bellamy sighs into the pillows and rolls over so they’re face to face. His eyes are still a little wet from sleep, but mostly they’re nervous. He raises a hand to card through the hair laying across her cheek. He pulls through the knots softly, untangling her curls. “How much has O told you about our home life?”

Clarke frowns. “Not much,” she admits. She knows they don’t have a house to visit during the weekends or holidays—not even an empty one, like Raven. She knows this probably means they don’t have parents, or even distant relatives. Probably no one but each other.

“We have different dads,” he says, with the practiced air of nonchalance that means he’s had to explain it more than once. “I never knew mine, and O’s left when I was six or so. It was always just us and our mom. She died when I was nineteen, and O was fourteen. Cancer.”

By now, his hand has stilled in her hair, so his palm is warm and steady against her cheek and jaw. Clarke scoots closer until their noses brush. “Jesus, Bell,” she breathes, and his hand drifts around to tangle against the back of her head, holding her there.

“It’s alright,” he says, and it sounds like he almost means it. “We had years to prepare. I had to leave school, and take care of O, get her through high school. My mom, she was left the house by her parents, so that wasn’t an issue at the time.”

“At the time?” Clarke asks, fingers drifting down his arm where it lays across her neck.

Bellamy sighs. “I lost the house,” he admits. “It’s been going on for a while, back and forth with the bank and the school and everything, but—I lost it, the day after, um. The day after the laundry room.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke whispers, because she doesn’t know what else to say. Because the boy she’s in love with has given up so much for his sister, and works harder than anyone, and she really wishes the universe was less shitty.

“They’re building a highway,” he shrugs, as if to say what can you do? He’s clearly trying very hard to be okay with it. “And I know I should have just texted you, or called, or something. I mean, it’s not like that takes any effort, and you were probably feeling shitty, and abandoned or something, and I fucked up. But I just—it was hard even getting dressed, you know? And I still had to work things out with the lawyers, and the school, and then I had to find somewhere to store all our stuff and our mom’s stuff, because as it turns out, a house can actually hold a lot of shit. Who knew, right?” He laughs a little, but not like he actually finds it funny. “I have so many text drafts to you on my phone,” he admits.

“Wait, really?” Clarke asks, a little delighted in spite of herself.

Bellamy heaves a sigh, but he’s grinning a little, as he flings an arm over to dig around in his toga on the floor. Apparently it has pockets, because he comes back with his phone in hand, and passes it to her. The battery’s almost dead, but she can still read through his text drafts, and sure enough, there are five all addressed to her, each more awkward and desperate than the last. None of them are finished.

“Wow,” she says, handing the phone back. He turns it off to conserve the battery, and then curls back up against her. “And I thought you were the cool one.”

“I’m the coolest,” Bellamy says mildly, but his hand is nervous in her hair again. “I don’t really talk about this stuff,” he hesitates. “People get weird about it.”

“I am absolutely going to be weird about it,” Clarke deadpans, and then kisses the dimple in his chin to let him know she doesn’t mean it, and now it’s her turn to be nervous. “So, you said you don’t do the whole boyfriend thing,” she fishes, feeling unbearably thirteen.

“The last girlfriend I had was senior year of high school,” Bellamy says. “We dated for the two weeks leading up to Prom, and then broke up. I haven’t really had a lot of time for relationships, but,” he grazes his thumb against the corner of her mouth, and she fights the urge to bite it. Later. “I want to try.”

“I can tutor you,” Clarke offers. “We can have, like, study dates. On dating.” Bellamy grins and kisses her, letting his hand skate down her stomach and between her thighs. “I can teach you how to be romantic,” she mumbles against his mouth.

Bellamy smirks as she gasps into his neck. “I’m pretty sure I’m being romantic,” he teases.

Clarke leans over the edge of the bed flailing an arm underneath to snatch a condom from the jewelry box. She rolls it on him by herself this time, and grins smugly when he hisses at her touch.

“Woo me, Blake,” she demands, and Bellamy smiles.

“As you wish.”

By the time Raven arrives, they’ve finished and are lying in a mass of tangled, sweaty limbs, kissing lazily in her bed. Raven bangs loudly on the door, and then kicks it, calling “Conceal all genitals, I’m coming in!”

They cover themselves with Clarke’s sheet, but Raven walks in with a hand clamped firmly over her eyes, anyway. Clarke huffs, clearly annoyed, but Bellamy just seems amused.

“You stripped naked ten minutes after we met,” Clarke points out, but Raven shrugs.

“That was me,” she says, like that explains it. Clarke just rolls her eyes and turns to Bellamy.

“When’s your first class?” she asks.

Bellamy shakes his head. “I just have a tutorial today, at two-thirty. But I have a shift at the garage, at eleven-fifteen.”

“Good, get up,” Raven orders, tossing down a tote bag, filled with the remnants of her costume. She’s wearing a pair of bicycle shorts and a tank top, and Clarke wonders where she spent the night. “We’re getting breakfast.” She promptly leaves to wait in the hall.

It ends up taking them fifteen minutes to get dressed, because they keep getting sidetracked, making out. But Raven bangs on the door again every three minutes, so they get through it eventually. Bellamy manages to fit in a pair of old sweatpants Clarke stole from Jackson, and one of her dad’s old sweatshirts, but he has to wear his sandals. Raven snorts when they finally emerge.

“You two look like the morning-after ad for Trojan,” she smirks.

“You’re just jealous,” Clarke shoots back, and Bellamy swings an arm around her, like it’s a habit. It’s stupid how into him she is.

Raven, evidently, agrees, because she gives them a look of disgust and then makes a point of walking ahead of them so she doesn’t have to see.

O, Monty and Jas are already at their table, looking somehow less than awful, with plates piled high with waffles and scrambled eggs and bits of sausage. Miller’s there too, sitting across from Monty and looking for all the world like he belongs there. Clarke shoots Monty a discrete thumbs up, which he pointedly ignores.

Murphy wanders through at some point, steals a waffle off O’s plate, and gets a fork to the hand for his trouble. Clarke thinks she should maybe take O to one of Roma’s card games. She feels like that’s something she might get into.

Clarke sort of assumes that once they’re with his sister, Bellamy will want to take his arm back, and otherwise act like just friends again. But when they slide onto the bench, while he does let go of her shoulders, he moves his hand to her knee and keeps it there the whole meal. He steals bites of blueberry waffle off her plate, and when he finishes eating the yogurt from his parfait, he hands it to Clarke so she can finish off the fruit and granola bits at the bottom. O gives them a raised brow, but otherwise stays quiet.

Clarke knows that won’t last, but she appreciates the sentiment.

Miller invites them all to his Exhibition Drill show that weekend. Miller’s on a ROTC scholarship, which Clarke didn’t actually know until Monty mentioned it one day. She knows embarrassingly little about Miller, to be honest, and resolves to fix it.

They all agree to go, and Raven wants to know if she can paint her face in camo, because apparently that’s a life goal of hers.

Eventually they all have to go to class, or work in Bellamy’s case. He grips Clarke’s neck and gives her a dry kiss before leaving, and the day is ruined for her. O mimes gagging, but then asks Jas about his hours at the truck that day.

In the end, O doesn’t text Clarke until five in the afternoon.

meet in lot. no ritz this time. >:(

The angry emoji should probably make Clarke feel nervous, but she’s still sort of floating on thoughts of Bellamy, so she just grabs a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles from the vending machine and heads out to the parking lot. O is leaning against the Pumpkin’s hood, picking at her nails. She’s not chain-smoking, which seems like a good sign. Clarke sidles up beside her, and offers the tube of chips. O takes two and makes them form a duck beak, before practically unhinging her jaw like a snake and swallowing them. It’s terrifying, and Clarke knows she probably practiced it for weeks.

“So,” O says, leveling Clarke with a stare. It’s not quite a glare, but her eyes are heavy and kind of narrowed, so it’s not far off. Clarke tries hard not to flinch. “What are your intentions with my brother?”

Clarke can’t help but laugh at that—she knew it was coming, but it’s different hearing it out loud. “Are you going to do this every time I date someone?”

O grins back, and snatches up another chip. “Just the ones you’re too good for,” she decides.

“I intend to keep him,” Clarke says. And then clarifies, “Bellamy. Until he turns into an idiot, again.”

O snorts. “Good luck.” She caps the tube of Pringles and pulls Raven’s car keys from her pockets. Clarke hopes she asked to borrow them, and didn’t pickpocket her roommate. “Tacos?”