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Chapter Text

At twelve, Clarke Griffin discovered she had a soulmate.

At sixteen, she decided to never speak to them.

She wasn't even sure when the words, white and faint against her fair complexion, first settled on her skin. Voxnota—a name inherited from dead Romans translating deader Greeks—appeared too rarely and too randomly for anyone to anxiously await their arrival, let alone little girls with more important matters to consider. Like memorizing her multiplication tables or wondering when her Hogwarts letter would arrive. That Clarke's words ran along the nape of her neck, under a heavy curtain of curls, didn’t help matters. It was like she wasn't supposed to find them.

To be fair, she didn't. Wells did. He’d been guilted into braiding her hair after trying to copy one of Princess Leia’s hairstyles from Empire Strikes Back herself had reduced Clarke nearly to tears. 

When he’d finished the crown, his fingers brushed against the back of her neck, sending Clarke cringing and wiggling away in breathless giggles. 

“That tickles!” she’d protested as Wells continued to run his fingers over the spot.

“I’m trying to read! Stop squirming!” 

Clarke went still, heart stuttering behind her sternum. Wells couldn't mean the tag on her shirt. “Read?”

“Yeah. You never told me you had Voxnota.” The Latin fell heavy from his mouth, unwieldy and strange. His voice was reproachful, a little hurt, and if Clarke’s world weren’t suddenly tilting on its axis, she would feel more sympathy for her best friend. She would say something reassuring and watch the doubt fade from his face.

As it was, Clarke suddenly felt like she couldn’t breathe, like the universe in all its infinities was suddenly split wide open for her to peer into. Complete understanding seemed just a hairsbreadth away. 

All because she had a soulmate.

Immediately, Clarke began reading everything she could get her hands on. Because that was how she had been taught to confront things she didn't understand. And Clarke certainly did not understand Voxnota or the soulmates they represented. 

She felt strangely guilty not asking her parents for help, but it was hard to believe two people without soulmates could offer advice about hers. Initially, Clarke asked her school librarian for reading material, but all she got in return were sappy romance novels and picture books. That wasn't going to cut it. So, she got up after midnight to search the internet for scientific studies on the phenomenon. Slogging her way through dense jargon and dry reports like Geographic Dispersion as it Effects the Manifestation of Voxnota or Variations in Voxnotae as a Function of Age did not confer the thrill of discovery that she'd wanted. So, Clarke quickly moved on to chatrooms and message boards to ask the questions she hadn't yet found answers for. 

At twelve, soulmates still sounded like a wild, romantic adventure. (And Clarke would never allow herself to be less than 100% prepared for an adventure.)

That didn’t mean that they were.

The first thing she really learned in those chatrooms: Having a soulmate doesn’t guarantee anything.

(Every one of those chatrooms was full of people hoping. Hoping that someone was out there waiting. Hoping to be one of the lucky few, and if they weren't, well then maybe they could sigh over the romance of other people's lives. But for every happy ending, it was like there were four that ended in disaster. Heartbreak of all shapes and sizes spilled over the internet and into an impressionable girl's subconscious. It was easy to brush off those stories as she read, but harder to forget them.)

Her words didn’t mean she was meant to meet the person to say them or ride off into the sunset for her fairy tale happy ending. No, they just meant that someone was out there in the world who could understand her better than anyone else. Someone who was made to do so. 

(And that was less comforting than it was daunting. At twelve, Clarke hardly knew herself. The way her opinions and interests changed from day to day was enough to give her whiplash. The thought that someone might know her better than she did felt intrusive and terrifying, worse than those videos they had to watch in Sex Ed.) 

And anyway, just because she had the words didn’t mean she would ever meet the person to say them. No one had discovered the why behind Vox, let alone the timing of them. Some people were born with them, a tiny tattoo to carry around forever, while others grew them late in life, just a day or even hours before they were to be spoken. Theories suggested that Voxnota manifested when it became a near certainty that soulmates would cross paths. There were even urban legends about marks disappearing in the wake of bad behavior. But what were myths and theories to a girl who wanted answers? 

Honestly, the definite uncertainty was somehow more comforting. Clarke could, grudgingly, accept the fact that she might never hear her words. It was harder to swallow that she was supposed to, but might not anyway.

After all, this kiss of favor from the universe bloomed across the skin of less than half of the world. Everyone else had to make do with intuition and the advice of over-involved friends when making their romantic choices. There was nothing to say that she couldn't be perfectly happy with someone other than her soulmate if she chose. Plenty of people created rich, fulfilling lives without a cosmically appointed partner. Clarke could definitely be one of them.

So, no. A soulmate was no guarantee. After all, that kind of immediate, mysterious intimacy could lead to either dizzying heights or traumatic depths. Why risk the highs with such a very long way to fall?

Which is exactly what Clarke asked herself at sixteen, with the safe world she'd always known razed to the ground.

In the end, it was an easy decision. At the time, it made sense, it was even right. She wasn't going to give anyone else the power to break her heart again. If there was even a heart left to break. 

(Well, it was a long story, and one she didn't like thinking about, let alone discussing. The short of it: Abby Griffin sold Jake Griffin up the river for threatening to turn whistleblower. He turned up dead in what the police deemed a mugging gone wrong, but Clarke knew better. She knew what her father had discovered and that her mother wanted him to keep it to himself. Abby got a promotion and Clarke got sent to boarding school.) 

That was why she decided to never speak to her soulmate. 

It was a logical conclusion, she'd tell herself in the coming years. If she ever met them and said the words on their skin, she would be well and truly trapped; it was one thing to have the words and another to actually hear them. If her soulmate never heard their Voxnota, Clarke wouldn’t be bound by a promise the universe had made on her behalf. She wouldn't spend the rest of her life resenting a connection she'd never asked for in the first place. Clarke didn't think she could take being connected to just one more person who could hurt her in the worst way possible. 

After all, her mother didn’t need to be her father’s soulmate to betray him. She ruined his life just fine on her own.

Being Clarke Griffin, she wasn't about to leave something so important up to chance. Bad enough that fate had saddled her with this unknown quantity, she couldn't trust that fate would then leave her to her own devices. In the end, she did what she did best and made a game plan.

Ideally, she would never even meet the person to say her words. She could accept that her soulmate existed, as long as they weren't existing anywhere near her. Of course, Clarke couldn't control everything, much as she tried, and so contingencies had to be put in place.  All that research as an excited twelve-year-old finally paid off. Inadvertently, Clarke had learned all the ways not to greet a potential soulmate from cautionary tales, warnings to help people avoid unnecessary heartache. And she would be following the spirit, if not the letter, of those guidelines.

1. Never initiate conversations with strangers. When absolutely necessary, stick to generic greetings. 
2. Never include her name in an introduction. No amount of argument is going to convince someone with "Hi, my name is Clarke" etched in their skin that she is not their soulmate.
3. When possible, ask someone else for an introduction or direct comments through another person. In some weird quirk of destiny,Voxnota were always the first thing that a soulmate said directly to their other half. At least destiny had the decency to value specificity. 
4. Stick to written communication. Outside of people with hearing or speech impediments, Voxnota were always spoken.
5. Avoid situations in which any of these rules would be put to use.

It made for a pretty lonely existence, but in those first few years after her father's death, Clarke wanted to be lonely. It was better than the alternative. 

She was generally cordial with the girls at boarding school, and learned to coast by on reserved acquaintances until graduation. It wasn't as if she didn't know everyone called her "Ice Queen" behind her back. As far as insults went, it was deeply unimaginative but hurtful all the same, only widening the distance between Clarke and her classmates. It certainly didn't make her all that eager to play nice and make friends.

Thankfully, things started to change when she graduated and left for college.  

No woman is an island, and while Clarke Griffin was often the exception to a rule, this was not one of those cases. Gradually, she learned how to make friends, (More accurately, she had friendship forced upon her until she finally gave in, but: semantics.) relaxing her strict standards for total social insulation. Where was the harm when she knew they weren’t her soulmate? 

More importantly, how could she possibly regret befriending the likes of Monty Green or Raven Reyes? Or Harper or Lincoln or Jasper?

She couldn't.

Still, every time Clarke entertained thoughts about meeting her soul mate and maybe not running, maybe sealing whatever deal fate had set them, something sent her reeling. Wells and Finn and Lexa all proved that she'd had more than enough heartbreak to last her a lifetime. She wouldn't be inviting any more in. At twenty, she was as firm in her desire to never even meet her soulmate as she had been at sixteen. She’d been burned enough to be wary of regular romance, leave off supernaturally preordained ones. 

Which, of course, meant it was high time for her soulmate to drop in and ruin everything.

Chapter Text

Junior year was supposed to be brutal. That’s what everyone, from friends to professors to the RA on the day she’d first arrived on campus for Freshman Orientation, said, anyway. 

Personally, Clarke didn't get it.

"I don't get it, Raven," Clarke huffed as she dumped another box in the guest room, wincing at the sharp rattle it gave upon hitting the floor. 

From behind an outdated copy of Scientific American came, "I'm gonna need some more information if you want an actual response." 

Clarke collapsed on the bed next to her friend and new roommate, sweaty and tired. The rest of the boxes could wait. 

"Just, why has everyone decided that this is the year that's gonna suck?"

"Aside from the collective experience of our academic forbears?" At Clarke's earnest nod, Raven sighed. She tossed the magazine aside and gave the question some actual consideration. "Best guess? It's because professors don't wanna be too harsh on seniors, they have enough to deal with as it is, and freshmen and sophomores don't make satisfying targets. They take everything too seriously; there's no fun in baiting them. Whereas juniors are just jaded enough to know that this is all bullshit but they also haven't given up yet. It's like a nihilistic sweet spot. Now can I go back to reading about the way Mars smells?"

But Clarke was already lost in thought. She mulled over Raven's answer, but she still wasn't satisfied. Maybe some professors liked playing mind games with their students—okay, some definitely did—but there had to be a better explanation. 

Maybe junior year was just when everyone started to realize that college wouldn’t last forever. That they were going to have to go join the real world in just two short years. That they'd suddenly be responsible for their debt and from there it was only a hop, skip, and a jump away to a mortgage and car payments.

Well, that was probably enough to unbalance some people, but Clarke has lived in the real world since she was sixteen. It would take more than a few essays and exams to going to faze her.

Still, she'd been bracing herself all summer. Clarke Griffin was nothing if not prepared for all contingencies. 

Mostly, that meant she'd resigned herself to giving up any semblance of a social life in order to keep up with the mountains of work she'd been promised. Having finally cultivated a group of friends that she actually liked (rather than tolerated), this was more of a drawback than it might have been a few years ago. If only because she was going to have to deal with an unprecedented amount of complaining, which would be harder to avoid than ever. 

Honestly, Clarke probably would have been more than happy in the dorms again, but apparently living in the same single two years in a row was "just sad." Conveniently, Raven had managed to convince one of the engineering professors, away on sabbatical, that she would make and excellent house sitter. Mostly, the negotiations had involved promises to actually mow the lawn and not explode the microwave. Clarke really had to wonder about engineering students if they managed to set the bar so low. She didn't give it too much thought, though, since it meant she could stay with Raven in an actual house, rent-free, for the whole year. 

A house which, at any given moment, contained at least one extra body. Monty and Jasper had already drawn up plans to install their still in the basement—"Our super said he's going to evict us if we create any more water damage in the bathroom."—and Lincoln had always shown up unannounced, even when there wasn't a house to show up to. Clarke couldn't count the number of times last year that she had come back to her dorm to find him lounging against her door or arrived at the library to see him occupying her usual table. Access to a functional kitchen where he could indulge in his stress baking was only going to make him come around more often. Now, it seemed, his new girlfriend would tag along, too. 

He'd introduced her to them all at the move-in party Raven had insisted on throwing. Mostly, it was a loose collection of familiar faces, though that was for Clarke's benefit rather than a desire for a small party. Her friends had long ago learned that she did not always react well to new acquaintances and they were generally understanding. If they wanted Clarke's presence, then it had better be in a carefully controlled environment without unnecessary strangers. All introductions were planned ahead of time with Clarke's full agreement, although only Raven knew the whole story. Thankfully, her friends were willing enough to leave the matter alone. As Jasper said, "Better a small party with Clarke than a rager with her hiding in the coat closet," which was maybe the sweetest thing he'd ever said about her.

So, Clarke knew that a new person was about to enter her radar, and she found herself stressing over it in the hours leading up to Lincoln's arrival. Which was probably why she drained at least four shots as soon as Raven set out the booze.

(Not that Clarke really expected Lincoln's new girlfriend to be her soulmate, but that was the problem with this whole system. Anyone could be her soulmate and she'd long since learned that she could never be too careful.) 

Which was why she was doubly glad when the first words out of Octavia Blake's mouth were: "I would literally kill someone for your boobs." 

Definitely not her soulmate and definitely not someone who's ever had to worry about being careful. For a moment, everyone seemed to hold their breath. Monty's eyes darted between the two women and Jasper's mouth fell open. Lincoln looked as cool as he always did, but Clarke could read the worry in his set jaw. Only Octavia seemed undisturbed and Clarke took the moment to study her.

Octavia exuded the kind of energy that most cheerleaders would die for, boundless and enthusiastic. But there was something a little wild, a little feral, behind that spark. Clarke imagined she could almost see it pulsing, a counterpoint to Octavia's steady heartbeat. (Drinking did always make Clarke wax poetic.) 

Still, she felt her head tipping back and let loose the wild laugh that sat in her chest, anxiety dulling at the wrong first words and the curl of alcohol in her stomach. Jasper joined in just a beat later and soon everyone was curled over in tipsy hysterics. Clarke looked around, warmth and affection for these people blooming through her. Happily, she let herself enjoy the first party of the year. There would always be time to worry about the ways in which the universe plotted to ruin her life. But later. Drink now, worry later. 

As she lay in bed that night, head hazy from the rush of alcohol and laughter, Clarke felt her thoughts drifting. She sprawled on the nearly bare mattress, still a little sweaty and flushed from the party, the lone ceiling fan struggling to cool her down. In the sticky heat, she let herself turn half-formed ideas over in her mind, less critical than she would be sober.

Solitude was fine—she'd trained herself to live with it and the resulting loneliness—but there was still a spark of excitement about finally moving in with her first roommate. For all Clarke had told herself she was above the lure of friendships, she'd never quite believed it. Now, with the slightest encouragement, that need for companionship blossomed riotously, basking in the warm glow of Clarke's affection for this ragtag group of people.

Drifting on, Clarke reveled in a slow bloom of pride. There was something adult and almost radical about living with a roommate she'd chosen, for all that millions of kids did this exact thing every year. It felt like some kind of progress, a daunting step forward, but one that shed so much weight from her shoulders. Maybe to someone else, this feeling of accomplishment would be unearned, but it felt so real to Clarke. And, to be fair, Clarke would never say she didn't have a skewed perspective on most things even without shots of tequila swirling through her bloodstream.

So, there she was, sweat trickling across her forehead and into her hair. Even in her sweaty exhaustion, Clarke reminded herself that junior year was going to be amazing. Even without the comfort of her own Fortress of Solitude. Impulsively, just as sleep started to drag her under, she resolved to try and start relaxing about the whole voxnota thing. She'd made similar promises to herself in the past, but she was determined to really follow through this time. Maybe it was time to give up on the list and all her preparations. She was strong. She could roll with the punches. She'd face this ridiculous fear head on.

Content, Clarke finally let sleep claim her, unaware of just how soon she would be put to the test.

Fresh off her annual school supply shopping trip, Clarke could only reaffirm how awesome junior year was going to be. Sure, she had a lot of work ahead of her, but single-minded focus was one of Clarke's best attributes. (It didn't matter that Raven snorted any time she heard this, Clarke always maintained it was a virtue.) It wasn't as if Clarke was about to let the many distractions at the house foil her plans, anyway. Very little of her work could actually be done at the house. Approximately 75% of her semester was going to be spent in the art studios: Advanced Figure Drawing, Intro to Ceramics, and Alternative Darkroom Techniques. She was thrilled to finally be getting the chance to get out of the lecture halls and get her hands dirty. 

That was a conservative estimate, too, especially after Clarke landed a second job as the photo lab attendant. (The first was less exciting: sorting packages in the Student Union's mailroom.) She'd have to come in a few nights a week and make sure there were enough chemicals on hand and the photo paper was still stocked, the harried photography instructor had explained. Clarke would also have to be on call to answer any questions from the other students and keep scheduled hours where she would be on hand to provide demonstrations or help. Of course, the professor rushed to assure her, she would be paid for all her time and Clarke was welcome to use any of the equipment or supplies at no charge.

It almost seemed too good to be true, but Clarke had already gotten through a few shifts and she was ecstatic. No one came in. That was the one thing she'd worried about, even with her New (School) Year Resolution. And she was sure that would change as the semester progressed, but for now the photo lab was her quiet, well-organized haven. In the darkroom, the trays of developer and stop bath were always pristine and the counters devoid of splashes. And the rest of the lab housed a bank of computers all running the latest software for photo editing and animation. Clarke was in heaven.

Even more now, Clarke didn't understand the haze of despair and dread that colored junior year for everyone. So far, she only had good things to say about it. Aside from the photo lab, she'd already scoped out all the art studios and even reserved a private space for the semester. (Raven had told her she could set up a studio in the house's basement, but Clarke had no interest in being in the basement when Monty and Jasper's still inevitably exploded.) There was, of course, the added bonus that this job meant Clarke had one more reason not to hang around the house with its many distractions and potential pitfalls. 

Her one concession to actual academia was a lecture with the best reviewed professor in the Art History department, so she wasn't too bitter about the loss of studio time.

She committed to that attitude more firmly upon looking over the syllabus that waited at every seat in the rapidly filling classroom. Discussion-based with short, weekly papers, Clarke could see herself liking this class almost as much as her others. The reading material had interesting titles, even if Clarke had only heard of a few of the authors, and every few weeks something simply titled "EXCURSION" had been inserted into the class schedule, although there was no accompanying explanation. This was definitely not one of those massive lectures that Clarke had struggled through last year in the name of general education.

“Hello and welcome to Art and the State,” intoned Professor Wallace from his podium at the front of the room just as the clock struck the hour. “If this is not the class in which you are enrolled, now is your chance to escape.” 

A murmured chuckle swept through the room as someone, a freshman probably, frantically packed his bag and dashed out the door. 

“There’s one every year,” Wallace drawled with a rueful smile before launching into a discussion of the syllabus. After outlining the coursework and required reading, he said, "Now, I see no reason not to let you go early today. Just please make sure you fill in the survey attached to your syllabus and pass it in to my teaching assistant, Mr. Blake."

Clarke glanced up at the man in question before starting in on the form and had to do a double take. Dark, unruly curls spilled across freckled skin and Clarke found herself wondering if human beings, let alone her art history TA, could look like that. He couldn't have gotten those shoulders just from lifting textbooks, right? And good lord, his arms. Clarke wasn't sure if she wanted to sculpt them or—

"Any day now, princess."

Oh, shit. Clarke never let herself get caught up in daydreams about attractive strangers. (Too much temptation and not even Clarke was immune to stupidly hot people.) But bad enough that Clarke was just called out for ogling her TA, but of course it had to be worse. 

Clarke was just forming a scathing retort when his comment finally penetrated the haze of embarrassment. 

Any day now, princess.

Shit. 

All lofty dreams of personal development immediately flew out the window. Years of conditioning and planning and worrying kicked in. Feeling like she'd choked on her tongue to stem the words in her mouth, Clarke scrawled out her email address and schedule conflicts, mortification overset by sheer, unadulterated panic. She shoved the paper at her—The TA. He's just the TA.—and fled the lecture hall. 

Somehow, Clarke couldn't supply the particulars if her life depended on it, she made it back to the house without giving into the mounting panic drumming against her sternum. As soon as she was safely inside, she slammed the door and pressed her back into it as if she could keep fate and words and everything at bay through sheer force of will and two inches of wood. 

"This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening," she chanted to herself, hoping repetition would make it true. Common sense and experience told her it wouldn't, but she kept at it anyway. 

That was how Raven found her: eyes squeezed shut and muttering to herself as she bodily barred the door. 

"What the hell happened to you?"

Clarke chanced a peek at her best friend, took in the smear of grease she'd missed on her neck and the palpable concern couched in her gruff question and felt her pulse begin a slow descent. Raven meant safety. Raven meant everything was going to be fine. She could tell Raven. She should tell Raven. If anyone could understand the fear that invaded Clarke's brain, it would be Raven. 

But Raven was braver than Clarke. Raven could understand and feel fear and keep on going in spite of it and she would tell Clarke to do the same. (Which was objectively good advice. Obviously that was the healthy way to approach this whole situation. But, well, that didn't really matter because if Raven was brave, then Clarke was stubborn.)

No. Clarke would not tell Raven that today she went to class and ended up meeting her soulmate. Not because it wasn't true, the brand on her neck was proof enough of that, but because she wasn't ready to be brave. Clarke wasn't ready to abandon her years of careful planning, no matter how many resolutions she made, no matter how tempting the alternative. And, God, was it tempting. 

So, Clarke took a shuddering breath and pushed away from the door. "You would not believe what a huge dick Wallace's TA was," she complained, aiming for truth and levity. 

(Honestly, Clarke had never really given a lot of thought to the content of her words. All that mattered for the past four years was that she had them at all. But having finally heard them, Clarke was surprised she hadn't been annoyed with the words to begin with. How much more condescending could a guy get? Any day now, princess. Please. She'd been indignant. That was the only reason she wanted to respond in the first place; Clarke very carefully did not think about how much stronger the urge became once her brain finally caught up with the situation. How she'd hesitated before leaving, had actually considered opening her mouth and letting that scathing retort fly.

She wasn't prepared for that. When she read stories about hearing the voxnota and the instantaneous desire to reciprocate, she'd chalked it up to an unerring and obtuse belief in the system. Clarke would be better than that, she was sure. But it had been so difficult to stem the words that wanted to burst from her lips. It had been so difficult to walk away without saying anything at all. That, more than anything, burned bitterly in her gut. How dare the universe try to undermine her careful plans? How could she be so weak as to nearly melt in the face of this boy who should mean nothing to her.)

"He's a grad student. He's honor bound to be a dick," was Raven's response. She examined Clarke more carefully. Pale and probably clammy if the beads of sweat collecting at her hairline were any indication, the normally unruffled Clarke looked like she'd seen a ghost. 

"He called me Princess."

Raven's jaw clicked shut and she nodded brittlely. "That'll do it."

It was surprising, sometimes, how suddenly Finn could worm his way back into her consciousness. Raven could go days without thinking sad thoughts about him and then bam! there he was again. 

Sorry that she'd brought Finn up, even obliquely—Well how else was she supposed to throw Raven off the real scent?—Clarke did her best to grin cheerfully. "Hey, my righteous indignation in the face of patriarchal bullshit has made me hungry. Wanna make nachos and yell at Fox News?"

As she hoped, Raven rolled her eyes. "That gross microwavable cheese sauce on tortilla chips is not nachos, Griffin. If we're gonna yell at bigots on tv we need the good snacks." 

Just like that, Raven shook off her brief melancholy and marched into the kitchen, muttering that Jasper and Monty better not have eaten the last of the popcorn. Clarke watched her go fondly but jolted when she realized she'd been rubbing the delicate, faint words seared onto the back of her neck. She jerked her hand down, fists clenching in frustration. 

"Hurry up, Griffin! These idiots aren't gonna yell at themselves!"

Clarke shook herself. Maybe she heard him wrong. Maybe he said something else. Maybe this really wasn't happening. She took a deep breath, shakier than she hoped, and headed after her friend.

This was what the plan was for. Screw resolutions, Clarke was going to hunker down and assess before she made any life-altering decisions. Yeah, that was what she would do: make a decision after she had all the facts. If she wanted to pursue this soulmate thing, she would, but first she had to make sure it was the right choice. Feeling a little better with a plan in place, she tried to reassure herself. Nothing would go wrong because she had a plan.

Right?

Chapter Text

The thing that Clarke was least prepared for in this whole "So You Met Your Soulmate!" ordeal was how often she had to see him. Of course her soulmate couldn't remain the unattainably hot Mr. Blake, who happened to be her art history TA. Which was more than enough reason to stay away. Even if he weren't her soulmate, Clarke wasn't about to put her academic reputation on the line just because the man had arms. (And, boy, did he have arms.) If that were the case, Clarke would only have to see him for an hour and a half once a week. An hour and a half in which she should be sufficiently distracted by class discussion, not trying to sneak subtle glares at the man in question or his aforementioned arms.

No, her soulmate had to be Bellamy Blake, brother of Octavia Blake. The same Octavia Blake who apparently was going to just start showing up in Clarke's life now. Just a few days into the semester and Clarke returned home from the studios, covered in clay and longing for a shower then a nap, to find her kitchen invaded. Lincoln stood frowning over a meringue and Octavia perched on the counter, knocking her heels against the cabinets. 

Clarke froze, uncertain in a way that made her feel weak and useless. She hated it almost more than she hated the stupid words stamped into her skin. Still, she couldn't keep herself from staring at Octavia, like if she looked long enough, she would finally see a way out of this whole, convoluted mess.

For the past few days, Clarke had been steadfast in avoiding either of the Blakes while she struggled to find equilibrium again. To be fair, she'd been steadfast in her avoidance of nearly everyone who wasn't Raven, too, but the Blake siblings definitely made the top of her DANGER, CLARKE GRIFFIN! list. Suddenly confronted with Blake the younger, though, Clarke couldn't help but think of that first afternoon and the dizzying information she'd been given.

In between yelling at Sean Hannity and making more popcorn, Raven had successfully dragged the TA's name out of Clarke. She peered at the agitated blonde suspiciously and asked, "About yea tall, curly hair, freckles for days? That's your TA?"

Baffled, Clarke could only nod. 

"Oh, that sounds like Bellamy. Octavia's brother."

"You know him?" Clarke could hardly keep the wounded incredulity out of her voice. 

At Raven's sharp glance, she'd wished she could stuff the words back in her mouth. As far as Raven knew, Clarke should be finding this situation funny rather than horrifying, especially considering this new connection. Indignation was fine, but actual hurt was a step too far given the apparent circumstances. Raven had to suspect there was more to it than Clarke had shared.. Clarke held her breath for a minute, waiting to see if her roommate would latch onto her strange behavior and frantically tried to formulate a plausible excuse. Thankfully, the universe cut Clarke a break and Raven simply shrugged off the outburst.

"Yeah. He and I hooked up after"—her mouth twisted a little bitterly—"well, after."

Ah. So Mr. Blake-the-TA—Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy, sang some traitorous part of Clarke's brain—was Raven's post-Finn rebound. 

That was the greatest thing Clarke had heard all day. Because of course it wasn't enough that the man was her TA. It wasn't enough that he was her soulmate. What really pushed Bellamy Blake into irretrievably forbidden territory was the fact that he'd slept with Raven Reyes. 

Clarke had been down the path of common sexual partners with Raven once and it was not one she would like to retread any time soon. 

(That she was stuck with hazy memories of Raven drunkenly crowing—"His hands, Clarke! The boy knew what he was doing! And don't get me started on that mouth..." —was more than enough to deal with.)

Now, Clarke was just staring at the girl sitting on her kitchen counter, a deer in the headlights. She'd done reasonably well in avoiding Bellamy, but she hadn't had another lecture since that first, jarring encounter. It was the shock of seeing Octavia, casually eating chocolate chips by the handful, that left Clarke gaping for far longer than was socially acceptable. It wasn't as if she was studying the girl's face, looking for any signs of familiarity. After all, Clarke didn't really have a basis of comparison. Not that she wanted to compare. God, she needed that nap. 

"Uh, hey, Clarke." Octavia raised her brow in silent question while Lincoln hummed his own greeting. 

Struggling not to flush, Clarke did her best to smile naturally. Suddenly Clarke was cursing the fact that she hadn't taken her hair down from its messy bun. The words on her neck felt like a beacon. A little clay in her hair was worth the security, right? "Hey. Sorry, it was a long day at the studio." She held up her clay crusted hands, hoping that would be a good enough excuse. "I'm gonna go shower this off," she said, trying to escape gracefully. 

She almost succeeded, too. Clarke had her foot poised above the bottom step when Octavia called out, casual as anything, "Oh! I heard my brother is your TA. Sorry about that."

Clarke slowly turned and couldn't help but huff out a laugh at Octavia's grimace despite the sensitive territory. "Yeah, I think he is. If he TAs for Wallace, then I guess that's him," she hedged, straining to act casual.

"Yep. Raven told me he was a bit of a dick to you. Try not to take it personally. He's like that to everyone."

Octavia's eye roll was pure sibling exasperation and an inexplicable bubble of fondness welled up in Clarke's chest. Frowning, she did her best to shove it aside as she answered, "He wasn't that bad," to try and end the conversation and escape.

"No need to pull your punches. He's my brother and I love him, but he can be a total asshole."

Clarke sighed, itching to get away. "It's really fine. What do I care if your brother is a total dick?  His office hours are right in the middle of my studio time, so I'll just go to Wallace if I have any questions." 

That much, at least, was true. When Clarke had gone over Art and the State's syllabus more carefully, once her adrenaline rush leveled out, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at the schedule conflict. On the one hand, she'd get to avoid any awkward situations in which she'd have to figure out ways around actually speaking to Bellamy. Passing notes and sending emails could only get her so far. On the other, she wouldn't get to put her years of careful planning and strategizing to the test. Clarke loved getting to put a plan into action and the missed opportunity was unfortunate. But that was the only disappointment involved. Definitely. 

Before she turned back to the stairs, Clarke couldn't resist a final comment: "I bet I'll hardly even see him."

Of course the universe refused to throw her a bone. Everywhere she turned, Clarke was confronted with Bellamy Blake. Browsing the stacks the one time she set foot in the library, waiting in line at the dining hall, frowning intently at a pile of what Clarke had a feeling were her classmate's first papers. Every time she caught sight of him, she turned and walked the other way. (Clarke couldn't forget that strange pull to respond to him that first day. She only hoped that keeping her distance would dampen that instinct.) It was as the universe had made throwing Bellamy into her path its raison d'être. Which was more than enough to make Clarke double down on her stubborn refusal to speak to the man. 

Because it was one thing to see Bellamy around campus, but something entirely different to actually interact with him. If she knew her friends at all, though, Clarke knew the day she and Bellamy met again was coming soon. Clarke had never really asked her friends what they thought of her strict avoidance of new people. As far as she knew, none of them suspected her reticence was tied to her reluctance to meet her soulmate. As far as she knew, none of them even knew she had a soulmate. She hoped they mostly just thought of her as an extreme introvert. Based on their collective excitement whenever a new friend was admitted into the mix, though, Clarke had to imagine they were a little too invested in her ability to make friends. For a while during freshman year, Jasper would send her links to facebook profiles of potential new friends. In retrospect, the gesture was tremendously sweet, but to freshman-Clarke, who had just gone through the past two years with minimal amounts of social interaction, it was a bit overwhelming. The day she finally agreed to go to a party and not ignore everyone, she was pretty sure the boy burst into celebratory tears.

Clarke really didn't want him, or any of her friends, to think she was backsliding now by refusing to go to a party with someone she'd actually met, now. But it wasn't as if she was going to tell them about her words, not after two years of keeping it a secret. She could handle her friends thinking she had a few quirks, but she wasn't sure how she would handle them believing she didn't trust them.

In any other circumstances, Bellamy and Clarke's first encounter would have generated mild distaste. Certainly not the best of starts, but nothing they couldn't overcome. Under ordinary circumstances. But the presence of the words across the back of Clarke's neck and, she assumed, the corresponding words somewhere on Bellamy had to constitute the extraordinary. At least, that's what Clarke told herself, ignoring that about half the world also had to deal with these strange markings.

But, she had the plan and at some point she was going to have to put it to use. Rule 3 was going to save her. If she had to say anything to Bellamy, she'd address it to someone else and make sure he heard.

So, when she'd found out that Octavia wanted to bring her brother to Jasper's We-Haven't-Had-A-Party-In-Too-Long Party, Clarke had to start reconciling herself to the fact that this was really happening. Lincoln had asked Raven about it one afternoon as he drizzled a glaze over his blueberry scones. Raven shrugged, but Clarke didn't miss the way her roommate studied her for an extra beat and struggled to act natural under the scrutiny, focusing on her art history reading. Even as she scanned the same sentence over and over, Clarke could feel her pulse thundering in her ears. 

Finally, Raven had said, "I don't see why he can't come, right, Clarke?"

Clarke could only nod in agreement, chewing on her lip as thoughts swirled through her mind.

To say that Clarke wasn't nervous about trying out some of these techniques, specifically talking around Bellamy but not to him, would be flat out lying. In the days leading up to the party, her stomach twisted itself into increasingly complex knots, leaving Clarke anxious and jittery. What if those people had been wrong? How indirect could she be without raising too many eyebrows? Most importantly, how the hell was Clarke supposed to trust the universe with this when it had been dick enough to saddle her with a soulmate in the first place? What was keeping it from suddenly changing the rules just to spite her?

She repeated her new mantra: Trust the plan, and everything would be fine. Perhaps if she kept repeating it, it would become true.

That mantra became harder to remember the more tequila suffused her bloodstream, but Clarke figured it was a fair trade for the way she suddenly cared less about the yawning pit in her stomach. In fact, she hardly even noticed when Octavia and Bellamy showed up, when she'd been sure that she wouldn't be able to relax until she'd finally tested out her plan. 

But there they were, the Blake siblings looking far more attractive than any one family had the right to look. Octavia immediately wrapped her arms around Clarke's neck, smacking a kiss against the blonde's cheek. 

"Clarke!" she shouted, for all that the party wasn't that loud yet. 

"Octavia," Clarke laughed as the other girl finally released her. Swallowing dryly, she flicked her eyes to Bellamy. He hovered just behind his sister's shoulder, looking casual and a little rumpled in his wrinkled button up. For whatever reason, cute guy or slight existential crisis, Clarke had to fight to keep her tone even. "I see you brought your brother."

"Princess," he returned with a smirk, but no indication that the words had any kind of meaning to him. Relief rushed through her, but just as quickly, she was thrown for a loop. Clarke had to bite her tongue to keep her scathing retort in check. What the hell? Clarke was not about to let stray impulses ruin her carefully planned future.

Thankfully, Octavia had no such reservations. "Don't be a dick, Bell. Just because I invited you doesn't mean you can be an asshole to my friends. Have you seen Lincoln?"

Clarke wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, Octavia's rapid topic change, or something else that had her head spinning, but either way, she had to respond. She shook her head a little, hoping to clear it. Emboldened by her first test and maybe tempting fate, she said, "Yeah, he got here a couple minutes ago. Why don't you both go grab drinks from the kitchen and see if you can find him."

She kept her eyes resolutely on Octavia as she said this, but couldn't resist a peek at Bellamy as the other girl made her way into the kitchen. He was watching her, that too-familiar smirk still plastered on his face, but something a little quizzical colored his gaze. Under the weight of that silent question, Clarke set her jaw to keep from the frustrated, "What?" from bursting out. (Which was a tendency she would have to examine later, probably while sober.) Instead, she raised an eyebrow in silent challenge, prompting a huff of laughter from the man as he finally turned to follow his sister. 

It was that chuckle that left Clarke reeling. She stumbled through the rest of the party in a haze, that short buzz of laughter ringing through her ears. She was pretty sure she managed to act normal, joking with her friends and trying to push the incident out of her mind. If Raven watched her more closely than usual, well, that was Raven's business. Still, Clarke shook her head to another cup of Monty's moonshine, since she was pretty sure that voxnotae said in a drunken blackout still counted, but she did not want to find out for sure. Apparently the universe could value specificity, but memory got no such favors. Even after she stopped drinking, that familiar tipsy warmth didn't go away. It wasn't until Clarke realized she was smiling every time she caught sight of Bellamy that she understood why.

Blushing hotly and hating the reaction, she excused herself to her room. As she wound her way up the stairs, she turned and locked eyes with Bellamy, momentarily caught in his dark, intense gaze. There was something so familiar about him. Infuriating, sure, but comforting, too. Clarke didn't know what to do with that strange juxtaposition. So she did what she did best: suppression and denial.

Breaking eye contact, Clarke spun around and fled into the darkness above.

After the party—Clarke couldn't bring herself to identify it any other way—Clarke did her best to throw herself into her work. She spent hours upon hours in the studios, often practicing on the pottery wheel because she had yet to produce a satisfactory cylinder. But the photo lab became her particular haven. No one came in unless they actually needed some of the equipment, so Clarke was left largely in peace. Now that the cat was out of bag, though, these interruptions didn't incite the same anxiety that it used to. Every so often, another photography student would come in with questions and Clarke was happy to find that she actually liked being the one with answers. She liked not carrying so much tension in her shoulders, waiting for the hammer to drop. Most of all, she liked getting to talk with other people without worrying that this would be the one with the potential to screw her over. 

Because she knew who that person was. And she was going to stay as far away from him as possible. 

(The fact that Clarke had been screwed over on many occasions at this point in her life, not once by her soulmate, was true, but ignored.)

Clarke was currently holed up in her haven, agonizing over how to start this email and if it was even worth it. She glanced down at the paper she'd gotten back an hour ago and the giant red C circled at the top. No, it definitely had to be done. Her fingers drumming tensely over the keyboard, Clarke vowed to give Professor Wallace the worst review ever at the end of the semester. 

"I'm sorry, Miss Griffin," Wallace had said, as he packed away his briefcase, hardly even sparing Clarke a glance. Her fingers clenched around the paper, crumpling the edges. "If you have a question about your graded work, you'll need to take that up with Mr. Blake first. I'd be more than happy to discuss any other matters during my office hours." With that, he'd offered her a distracted smile and left the classroom. 

Clarke was left staring after him, doing her best not to shift her gaze to the right, to the infuriating man standing there. But, as she was coming to find, Clarke was weak when it came to Bellamy, and inevitably she found herself studying him intently. 

He stood, flipping through a few sheets of paper, nodding along as a very earnest brunette chattered at him. Clarke frowned as the girl pressed closer, pointing at a particular place on the page and glancing up at Bellamy through her eyelashes. The frown deepened as she realized she had no reason to be frowning, so Clarke didn't see the way Bellamy deftly stepped away from the girl as he handed back her essay or the girl's faint pout as she turned away. Clarke stared down at the lurid C glaring up at her instead. When she looked up again, her heart jumped to her throat. Bellamy was staring right at her, a strange mirror of the way he'd stared at her across the room at the party. She felt that same mix of emotions wash over her, and any thought that she'd just imagined it flew out the window. Completing the sense of déja vu, Clarke fled out the side door. 

So, now, she was hiding in the photo lab, trying to decide how to write this stupid email. Does she call him Bellamy or Mr. Blake? Will he even realize that [email protected] was his sister's friend Clarke? Would arguing over email even work as an avoidance tactic? It would be nice to know if rule 4 was actually true, but Clarke was leery after her success at the party. It had to be too much to ask that both tricks worked, right?

Unfortunately she couldn't just send him the first draft, which read: 

Hey Asshole, 

You can't just give someone a C and then not explain why. Like, what the fuck? You just circled some stuff and wrote, "Wrong." What the hell does that even mean?? Give me the grade I deserve!

go die in a hole, 
Clarke Griffin

P.S. That's my name. Stop calling me princess.

If she were being honest with herself—which at this point, Clarke strained not to do—Clarke would be hard-pressed to say what was more offensive: that she'd gotten a C at all or that Bellamy had been the one to give it to her. In her entire academic career, Clarke Griffin had not once received a grade below an A- and that was in junior high Home Ec when everyone knew she shouldn't be trusted around sewing machines. Sure, one bad score on a weekly essay, which accounted for a tiny portion of her overall grade, was probably not something to lose her mind over. Still, Clarke couldn't fathom how the essay could be worth a C. No, it wasn't her finest work, but the weekly essays were meant to be relatively informal, a way to address the readings before class and formulate an agenda for the week's discussion. From what she remembered, it seemed as if most of the class had agreed with Clarke's initial arguments, and Wallace hadn't had anything disparaging to say, so how could her essay be so bad? And, well, if the fact that Bellamy was involved only compounded her anger and frustration, Clarke would never claim to be perfect.

What she eventually sent off was a perfectly polite, distant inquiry into the motivation behind her essay's grade. Clarke explained both her confusion and her belief that the poor grade was undeserved. She read it about fourteen times before finally sending it off. She even sent it to Raven to check, not that she was particularly helpful. 

What Clarke received in response was this: 

Unfortunately, I am not able to instantly recall the details of every student's work from memory. I believe I remember being particularly unimpressed with your argument about the Athenian Treasury at Delphi, though.

Barring exceptional circumstances, I don't discuss grade disputes.

If you would like to discuss this in further detail, I would be more than happy to do so during my posted office hours. 

Who knew that four sentences would be enough to have Clarke Griffin seeing red? She didn't spare any time to be thankful that apparently the internet could be trusted, voxnotae didn't come from written communication, because she was too busy with her righteous indignation. Nearly growling, she let her fingers fly across the keyboard and hit send before she could talk herself out of it.

With all due respect, I believe my argument about the Athenian Treasury was largely in line with what Professor Wallace discussed in class. I've attached a scanned copy of my essay, so as to include your comments, many of which I am still puzzled by. For example, I would love to know how you interpreted the verbatim citation of the Treasury's security measures as "Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong." I have to assume that is an objection you have to Mr. Neer and not myself. 

I certainly would prefer to discuss this in person, but I am unable to attend your office hours. If I were able, I most definitely would not have brought this up via email. 

I am not asking you to change my grade. Just explain it.

Clarke couldn't even bring herself to feel bad about lying, mostly because they didn't feel like lies. Under ordinary circumstances, she would discuss a grade or any concerns in person. She'd spent hours last year bothering her Physics TA about problem sets and her slightest confusion. (That was the last time Clarke took Raven's recommendations for classes.) Ironic as it was, there was no way she would let her grades slip over something like inadequate communication. At the same time, she wasn't asking Bellamy to change her grade. She was heavily hinting at the suggestion, but she wouldn't beg. She had standards. 

This. This dismissive, rude email was more than enough proof that Clarke had chosen correctly in not speaking to Bellamy Blake. If this was how he treated students asking for help, for him to do his job, then how was he going to treat his soulmate? Well, Clarke could do dismissive with the best of them. If there was one thing Clarke could be thankful to her mother for, it was the precise and chilly application of etiquette. Clarke could exchange polite words with Donald Trump if she had to and make him feel small and insignificant while she did it. So, she was feeling particularly proud of her response. It struck just the right balance between cordial and "go fuck yourself." 

Or, she was until she got his response. 

Of course the princess can't come to office hours like everyone else.

You are correct in assuming that I object to Neer's arguments, although I object more strongly to the lack of one in your paper. The comment that you referenced was both in opposition to Neer's interpretation and your use of it. Had you cited that piece of information in order to further your own argument, I probably would have felt the first sentence in my feedback sufficient. As it was, I was frustrated to find a total lack of original argument in your essay. You basically made me read a summary of the class discussion. I was there. I know what happened.

For future reference, the purpose of an essay is to put forward an original argument based upon textual evidence. Try doing that before you come complaining about your grade.

As it was nearly 1 AM, Clarke had to leave off replying unless she wanted to look like a desperate grade-grubber. Or a loser with no life and no respect for circadian rhythms. Still, she stewed over his accusations for nearly an hour before finally falling into a discontented sleep. When she woke up, she was still angry, but determined to prove Bellamy wrong. She didn't have anywhere to be until after lunch, so Clarke sat down with her crinkled, marked-up essay. Reading through it with a critical eye, Clarke could concede that her argument wasn't as strong as it could be. To be fair, Wallace had emphasized how casual these response papers could be, even extending the due date to the end of each week, rather than their Wednesday class time. Maybe she had let his relaxed attitude affect her work. Looking again, Clarke was embarrassed to admit that maybe she incorporated too many points from class and not enough from the texts themselves. 

Annoyed at having conceded any ground to Bellamy, Clarke chewed on the end of her pen and tried to decide how to argue her way out of this. Her eyes flicked back to the open email, lingering on his last suggestion. She huffed, but hunkered down to get to work. 

After more time than she would care to admit, Clarke finally had a faultless essay on her hands. Raven, being the smartest person she knew, had read through it and deemed it: "Fine." (Actually, she'd said, "Jesus, Griffin! It's fine, I'm not proofreading this shit again," but Clarke was going to take her praise where she could get it.)

Lincoln, her only friend with any knowledge of art history, had been more helpful. He'd asked, "This is for Bellamy's class?" before offering much feedback, but hadn't volunteered an opinion on Clarke's apparent fixation on this assignment.

Finally, Clarke had been reassured enough times by enough people (Lincoln, Monty, and Jasper; Raven loudly proclaiming her intent to stay out of it) that she felt comfortable enough to send the revision on.

I would, once again, love to point out that I'm not asking you to change my grade. Since you seem so stuck on that suggestion, though, I took your advice and revised my paper. Now am I allowed to complain?

I am so sorry that emailing with a student is such an inconvenience for you. I was unaware this wasn't part of your job description. A full course load as well as two jobs tend to eat up my time, though I am very sorry my schedule doesn't meet with your approval. Good thing my crown is light, nonexistent even.

Were it anyone else with power over her academic record, Clarke would never dare send such a sharp email, but Bellamy started it. She was no closer to wanting to speak with him, and maybe if it weren't her ego on the line, she could appreciate his biting sense of humor. As it was, she was still preening over scoring any points on him. And, no, of course none of that was flirtatious in the least. She was simply hitting back on the princess front. 

Clarke: 1, Bellamy: 0.

She went through the rest of her day, pleased with herself and denying that she checked her email more than usual. She was on her seventh check (Which was completely normal, all right?) when the notification appeared in her inbox. 

Better.

Looking forward to reading what you turn in tomorrow.

Clarke groaned, forehead thunking to the table. In her quest to put Bellamy in his place, she'd completely ignored the fact that she had another paper due in about twelve hours. 

Score one for Bellamy. 

A weird thing happened after that exchange. Clarke figured out how not to be so anxious when confronted with Bellamy in real life. Which was a good thing, since he seemed determined to keep popping up. Apparently Monty had a monster crush on his friend Miller, so the two were invited along to almost everything. Video game marathons, Quarter Beer Night at the Trading Post, even Harper's agonizingly awkward improv performances. Clarke actually liked Miller, too, his dry sense of humor meshing well with hers. 

The first time Jasper came across her easily chatting with Miller on her own, Clarke would have sworn he got misty-eyed. (Okay, at the very least, Jasper was way too involved in Clarke's friendships.)

"I'm just so proud!" he'd blubbered, leaning on Monty and gesturing wildly with a mostly empty cup of jungle juice. "It's like our anti-social baby is all grown up and striking out in the world, making friends."

"Yeah, Jasper," Monty grimaced, flushing as Miller looked on. "Let's get you some water, buddy."

"Interesting friends you've got, Griffin." And there was Bellamy, looking a little flushed himself, hand wrapped around a bottle of beer. He'd finally stopped calling her princess, but hadn't quite moved onto Clarke. Which was fair since she didn't call him anything. 

After a beat too long spent staring, Clarke levered herself up from the couch. "Talk to you later, Miller," she said flashing Bellamy a droll look as she went. 

As she moved away, Miller snickered and Bellamy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Shut up, Miller."

She'd already become a master of the snide silent treatment ("Octavia, tell your brother to stop eating all our cereal." Or, "Octavia, please inform your brother that house rules say he needs to take off his shoes, like a civilized human being."), so not speaking to Bellamy became almost second nature. It never became less tempting to spit back a retort to his more acid comments, though. Some days, Clarke's tongue felt raw, having spent so much time clamped between her teeth. 

Mostly, no one batted an eye at their dynamic. It was apparently too much to hope that Clarke had suddenly blossomed into some sort of social butterfly. Her weird antagonism with Bellamy was a comforting sign that she hadn't completely changed. Sometimes, Octavia would study her brother intently, but she never disclosed her findings. Raven, of course, knew something was going on, if only because Clarke refused to talk about it. Perhaps because their relationship began when they'd found out they had the same boyfriend, Clarke and Raven didn't typically keep secrets from each other. But, well, Clarke wasn't really sure how to tell Raven about this whole mess. How do you tell your best friend that you've met your soulmate, but haven't ever actually spoken to him despite the fact that you see him on a very regular basis? And how do you say that maybe you're beginning to regret that decision, just a little bit?  If Clarke could figure that out, she would have spilled the entire story weeks ago. 

No, she was on her own on this one. Falling deeper into whatever this thing with Bellamy was. 

Despite the fact that Bellamy had firmly entrenched himself in her social circle, he didn't stop emailing her. At first, he sent her prickly comments about her coursework, but since he hadn't given her anything less than a B+ since that first paper, Clarke ignored him. Instead, she sent him made up history facts for responses. (Did you know, William of Orange actually invented the orange, named it, and then changed his own name to match? History is so cool!!) Gradually, though, they lost their antagonistic overtones, and they started trading little facts about themselves.

Bellamy got to name Octavia when she was born. (Oh, so you were a baby nerd?) Clarke went to boarding school. (All I'm hearing is that I was spot on with the princess thing.) Bellamy was getting his Master's in History, but Wallace had scared away all the Art History grad students. Clarke liked making up stories about students based on their mail. Bellamy was allergic to penicillin and Clarke hated sweet potato fries. It was strange to realize Clarke knew so much about a person she'd never spoken to. That she could send stupid memes back and forth with her soulmate and not feel claustrophobic and panicky about it. In fact, Clarke looked forward to commiserating over the truly inane comments made in Art and the State, and Wallace's increasingly weird behavior.

By the third class, Clarke had lost hope of figuring out how Wallace had such good reviews. She'd also given up on figuring out what this class was about. One week they were talking about Archaic Greece and the next about Wagner. But not even his operas. They talked about the opera houses. Clarke was at a loss. Mostly, it seemed as if Wallace just liked hearing his own voice, steering discussion towards topics and arguments that best fit with his opinions. Even the class excursions were brutal. 

The first was literally a walk to the town's post office, which boasted a WPA mural in the lobby. So one early October afternoon, Dante Wallace led his fifteen students and one TA on the twenty minute walk to the post office, rambling about anything that sprang to his mind. 

Clarke shuffled along towards the back of the group, sending Raven disgruntled text messages and trying not to listen to Wallace intone, "We are the keepers of history," before continuing on to explain the definition of reverberation. 

"Texting during class, Griffin? For shame." 

Her head whipped up to where Bellamy was smirking beside her. Was it a smirk? Maybe it was a touch bright for a classic Bellamy Smirk, edging firmly into grin territory. With a jolt, Clarke shook herself from the unproductive train of thought. When did he even get there? How didn't she notice him? Clarke's Bellamy-sense had been sharpened to a finely honed tool. If Bellamy was nearby, Clarke probably knew about it. She told herself it was so she could avoid him more efficiently and sometimes that was even the truth. 

She frowned up at him before sheepishly putting her phone away and going back to taking notes. Which was harder to do while walking than she would have thought. The frown deepened when she realized Wallace wasn't talking about anything worthy of note-taking. She let the tip of her pen swirl around the page, leaving vague doodles in its wake. But then Bellamy was leaning in to glance over the page and Clarke was torn between tensing up and swaying into his bulk. 

What? she wrote on the page, flicking a pointed look up at him. 

He wiggled his fingers at her pen, so she handed it over with a sigh. 

Are you sure you're a fine arts major? He was grinning, for real now, so he was probably trying to be funny. 

Clarke pursed her lips and stole the pen back. Fuck off. 

"Touchy!" he huffed out on a laugh. One of the other students turned around at Bellamy's exclamation, glaring a little at being interrupted. Clarke looked down in embarrassment, so she didn't see Bellamy's reaction.

Hurriedly she scribbled a note, tapping her pen over it until he paid attention. Shut up. I'm trying to concentrate. 

"Oh, am I distracting?" Clarke could hear the cocky grin on his mouth. She almost wished she didn't know exactly what it looked like. "You don't have to stand next to me, you know."

Maybe I don't feel like being around anyone I actually like, you loser. 

"You wound me, Griffin." But there was something strangely pleased in his voice and when Clarke glanced up in surprise, there was a certain smugness to the set of his mouth. Even biting her lip, Clarke couldn't suppress her responding smile. 

Oh, boy, was she in trouble.

Chapter Text

If anyone had asked Clarke, she would have been more than happy to celebrate her birthday with a quiet evening at home. Well, as quiet as a house party fueled by Jasper and Monty's moonshine could be. Midterms had taken their toll, even if she'd only had one exam. Wallace's, which had been made inexplicably more complex than necessary. She'd had to submit proposals for final projects in two of her studios and had been up to her ears in clay trying to throw the perfect coffee mug, too. Mostly, she was exhausted. It felt like she hadn't even seen her bed for more than a few hours a night for weeks. Clarke wanted nothing more than to eat an entire pizza and sleep for a whole weekend. 

But, well, nobody actually asked Clarke. Which was why she was currently sprawled across that same bed, trying to muster the energy to leave it. And not just leave it to get her frozen pizza out of the oven, either. No, leave it for a night of drinking with her  beloved, if high-energy, friends.

When she'd asked Raven why they couldn't just have a house party like every other time they'd needed to celebrate, Raven had leveled her with a withering stare. 

"It's not every day you turn twenty-one, Clarke," she said, turning back to her workbench. Something vaguely threatening was taking form and Clarke wasn't sure she wanted to know what it was supposed to be. "And it's not just for you. Your friends want to celebrate with you, and if they can get over midterms at the same time, then that's just a bonus."

Clarke sighed. Raven, as usual, was right. Which was why she didn't put up a fight about going out. (Not really. Making pathetic groaning noises as Raven yelled at her to get dressed didn't count as a fight. Not in a house that has hosted "Friend Fight Night.") It didn't mean she had to be happy about it, though. Not least because Bellamy would be there. 

Somehow, Clarke and Bellamy's tenuous peace had not yet imploded. Each week that went by, it actually seemed to grow stronger. Clarke wasn't sure what to make of it. He made sitting through Wallace's asinine lectures bearable, especially when they made note-passing a regular thing. Clarke was particularly proud of "Cowboy Jackson Pollock Smoking a Cigarette on Bucking Bronco," not least because it nearly made Bellamy spit his coffee all over Carl Emerson. Bellamy's notes were less artistic, but generally more biting. Unsurprisingly, his innate asshole-ishness was much more fun when it wasn't directed at her. 

(Being called out in front of the entire class for passing these notes certainly wouldn't qualify as one of Clarke's proudest moments, but, well, Clarke wasn't proud of anything about this situation.)

Because she'd finally accepted what she should've known since those first few emails: She had a stupid fucking crush on her stupid fucking soulmate and, really, now would be a great time for a yawning chasm to open up so she could finally get some peace.

Because she was pretty sure that was the best-case scenario in this. At this point if she opened her mouth and just said her first words to him, that would make the situation even stranger than it already was. (Even the internet disappointed Clarke. Hours of scouring those message boards she'd haunted as a kid, and nothing. Not that she expected to actually find any advice about her particular problem. Who would actually admit to knowing her soulmate for months and going to steadily greater lengths to not speak to them because of her weird emotional hangups? No one with a working grasp of reality, that's who!) If she'd said something maybe a week after Bellamy first spoke, then maybe she could be forgiven for giving into shock, but it had been nearly months at this point. Months where she kept silent, steadily realizing that she actually liked this person. 

She liked his tragically dorky sense of humor. She liked the way he ruffled up his already messy curls when he got frustrated during Wallace's lectures. She liked his easy camaraderie with Miller and Harper and Monroe. She even liked how rarely he really smiled. Bellamy was a man of smirks and sneers, condescending amusement covering up a soft center. Most of all, Clarke liked how open he was. He wore his heart on his sleeve and knowing him made Clarke wish that she could, too.

Yes, there were lots of things to like about Bellamy.

What Clarke didn’t like was the fact that she was supposed to like him. It felt like a fundamental facet of her life was already asked and answered, all before she even knew what the question would be.

(Because, in any other universe, whether she knew it or not, Clarke Griffin would choose Bellamy Blake. She would.)

Once she got over their rocky start, it was strange to think that Bellamy hadn't always been a fixture in her life. He became the person she wanted to tell all her stories to. He was the one she wanted to see on her bad days. And the good ones. The boring ones, the busy ones, the nothing ones, too. Which made no sense at all. But so little of her life currently made sense. Clarke was still sure she didn't want to speak her words to Bellamy, but every time she saw him, she could feel the words threatening to burst past her lips, spill from her tongue, stain the air and ruin everything.  

And that couldn't happen. 

Weird as it was, Clarke liked this weird limbo she'd somehow backed herself into. Well, she was comfortable inside it. No, she wasn't a fan of the fact that she couldn't speak to the guy she really liked without looking like a complete nutcase. It would be a terrible start to something that was probably doomed to failure. Not one of Clarke's past relationships had been what anyone would call "successful." Finn and Lexa and Niylah, even: all proof that Clarke Griffin was just not built for romance. And who was she to ruin what good there was between her and Bellamy? Clarke liked that being his friend and wasn't about to jeopardize that. So she was sticking with the original plan: Never Speak to Your Soulmate, Clarke!

(This, of course, ignored the fact that it was difficult to be his friend when she was keeping a monumental secret. But Clarke was very good at ignoring unpleasant realities. Like an ostrich.)

None of her reasoning or rationalizing was particularly helpful in untangling the murky mess of emotions that made itself apparent at the realization that Bellamy was coming to her birthday party, though. It was one thing to sit next to him in class and poke fun at the arrogance of Wallace or the fawning of her classmates. It was one thing for Octavia or Miller to drag him out to house parties where she could talk to him, if tangentially, and needle him silently the rest of the time. It was something entirely different to know that Bellamy was coming to her birthday party. That he wanted to come out and celebrate Clarke's existence in the world, even a little bit. 

If that was the thought that finally got her up and dressed, well, no one had to know. 

Although, Clarke was fairly certain Raven had her suspicions. Raven's brain just worked so much more efficiently than anyone else's. And Clarke had been the subject of enough searching looks over the past few weeks to be on her guard. The other girl had merely raised an eyebrow at Clarke's curve-hugging wardrobe before ushering her out the door. Not that the peace lasted long. Just as they stepped into the swanky bar a few towns over—because apparently going to Denny's for pancakes and ordering a beer while she was at it, Clarke's second choice, was "entirely too sad"—Raven launched her attack. 

"For a woman who didn't want to leave the house, you are wearing the hell out of that dress, Griffin."

Clarke, who had been searching the crowd for their friends, felt a surge of a adrenaline rush through her veins. This was how it started. Raven on the hunt always began with compliments. Like her prey would overlook her focused intensity for a little flattery. Clarke had fallen for this trick too many times early in their friendship not to know what was coming. Heart thundering, she aimed for casual and missed completely with a tight, "Thanks?"

"You're welcome. It's nice to see that you've decided to embrace the spirit of the occasion." Raven's lighthearted comment was belied by her searching stare. "That is why you decided to get dressed up, right? Nothing, no one, else influenced you?"

Without her permission, Clarke's eyes darted around the crowded room. Were any of their friends even here yet? Oh, god, what if someone overheard and told Bellamy? What if he heard? "What?" she responded, the picture of eloquence. Shrill, semi-panicked eloquence. "Raven, I—"

"Clarke, it's fine! I was teasing!" Raven smiled, gentler than her usual grins, and Clarke could feel her heart rate evening out. Maybe she was just being nice because it was her birthday. Birthday compliments were a thing, right? She was in the clear. Until Raven went and opened her mouth again. "You're allowed to have a crush, you know. You're not a robot."

"Crush?" she managed to squeak. It was one thing to suspect her roommate was suspicious, another one to know she'd dialed in so accurately. "What crush?" When in doubt: deny, deny, deny.

Raven rolled her eyes. "Please, Clarke. I know you. I know what you're like when you like someone and you definitely like Be—"

For her own sanity, Clarke clapped a hand over her roommate's mouth. "It's complicated, Ray."

"When isn't it complicated with you?"

To be fair, Raven had a point, but Clarke still shook her head, feeling the story crowd to the tip of her tongue. She just wanted to tell her friend. Wanted to not be the only one who knew the entire story. And even though she was only slightly less scared of telling Raven than confessing to Bellamy, at that moment, all Clarke wanted for her birthday was an end to this whole ordeal. Preferably an end that left all her friendships intact, but beggars can't be choosers or something.

That, of course, was when the rest of their friends decided to make an appearance.

A mixed cacophony of "Clarkes!" and "Happy birthdays!" suddenly filled the air and the birthday girl in question was bombarded with greetings from enthusiastic hugs (Jasper with peer-pressured Monty) to stoic head nods (Miller and Monroe). Still, Clarke couldn't quite shake Raven's gaze or the knowledge that this wasn't over.

Thankfully, the universe, perhaps to make up for the way it had screwed Clarke over, had had the foresight to make running from problems much easier with the liberal application of alcohol. And the application that night was somewhere north of liberal. 

Clarke did manage to muster up some pride as she handed over her real ID to the pretty bartender at the onset of celebrations in spite of Raven's sneak attack. Even managed to make a new friend before she was too tipsy to be obnoxious rather than overly friendly. Gina was possibly the best person ever. Not least because she poured drinks from the good bottles and only charged rail prices. She'd raised a finger to her lips and winked when Clarke had tried to protest. "Call it my birthday present to you and leave me a good tip, okay?" If Clarke wasn't already nursing a massive crush, then Gina would have been an excellent candidate. 

Even if halfway through the night, Clarke watched as Bellamy leaned into the bar with a familiar smirk, his goddamn biceps nearly bursting out of his sleeves as Gina eyed him with interest. Not that Clarke could blame her. It had been a struggle to point her attention somewhere that wasn't Bellamy all night. 

(And, okay, if she usually was this easily distracted around him, it was a wonder Raven was the only one who had figured her out.)

Having never been socked in the gut before, Clarke couldn't say that the feelings were comparable. She had once fallen from the monkey bars and lain on the ground from the shock of all the air leaving her body, though. It felt something like that. 

Before she could convince herself not to, Clarke slammed down three of the waiting shots, hardly hearing her friends cheer her on. The fire going down her throat was somehow preferable to whatever had preceded it. Addressing the group at large, her head pleasantly floaty, Clarke said, "I want to dance."

"What, like Billy Elliot?" snarked Miller around his bottle of terrible beer.

Clarke grinned in delight because that was a previously untapped side of her friend that would definitely be addressed later, but still shook her head. "No, like I want to go dancing with all my friends tonight. Because it's my birthday. So you can't say no."

Octavia and Jasper, predictably, were all for this plan, so Lincoln, Monty, and Harper were also agreeable. Raven complained that she had picked this bar for a reason, and maybe if Clarke were more sober or less in-crisis, she would have caught the fleeting glance her roommate threw towards the bar. It was at this point that Bellamy ambled over, a pleased grin on his face, which Clarke pointedly did not acknowledge. Then, there was something of a to do over where they were now going to go, because while this bar was cool, it did not offer the space necessary if they were about to unleash a dancing Jasper. Somehow, Murphy came up with a solution, a club called The Dead Zone, which had to be a terrible branding decision, but was apparently, "Cool, I guess."

Murphy's stamp of approval secured, it was decided. Still, Clarke couldn't keep her gaze from darting between Bellamy, hovering at the edge of the group frowning down at his phone, and Gina at the bar. If he wanted to stay, he would. But he was also a good enough friend not to abandon her on her birthday... to her giant group of friends... to potentially get laid. Okay, maybe she needed to check. 

"So, everyone,"—even drunk, Clarke wasn't about to let details like wording ruin her life. Take that, Universe!—"you're all sure you want to come with? No one wants to stay here? I promise I won't mind." 

A magnanimous offer of liberty it was not, but she couldn't bring herself to care when no one took her up on it. The fact that Bellamy had looked up from his phone and was looking at her in mild confusion, didn't help matters. Suddenly, Clarke felt awful for doubting him. Doubting that he would leave her birthday just because he had a chance at hooking up with a cool girl. (That she also felt a visceral rush of relief went stubbornly ignored. What did she have to be relieved over, anyway? That Bellamy was coming with her and not going home with Gina? That would be ridiculous. And probably hypocritical.)

So, Clarke pushed the rush of thoughts away and together, she and her friends set off into the night.

Weeks later, and Clarke was still regretting the decision to go dancing. She could hardly think of it without wanting to burrow into a hole and never come out. Winter was approaching, maybe a delayed instinct to hibernate was kicking in. Clarke doubted it, but hibernation was probably better than the mortification that draped her existence now.

Mostly, she put her energy into her classwork, dodging Raven's questions, and avoiding Bellamy. Not necessarily in that order. Which was saying a lot about how much she wanted to avoid Bellamy. There was clay embedded in her nails that wouldn't come out after even the most thorough of manicures. How couldn't she, though? After she'd made such a fool of herself on her birthday? And over nothing, too, because Gina had suddenly been added to the group. (Which was great! Clarke would never say no to more fun girl friends.) And while Gina was always friendly with Bellamy, she spent most of her time with Raven and not in a gal pals way. Or maybe exactly in a gal pals way. 

Clarke silently told herself to get a grip. She felt like a kid again, worrying about schoolyard crushes, hers and otherwise. It was times like these that Clarke wished Wells was around. Apparently learning about international justice at the Hague was more important than providing moral support for his best friend.

And he definitely wouldn't be staring her down in the Silent Study section of the library in a disturbingly effective attempt at intimidation. Mostly because Wells couldn't intimidate a butterfly, but also because he was a good friend. Unlike a certain roommate who was currently seated opposite Clarke, doing her best Dirty Harry impression and hadn't yet learned to leave well enough alone. For her part, Clarke was trying to ignore her, which was why she'd taken refuge in the top floor of the library and its almost-eerie silence in the first place. She hadn't even bothered to go home and clean up after her ceramics studio, knowing she'd just be cornered. Not that she actually got any peace. Barely half an hour after settling into her get-shit-done zone, Raven had slumped into the seat across from her and proceeded to do her utmost to peer into Clarke's brain.

Idly, she scratched at the back of her neck, ignoring the interloper. It kept itching—neck, not interloper—driving her to distraction nearly as much as her uninvited audience. For once exposed to the dry, climate-controlled air thanks to the braided crown she'd done last night after showering, her neck and the voxnota it bore felt like a beacon. Clarke did her best to avoid wearing her hair up in public, feeling unreasonably exposed and vulnerable with the words on display. But when the alternative was being late for class and being stuck with the wobbly wheel or smearing streaks of wet clay into it, Clarke could deal. She did resolve to get an actual alarm clock, rather than continue to rely on her phone's sketchy battery life, though. 

Clarke lost herself in her thoughts and laying out the first piece for her figure drawing project. Across the table, Raven was not taking her dismissal well, which only fueled her regular Wednesday afternoon bad mood.

Ordinarily, Clarke would think twice about messing with Raven after a PT appointment, since they always set her anger and frustration alight. But right now, she really did not want to talk. To anyone. About anything.

Fortunately, the library was doing most of the work for her. Every time Raven opened her mouth to hiss out a pointed question, a flurry of shushing filled the air. People on the third floor really took their silence seriously. So now, Raven was left to lie in wait, anticipating the moment Clarke would finally give in and leave and the interrogation could begin. 

Unfortunately, the subject of that interrogation decided to make an appearance. 

"So this is where you've been hiding," Bellamy murmured, his voice jarring in the silence. For whatever reason, the voices that hushed Bellamy were half-hearted at best. Raven glared around, smelling a conspiracy. 

All Clarke could do was flick him an unimpressed look and go back to work. Head bent to her latest figure drawing, she missed the wicked smirk playing across her roommate's lips. 

"Hiding?" The slyness in her voice should have tipped Clarke off. Raven only sounded like that when she was playing an angle.

Bellamy, unfortunately, was not the student of Raven's tones and moods that Clarke was and blithely walked into her trap. "Well, not actually hiding, she's just been hard to pin down lately. She's always the last one in the door for class and the first out. Which, I get from a spend-as-little-time-with-Wallace-as-possible standpoint. Makes class less bearable, though." He sighed heavily. Clarke tried not to read into it.

"Now that you mention it, I haven't seen Clarke very much lately either," Raven whispered conspiratorially.

"Why do you suppose that is?" Clarke could almost hear the grin in Bellamy's voice. She definitely felt him shift to lean across the table toward Raven, two gossips holding court. 

"I think she's trying to avoid something. She's done this before, you know." 

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore, Clarke chanted to herself, her fingers nearly cramping in their tight grip on the charcoal. The lines on her page came out spiky and uneven because art apparently did imitate life. 

Still, Bellamy's voice came, intrigued. "Really, now?" It took all of her considerable willpower not to look at him for all she could feel the weight of his gaze on her neck.

Her neck. Her bare neck. Her bare neck, plastered with some very incriminating words. 

"Oh, yeah. This is what Clarke does when she’s in crisis. Just melts off the face of the earth for a while. She usually surfaces for food and sleep."

Clarke heard Raven's voice, but it was distant, like it came through a tunnel or over a fuzzy phone line. Partially, that was Clarke doing her best to focus on the task at hand. She'd already complained to Raven that she didn't want to get dried clay dust in her hair, it would look suspicious if she now unraveled the braid with charcoal-smeared fingers. And Clarke really didn't need to provide Raven with any more ammunition. She couldn't just get up and go wash her hands, either. Not when Raven and Bellamy would keep gossiping with or without her presence. Better to monitor what they were saying. Best to derail them altogether.

Straightening, Clarke did her best to make the way she angled her back away from Bellamy seem natural. Not that she was fully acquainted with seeming natural nowadays. Still, she forged on, narrowing her eyes at the two guilty parties. "Raven, you can shut up any time you feel like it. And if the two of you must know, I am trying to avoid something." She waited until they leaned in, hanging on her next words. "Academic failure. Now if neither of you mind, the Dean's List is waiting."

With that, Clarke rubbed the back of her neck, doing her very best to smudge as much charcoal dust as possible across those fateful words, and went back to work. Not that that stopped Bellamy or Raven. On the one hand it was nice that one of her very best friends got along with her soulmate. On the other, it would give her so much more peace of mind if they couldn't stand each other and little tête-à-têtes like this one never happened. They were still whispering, but it was less obviously about her, so Clarke was willing to let it slide. Even the most militant of shushers had given up on shaming them into silence, stalking towards the elevator with a poisonous glare. 

Clarke rolled her eyes fondly and tried to will her panic to subside. Everything is fine now, go back to work, she ordered herself. To prove it to herself, Clarke swiped her hand against the nape of her neck again, depositing more charcoal dust. 

Everything would have been fine, if only Bellamy wasn't a total mom friend. Just as Clarke got back into the groove of sketching, pencil strokes smoothing back into her usual style, something warm and wet rubbed across the back of her neck. The same back of her neck that she had just done her best to conceal. 

Biting back the yelp of surprise that would really have attracted attention, Clarke slapped a hand to the offending spot and rocketed upright in her chair. 

"Dude, did you just lick Clarke?" Raven asked, wide eyes having taken everything in. 

Clarke turned beet red at the suggestion and even Bellamy's darker cheeks glowed with a suggestive flush.

"No!" he hissed, finally feeling some shame as he glanced around to see if anyone was listening. They were. Slumping a little, he crossed his arms across his broad chest and Clarke had to remind herself not to stare. On anyone else, it would have been a definite pout; on Bellamy it was simply an air of vague sulkiness. "I licked my thumb and then used it to wipe off her neck."

"That is not the distinction you think it is." Raven's tone was dry as dust, but the smirk lighting up her face suggested an unsettling degree of schadenfreude.

"She's got these dark smudges back there!" he exclaimed in an intense whisper. "She looks like Oliver Twist or Bert the Chimney Sweep." Seeing Clarke's hand still clamped in place, he let out a little noise of frustration, reaching out with his thumb again. "Look! She's doing it again! More charcoal's gonna end up on you than on your drawing. Just let me get it off you."

If ever Clarke had imagined Bellamy offering to take something off of her, well, this was not it. She leaned away, trying to jab at him with her elbow to keep him away. He only laughed and did his best to get past her defenses, thinking it was nothing more than a game. As it definitely was not a game, not to Clarke at least, she tossed Raven a panicked look.

Later, Raven wouldn't say what exactly made it click. But in that moment, something like an epiphany dawned in Raven's eyes and her gaze darted between Clarke and Bellamy. Her jaw dropped, just a fraction of an inch as her big, beautiful brain surged to make connections and draw conclusions about Clarke's recent behavior. And, because Raven really was one of the best friends a girl could ask for, she immediately intervened.

"All right, all right. No one needs to see whatever this is," something in Raven's tone made Bellamy flush even brighter, part of Clarke was intrigued to see, but he did pull away from her and let his arm drop to his side. "I think it's time for the artist to go home for an actual bath, not just a spit shine from her TA." Bellamy's chin dropped a little, avoiding Raven's direct gaze. Clarke wanted to smooth the wrinkles from his forehead, but she settled for squeezing his shoulder as she got up. His eyes flickered up to hers, surprise flashing through them, but she could only offer a wan smile in response. The sight of her smile made the corners of his lips twitch up, which only served to brighten her own again. Like its own, little feedback loop. 

Thankfully, Raven chose that moment to step in again, ushering Clarke down and out of the library, leaving Bellamy Blake to smile faintly to himself.

As soon as they'd made the semi-privacy of the public sidewalk, though, Raven made her displeasure known. She thumped Clarke with the back of her hand. Hard. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"What was I supposed to say, Ray? 'Hey, I met my soulmate today. You know, the one that I planned on never meeting? He's my TA and I ran away from him rather than say anything back?'"

"That seems to describe your situation pretty well." Raven's face was set in a frown and her limp was even more pronounced. It always was after a PT session, not that Clarke was making it any easier.

"Fair point," Clarke conceded, "but it's so much more than that, now. He's our friend and I can't just tell him that he's my soulmate, now. That's just too—"

"Wait wait wait." Raven snagged Clarke's arm, pulling her to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. The guy walking behind them huffed in unveiled annoyance before skirting around them. Clarke fidgeted at the judgment, but Raven ignored him, eyes boring into Clarke's. "What do you mean he doesn't know?"

Brow furrowed, she replied, "I mean he doesn't know. I still haven't said anything to him."

"No." Raven was emphatic, confused even. If this weren't such a serious moment, Clarke would revel a bit. "You were just in there talking to him." To punctuate her point, she jabbed back the way they'd come.

Clarke bit her lip, trying to figure out how to best phrase something that probably was going to piss off her roommate. "Can we do this at home?" she suggested weakly, a ploy for time more than anything. Raven's stormy expression answered that one, so Clarke took the only option left to her. She took a deep breath and told the whole pathetic story. 

"And that's it," she finished nervously, plucking at a stray thread on one of the couch's throw pillows. They had eventually made it back to the house when Raven decided that alcohol would be necessary to make it through the telling. 

For a minute, all Raven did was stare at Clarke in speechless fascination. Then, she seemed to shake herself, poured a generous glug of wine into her glass, and downed the whole thing in one pull. When she recovered, she said the only thing that could be said in situations like this. 

"What the actual fuck, Clarke?"

"I know!" she wailed, burying her face in the pillow. Hiding didn't lessen the weight of Raven's critical stare, so Clarke took a shuddering breath and sat up again. "I know. It's all kinds of messed up, but I don't know how to fix it. Not without ruining everything." She frowned, and bitterly added, "Ruining it even more than it would have been in the first place." 

Raven, warm and comforting presence that she was, snorted. "Get over yourself, Clarke. This wasn't doomed from the start and you know it. You set these events in motion, so it's your job to fix them." Raven levered herself off the couch, favoring her bad leg. She frowned down at the bulky brace that encased her knee before leveling Clarke with another firm stare. "You have weird emotional injuries just like the rest of us. So build a fucking brace for yours."

As was becoming a recurring theme in her life, Raven was right. And, somewhere deep down, Clarke had probably known most of what she'd just been told. But it wasn't as if she would have ever admitted it to herself. 

She sighed. Yeah, she really missed Wells. Wells wouldn't lead her to uncomfortable conclusions and then expect her to deal with them like an adult. 

(He would. But it was easier to idealize someone who wasn't in the country.)

Okay, she resolved. Pout for the next five minutes, but then it's time to do what Clarke Griffin does best: make a plan.

Chapter Text

The lights pulsed, a heady mix of violets and reds washing over feverish skin. Clarke watched in hazy fascination as the colors played over her bare arms. They splashed over the crowd, illuminating flashes of vignettes before whisking away and leaving lingering shadows. There was Raven, leaning against Octavia even as she insisted on dancing more, and then Monroe watching Harper watching Jasper, and even Murphy, looking entranced by a pretty girl with a wicked smile. Clarke wanted to laugh or scream or sing, anything to get out the joy of having her friends here with her tonight, so she did. Gave into the erratic, incomprehensible desires for once in her life. Not even the sad tug of Wells, who'd shared every birthday before this with her, could burst the bubble of euphoria. She twirled under the roving lights, arms up and head tilted back as she basked in a moment she didn't want to let go. 

The press of the crowd was perfect, buoying her to dizzying heights. Clarke rocked and bobbed and swayed, lost in the crush of bodies. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, what had first been exciting and hedonistic, had become an overwhelming swarm. No matter where she turned, someone was pushing against her, dozens of hands threatening to tear her apart and abandon her to the crowd's undertow. She spun, looking for a familiar face, an anchor in the swelling tide. Her mind didn't stop spinning with her body, though, and Clarke was suddenly sure she was about to drown on dry land.

A hand slid across her hip and she could breathe again. A blink and the unfocused terror abated. 

The music dropped down to a low, sultry thrum, not that Clarke was paying much attention. No, that was all focused on the big hand rubbing enticing circles into her hip. Fingers flexed as Clarke leaned into the pressure, relishing the warm, silky slide of dress against skin. She could almost imagine what those fingers would feel like without the barrier of her clothes and the thought set her body to humming. Warmth dripped through her, fear a distant memory. Her head tipped back, body following, and just when she thought she was about to fall, her body connected with a warm bulk. Her head nestled against a broad shoulder as they began to rock and sway to the insistent rhythm of the music. Her back pressed flush against his chest and his warmth spilled through her. She raised her arms again, but this time, let her hands slide back until her fingers could spear through inky curls. They were so close already, but it wasn't enough. Clarke rocked her hips back and a growl sounded right in her ear. There, she thought, triumphant smirk playing over her lips. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Clarke knew she should acknowledge the man dancing behind her with more than a hand over his. But doing that would break the spell. Oh, what a spell it was. His warm breath, followed by warmer lips, trailing down her neck was too perfect to cut short.

A blink and that intoxicating fire only flared brighter at the new setting.

Clarke lay flat on her back, sure that she would float away if it weren't for the tangle of familiar-smelling sheets. It was that scent more than anything that put her at ease. Something crisp and fresh with the undercurrent of musk that she associated with men. Subtle, but electrifying all the same. Then, she recalled that the smell had wrapped around her earlier, too. Just breathing it in and Clarke could almost believe she was back on that dance floor, legs parting as that hand trailed from hip to thigh to hem and back up again. That same shivery anticipation crooned through her chest and, oh, did she want whatever was about to happen.

She panted into the dark behind her eyelids as fingers and lips trailed up her legs. Something deep inside told her that the minute she opened her eyes, the minute she touched him, the minute she did anything other than feel, everything would disappear. So Clarke squeezed her eyes shut and balled her hands into fists at her sides, giving into every teasing touch, every feather-light graze, every sensation. And there were so many to experience. The soft rasp of tongue against a scar on her knee. Stubble dragging over the tops of her thighs only to vanish and reappear to tickle her ankles. Everywhere but where she needed it. Just a little friction, and she was sure the dark would explode in silvery splinters of pleasure. She wanted to anchor her fingers in the inky curls she knew were there and drag his face upupup until his mouth was perfectly aligned with her core. No, she commanded herself, fingers twisting into the sheets. You touch, it's done. Clarke whined behind her teeth, hips circling fruitlessly for a touch, a breath, anything to relieve the ache pooling between her legs. A chuckle sounded from somewhere around her knees, but he didn't speak, instead letting his tongue continue its teasing path. 

Clarke thought she might sob in relief when she finally felt him brush up against that ache, but the relief was oh-so temporary. One swipe of the tongue and he was gone, pressing kisses to her hipbones and then the slight swell of her stomach, her ribcage, the underside of a breast. Thankfully, a knee fitted itself between her thighs and the groan that came out of her mouth when she finally grounded herself against him was pure electricity. She felt a breath hitch against her collarbone, so she rolled her hips again, pleased that she wasn't the only one affected.

His mouth latched on to the juncture between her neck and shoulder and Clarke's hand moved before she could stop herself. Fingertips connected with sweat-slick skin and the only thing she could think was, Thank God I touched him before this ends. But it didn't end. Lips still moved against her and knee remained solid between her thighs. Bolder, she reached out and ran a hand down his back, marveling at the interplay of muscle and sinew she was sure was on display. Something almost like a growl rumbled through his body, lips renewing their attack on her neck. 

It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to learn his feel and not know what he looked like braced above her. Not when she could see him. If she would just open her eyes. She had to look, deep, dark feeling be damned. She had to know, had to make sure this was real, that this was—

Bellamy. 

Blinking into the weak light, Clarke looked up and there he was. Bellamy, gazing at her so seriously even as she felt the phantom of his lips on her skin.

"What?" she gasped, wanting him to stop looking at her like she'd done something wrong.

"Any day now, princess."

Clarke opened her eyes. The familiar walls of her room were comforting and they weren't as she breathed and tried to get her racing heart back under control. A quick glance at the alarm clock told her that there were only six minutes until it was set to go off. She wasn't sure which was worse, the dream or waking up without time to go back to sleep. That consideration consumed her attention (And if that consideration also consisted of hazy replays of events from the dream itself, who could really blame her?) until the alarm clock rang at its appointed time. Still, she made no move to get up.

After she told Raven about her words and Bellamy—and made a new resolution to finally bring this ordeal to a close—the dreams started coming in force. By that point, embarrassingly explicit dreams about Bellamy weren't so shocking. She'd already had a few speculating on where else she might find Bellamy's freckles. But those started (long) before her birthday party. Now, the dreams almost always centered on that night.

Not that they really reflected reality.

She and Bellamy had danced at the club. Not the slow, dirty grind that her mind and libido invented, but something far more plausible. He'd twirled her around until she was dizzy, from the drinks and the spinning and the laughter. She'd nearly collapsed into his chest and he'd given her back a slightly awkward, if fond, pat. Not exactly the stuff of dirty dreams. Then, she'd grabbed his hands and made him bounce along to the peppy number that played, and even though he'd wrinkled his nose in distaste, he'd done it anyway. He'd bopped along to the beat with her but slid out of the crowd when Harper and Octavia claimed her for a Girls Only dance. Clarke had gotten so lost in the haze of lights and sweat and alcohol, that she kind of forgot about anyone who wasn't right in front of her.

Over the course of the night, she'd bestowed many delighted hugs on friends returned to her orbit. Some took it better than others. Miller tried to get her to accept a handshake instead while Lincoln squeezed her back just as hard, lifting her off the floor. Murphy sputtered a bit and Clarke had grinned at the girl with the wicked smile over his shoulder, refusing to let go until he hugged her back. That smile grew sharper, so Clarke also hugged the girl for good measure.

Still, nothing quite beat her enthusiasm as she'd laid eyes on Bellamy again. He was leaning against the bar, this time talking to his sister, totally unsuspecting.

Clarke had rushed him, one second bouncing with Jasper and Monroe on the dance floor and the next wrapped around Bellamy's solid frame. Her arms had wound up and around his neck almost before she could tell herself that maybe this was a bad idea. It didn't feel like a bad idea. Her hands lay flat against the broad surface of his back, chin dipped into the hollow beside his neck. She remembered sighing in tipsy contentment, pressing even closer when he finally gave in and wrapped his own arms around her waist. The warmth of his bare forearms against her back and his hands tucked around her ribcage bled through the thin fabric of her dress. She'd shivered despite the nearly overwhelming heat. Her lips, caught on the edge between skin and shirt at his neck, had picked up the tang of his sweat. It took all her nonexistent willpower not to let her tongue creep out for a better taste. 

"Now there's a shock," drawled Octavia. Clarke could imagine the smirk taking over her face, though, given the way she'd kept her face buried in Bellamy's neck, she hadn't seen it. Reluctantly, she'd pulled away from the comforting solidity of Bellamy, but even when she'd disentangled herself, she couldn't look away. She'd stood there, grinning like a fool. Not that Bellamy was any better. He'd been looking at her like she was a revelation or a puzzle or something completely unexpected.

Boy, could she relate.

And that was when her brain caught up with her mouth. Which had been running, apparently.

"—he's just so great! Octavia, your brother is such a good person. And did you know that he's funny? He is! I know he doesn't look like he would be, but..." Clarke trailed off, mortification overshadowing her buzz. Bellamy and Octavia, though, had just regarded her with slightly exasperated fondness. 

"Haha, Clarke," he'd rumbled, rosy lighting turning his ears pink. When the lighting shifted, though, the stain was still there. 

She'd wanted to protest. It wasn't a joke. The alcohol must have loosened her tongue enough to let all her thoughts spill out. The sweet, tender thoughts about Bellamy that she'd entertained and locked up were now loose in the world. Of course Bellamy was one of the best people she knew. The fact that anyone could believe otherwise was preposterous. Her mouth had even dropped open, ready to let assurances flood the air when again her brain caught up with her. 

So, she did the only reasonable thing: she ran away.

Well, she pretended she saw Monty calling her over and beat a hasty retreat. After which, she downed a truly prodigious amount of tequila to drown out the memories.

Unfortunately, tequila was a very temporary remedy. Weeks later, and Clarke still felt like she was drowning in embarrassment whenever she thought about that night. The way she'd avoided even looking at Bellamy, despite the fact that he trooped home with everyone and ended up joining in the impromptu slumber party Clarke demanded. The way she could feel his gaze on the back of her neck, a heavy weight pressing against a voxnota he couldn't know about. It was enough to make her want to go into hiding and never come out. She'd be walking along or in class or waiting in line for coffee and BAM! a wave of debilitating shame. Rather than the consistent, background levels of shame she suffered through every day.

She buried her face in her pillow, ignoring the fact that if she did not get up and dressed soon, she would be late for Ceramics. And being late for Ceramics lately meant sitting next to the guy who had not progressed beyond molding disturbingly lifelike penises and telling his benchmate about its real life inspiration. 

A dull throb echoed between her legs and Clarke scowled. Weird, phallic sculptures and a dream should not make her feel this wound up. That settled it, the dream was definitely worse.

Not that steamy dreams that stopped before anything could get really good were the worst of what she got. The dreams where Bellamy looked at her like she was worthless, where his eyes blazed with contempt, where he told her he hated her for doing this, for being so broken; those were objectively worse. Because while she couldn’t see the real Bellamy ever saying such terrible things, she wouldn’t blame him if he did. 

(Which made it all the more difficult to just get those first words out. Not that she'd come up with a satisfactory plan for doing so. Flashes of his confused/hurt/angry expressions would cycle through her mind and she became convinced that anything was better than ever seeing those expressions in real life.)

Still, it was hard to believe in objectivity when she woke up aching and unfulfilled morning after morning. She stewed in that thought for a few minutes before the clock caught her eye again. Shit. Weird, phallic sculptures were in her future, even if a normal romantic life wasn't.

Over the back half of the semester, Clarke came up with innumerable plans to reveal the truth to Bellamy and rejected just as many. Some were too convoluted to guarantee success while others were just too brutal. To both Bellamy and herself. 

(Because if she'd learned anything from her short stint evading Bellamy Blake, she was kind of miserable without him around. Which was maybe the most ridiculous thing she'd ever thought. She'd known the man for a few months and in that time, he'd managed to wriggle and wrangle his way into her life. And now that he was there, she sure as hell wasn't letting him go. 

After he found her in the library, she'd silently gone back to sitting next to him in Wallace's lectures. It made her itch to sit so close and so far and at the same time, not know how to do anything about it. Still, Clarke Griffin had spent the last five years of her life living in denial, a few more months weren't going to kill her. Bellamy let her return pass without comment, for which she was grateful. She wouldn't have offered an explanation either way, but his quiet acceptance was appreciated all the same. The only indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened was the truly awful doodle that waited for her in the margin of his book. A stick figure princess brandishing a sword at what was probably a dragon. Clarke was charmed. Not that she would ever admit that to him. In retaliation, she sketched Caesar getting stabbed by the Senate. It was too graphic going by the way the kid on her other side blanched at the sight. For his part, Bellamy tore out the sketch and tucked it into his textbook.)

Raven told her she should dress up like a ghost for Halloween and just shout, "Boo!" in his face. At her wits' end, Clarke seriously considered it until Raven clarified she'd only made the suggestion because she didn't want to hear about these schemes anymore. But Clarke didn't have anyone else to bounce ideas off of. Their other friends were still in the dark about the existence of Clarke's voxnota. She wasn't about to tell them all just so they could meddle. They did that enough without her invitation. She did plan on telling Wells as soon as he came back from the Netherlands, but only because she couldn't deal with the flood of disappointed emails that would come if she told him sooner. Wells could be the king of guilt trips when he wanted and Clarke doubted that ability was any less potent long-distance. 

Honestly, the only helpful advice Clarke had gotten out of her roommate was: "Just say whatever you were gonna say after your party."

Which, thanks. Very helpful. 

It wasn't enough that Clarke flung herself at Bellamy and babbled about how much she liked him on her birthday. No. She also had to decide that enough was enough and try to confess everything to him the morning after. 

Never mind the fact that no important decision should be made while hungover, Clarke woke with the utter conviction that if she didn't tell Bellamy today, she never would. Or she'd bungle it so badly that he'd never speak to her again. Look at the way her mouth had run off without her last night! It was only a matter of time before everything was ruined. So, she'd levered herself out of bed, careful not to wake Harper or Monroe, curled together like drowsy puppies. Clarke tiptoed through the slumbering house.

When she'd finally let herself be persuaded to go home, she'd insisted that everyone sleep over, unwilling to let the party end for something as trivial as last call. That meant that every semi-soft surface in the house currently held one or more of Clarke's friends. Raven had reluctantly agreed to share with Monty and Jasper and when Clarke ducked her head in the door, she stifled a giggle at the sight of her roommate, trapped between two hardcore cuddlers. 

She'd made it downstairs without waking anyone, though she'd had to step over Murphy who had bedded down on the landing for some reason known only to himself. The space on the sectional Clarke was reasonably sure Bellamy had claimed last night was empty. Before Clarke could start worrying about where he'd gone, the distinctive sounds of batter sizzling drifted out from the kitchen. Of course he's making breakfast, she'd rolled her eyes at the thought. A true mom friend at work. 

Before she could talk herself out of it, Clarke marched into the kitchen, fully intending to spill the entire story the moment she laid eyes on Bellamy. 

That's what she intended. 

What happened was this: Clarke marched into the kitchen and froze. Because, standing before her was Bellamy Blake, blithely making pancakes, clothed only in his boxers, undershirt, and socks. Even with a clear mind, Clarke would not have been prepared for that sight. Really, nothing that Clarke had ever encountered at that point in her life could have prepared her. 

But Bellamy just looked up from where he'd been monitoring the pancakes and gave her a sleepy smile. A strangled sort of cough or whine or something equally embarrassing erupted from Clarke's mouth and she wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor all over again. Would she ever stop making a fool of herself in front of this man?

Thinking she was choking, his smile morphed to concern and he stepped towards her. "Are you all right?"

"Did you know I've never spoken to you?"

That's what she wanted to say. That's all that her hungover brain had come up with. Confession and capitulation in eight words. Clarke got as far as opening her mouth, but all that came out was a breathy wheeze. God, did that hurt! Her brow furrowed in confusion as she tried to speak again, but that same wheeze was all that her vocal cords would relinquish. She looked up at Bellamy, panicking. 

"Aw, Clarke. Did you get sick last night?" he asked, laying the back of his hand across her forehead. Her eyes drifted closed of their own volition and she swayed a little into his heat. "Easy," Bellamy warned, pressing her back upright as Clarke flushed hotly. "You feel a little warm. Should've known better than to let Murphy pick the venue."

It was entirely possible Clarke was sick. More likely, though, the combination of tequila and screaming along to nearly every song at The Dead Zone had robbed her of the ability to speak. Of course. The day she decided to finally break her silence and the universe wouldn't let her. Frantically, she bumbled around the kitchen, looking for a clean glass and then draining the huge glass of water in a few gulps. The cool liquid felt soothing going down her raw throat and when she made a testing sound, something closer to a croak came out. Close enough. 

She turned to Bellamy, who'd been watching her in bemused interest as he flipped pancakes onto a steadily growing pile. Clarke opened her mouth, ready to try again, but he reached out and laid his finger against her lips. 

"Don't strain yourself," he'd smiled. "Let your voice rest and have some breakfast." He'd guided her to the kitchen table and served up a stack of pancakes. Even with the taste of failure on her tongue, they were delicious. 

She sighed into the close shadows of the darkroom. Her attention was supposed to be on the delicate balance of light as she burned the exposed photo paper, but Clarke was in a funk. Besides, the last three times she'd attempted this, the print showed up entirely too washed out. She didn't have high hopes for this one. Still, she went through the motions, flicking off the light of the enlarger and sliding the print into the first tray of chemicals. Once it had made its way through two more chemical baths and a rinse, Clarke finally let herself out of the enclosed space, mind still fixed on her Bellamy conundrum. She had to tell him before winter break, right? It would be too much to let this mess ooze into the next semester. 

Maybe she could send him a text after he'd left for winter break and then shut off her phone for the next four weeks. That would give him plenty of time to cool down, although it would also give him plenty of time to realize what a bullet he'd dodged with her. Then she realized that neither he nor Octavia had mentioned any holiday plans. Of course. No one actually left campus for break because Clarke only made friends with family dynamics as messed up as hers.

She was still in the midst of mulling over this plan as she stepped into the jarring brightness of the photo lab. As her eyes adjusted, she nearly missed her visitors. 

"Clarke!" chirped Octavia. She sat on one of the counters, heels kicking against the cabinets. The image was a familiar one, though the setting was new. As far as Clarke knew, Octavia had never met a countertop she didn't like. Lincoln nodded from where he perused the wall of student work. 

Clarke's hand flew to the back of her neck. More and more often, it had been doing that, even though she was careful to always leave her hair down. Octavia's eyes followed the motion, but she didn't comment. "Hey, O. Lincoln. Um," Clarke busied herself straightening some of the supplies. She wasn't sure what it was about Octavia that set her on edge, although everything set her on edge lately. It always seemed as if she knew too much. "Did I know you were dropping in?"

Octavia flapped her hand dismissively. "No, Raven said that you might be here. I just wanted to make sure you're coming to our New Year's Party."

"That's like two weeks away," she hedged. 

"Duh." She hardly needed to say it, her eye roll nearly audible. "But since you and your roommate weaseled out of Thanksgiving and Christmas, I'm pinning you down now."

She wasn't wrong. Clarke and Raven had boycotted the holidays since they first met freshman year. For Thanksgiving, they gorged themselves on Halloween candy leftovers and gas station snacks while they would follow the example of generations of Jewish families for Christmas: Chinese food and seasonally inappropriate movies. Even though Bellamy and Octavia had invited everyone for both holidays, the two housemates refused to budge. 

"C'mon," Octavia wheedled. "You can't have any weird hangups about New Year's."

She was wrong there. Jake Griffin had loved New Year's Eve, waking Clarke up to see the midnight ball drop every year she could remember. Still, it was a good hang up. Something that Clarke didn't mind remembering about her father. And the thought of sharing the night with Bellamy, even in a small way, sent warmth blooming beneath Clarke' skin. 

Still, she was reluctant. If her birthday and dancing and tequila shots were enough to make her want to throw caution to the wind, then what would midnight and champagne—even cheap champagne—do? "I don't know, Octavia."

"You have to!"

"If you don't agree, she won't go away," observed Lincoln without looking away from a particularly confusing double exposure print.

"True," Octavia acknowledged. "And I have kickboxing in fifteen minutes, so hurry up and agree!" It was still disconcerting how quickly the girl could shift from bubbly cheer to dark menace. The potential for kicking someone in the face apparently enough to trigger some violent schadenfreude. Since Clarke had no doubts that Octavia would have no compunctions putting that kickboxing training to use if she didn't get her way, she gave in. "Fine! Fine, Raven and I will see you for New Year's."

Octavia's grin melted back into bubbly territory. "Great!" She collected her boyfriend and bounced away, calling out instructions as she left, "Dress code is: Dress to Kill or You're Dead to Me!"

Clarke could practically see the whirlwind accompany her friend as the door shut behind her. She did have one important question, though. 

"What does that even mean?"

What it meant, in the words of Marc Jacobs, was: "NO FLAT SHOES. NO MATTE SURFACES. NO NATURAL LOOKS."

She'd be lying if she said putting together her and Raven's outfits wasn't fun. And good practice for the Textile Arts class she was taking next semester. Not that she was thinking that much about future schoolwork. (She was, but denial had become an integral part of her day-to-day life, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to deny that this Bellamy thing wasn't a problem. Hence, denial about school.) It was nice doing something creative that wasn't for a grade, not that she regretted all the hours she'd put in at the studio the past few months. They'd paid off. Place on the Dean's List secure, since not even Wallace had found much to fault her for, Clarke was feeling positively giddy.

Well, as giddy as it was possible to be when she was hiding a pretty spectacular secret from the majority of her friends. Honestly, though, Clarke was fairly certain that wouldn't remain a secret for much longer. Raven had already figured it out and as she'd informed Clarke, "You were acting like a paranoid, lovestruck weirdo, Clarke. You weren't doing that great a job of keeping it under wraps." Which, harsh, but probably fair. 

Still, Clarke would maintain that Raven only figured it out because she was the smartest of her friends and also had the advantage of knowing her best. Raven was the only one to even know Clarke had a soulmate. Without that information, there was no way for the others to figure out her real problem with Bellamy. They probably just thought she was torn about a new potential relationship.

Which did imply they knew, at least in part, about Clarke's feelings for Bellamy. Or, maybe even Bellamy's feelings for Clarke? 

(She didn't like dwelling on whether or not Bellamy liked her as much as she liked him. There were hints, signs, that he might, but Clarke hated to get her hopes up.)

Which wasn't that much better than them knowing the whole story. 

Clarke sighed and then wanted to sigh at the number of times she'd done that in the past few weeks. If she didn't know better, she'd say she was turning into a world weary elder, nostalgic for the good old days. That, at least, made her want to snort instead. Yeah, the good old days. Back when she was stuck in boarding school because her mother didn't trust her. Back when Finn was sweet talking her into a relationship based on lies. Back when Lexa was promising the world only to turn around and stab her in the back. 

There were plenty of reasons for Clarke to remain guarded. A heart broken more than anyone deserved in such a short life. But it was hard being so suspicious and wary all the time and so easy just to let go. To give in to the machinations of the universe, to let Bellamy know that he was her soulmate and, maybe, let herself be happy.

It was just getting to the part where everyone was happy that would be the hard part. 

Which was why, on December 31st, Clarke walked into Octavia's "New Year's Eve, Bitches!" Party with more trepidation than a get together with her friends would normally require. She still hadn't decided what to do on the Bellamy front, but, knowing Octavia, she was pretty sure that she wouldn't get away with bailing on the party. Plus, she'd spent all that time on outfits for tonight, and they were amazing. Raven's dress was festooned with a mosaic of broken CD-ROMs and Clarke was pretty pleased with how truly ridiculous her boobs looked in the halter top she'd made. Although, she was a little annoyed that Raven hadn't told her to make one for Gina, too. (When she'd confronted her about it, Raven had just shrugged and asked, "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, my overly-involved roommate wants to make you a costume for our date. That cool?'" Clarke didn't respond as such, just shrieked and tackled her duplicitous friend for hiding such important information. The irony was not lost on either of them.)

No, there was no way Clarke was bailing on this party.

And, since the first thing that she saw upon walking inside was Miller in gold lamé and a liberal dusting of body glitter, she couldn't really regret her choice, could she? His mouth twisted, like he could read the delight off of Clarke, Raven, and Gina's faces and was none too pleased about it. Still, he didn't fidget or try to make excuses. He just ushered them inside and pointed out food and drinks. As he ambled over to Monty, Clarke had to hope this wasn't part of some rebound ritual. Apparently, Miller and his longtime boyfriend had broken up near the end of the semester. While she could commiserate, she was more concerned about where Monty played into all of this. 

(Little did she know, Miller had very similar feelings regarding her and Bellamy.)

After making the rounds and seeing that everyone had gone all in on the theme, Raven and Gina peeled away to find drinks while Clarke drifted over to check out the snack spread. Octavia had certainly committed to the theme, there, too. Everything was dusted in that edible, metallic spray, from chocolate covered strawberries to the cheese plate to the bowl of Doritos. Keenly, Clarke inspected one silvery triangle, wondering what on earth would compel a person to this kind of follow through. 

"I wouldn't eat that if I were you."

Clarke whirled, chip still in hand. Wide-eyed, she took Bellamy in. Someone must have gotten him with a glitter bomb because the shiny flecks of color nearly outnumbered the freckles stippling his face. He ran a hand through his hair and more bright spots drifted out to settle on (unfairly) broad shoulders. Otherwise, he looked fairly casual, wearing his usual jeans and a t-shirt. Aside from the glitter, his only capitulation to the theme was a sequined scarf draped around his neck. Clarke was pretty sure he'd forgotten it was even there if the way he regarded it with surprise when it slid off his shoulder was any indication. 

When she'd finally finished her inspection, she was a little flustered to see that he'd been doing the same. Self-consciously, she tugged at the hem of the very short skirt she'd cobbled together out of a ragged leather couch cushion and sheer curiosity. That her legs looked fantastic, she already knew, since both Gina and Raven had wolf-whistled when she'd clattered down the stairs in her, frankly, ridiculous heels. But the plain admiration in Bellamy's eyes was a different beast altogether. 

Has he always looked at me like that? she wondered, caught up in his steady gaze. If he did, then she really couldn't blame their friends for thinking something was going on. 

"Yeah, O really went to town with that spray stuff. I think it's only technically edible." He grimaced, but it was somehow still a good look on him. Bellamy's hand migrated to the back of his neck as it did whenever he was nervous. He ruffled the hair at the nape of his neck and watched Clarke through his lashes. It was... a lot. 

So much, in fact that Clarke just stood there, holding the silvery Dorito for too long. Long enough for Jasper to swoop in and eat it straight out of her hand. Clarke looked at the shiny powder coating her fingers, looked up at Bellamy's stunned face, and together, they burst into laughter. 

After that, the party, like most things Octavia planned, was a whirl of raucous laughs, glitter, and, of course, alcohol. 

Clarke stayed away from the last. After her birthday party, she'd learned to be wary of the effects alcohol had on her tongue. Especially in the vicinity of Bellamy. Still, she couldn't completely abstain, since whenever she set down a full cup, another was put in her hands. Like magic. 

So, at midnight, Clarke was pleasantly buzzed, though nowhere close to where she'd been on her birthday. A plastic flute of cheap champagne sparkled in one hand. They all crowded around the TV, watching as that giant glitter ball dropped in Times Square. As the crowd and the announcer and party guests all counted down, Clarke took a moment to take in the scene.

"Ten!" Gina leaned her head against Raven's shoulder. Raven's arm curled around her waist as an uncharacteristically shy, radiant smile bloomed across her face. 

"Nine!" Octavia turned away from the TV to beam up at Lincoln. His arms wrapped easily around her back and his responding smile was bright as the sun.

"Eight!" Murphy had shown up with the girl from The Dead Zone, Emori, sometime around 11:45. They'd spent most of the night snickering in the corner, but now were engrossed in each other.

"Seven!" Monty was very pointedly not looking at Miller and Miller was very pointedly not looking at Monty. Jasper just looked oblivious, stuck in between them. 

"Six!" Harper locked eyes with Monroe, who blushed up to the roots of her hair. 

"Five!" Collectively, everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited for those last four seconds to tick away.

"Four!" Somehow, it had slipped her mind that midnight at New Year's meant spontaneous pairing off. There was nothing more awkward than being the lone single person in a crowd of kissing couples.

"Three!" While she'd distracted herself, Clarke hadn't noticed the presence lingering at her side. A warm hand slipped tentatively along her wrist. Long, thick fingers curled into hers and Clarke's breath caught in her chest.

"Two!" Haltingly, Clarke tipped her face up and around and there he was. Bellamy, a question and an answer in his eyes. 

"One!" She hadn't moved aside from a reflexive squeeze of her fingers, but when Bellamy tugged on her hand, Clarke didn't resist. 

His other hand curled around the back of her neck, fingers warm against her skin. Clarke could hardly separate the shivery excitement of his touch from the sparkling, crackling bursts of awareness shooting down her spine. Distantly, she was aware that he must be touching the voxnota and this was just the universe's confirmation of what she'd known for months. But it was hard to pay attention to those thoughts when Bellamy was so close. She could smell him, so much like the scent of her dreams. Still, those bolts of pure, electric recognition lit her up from the inside out. She didn't even have time to wonder if he could feel it, too, before his lips were on hers and everything became blissfully quiet. 

Everything she'd ever read about this—the first kiss between soulmates—had sounded like overdramatic Harlequin romances, all fireworks and heavenly hosts singing and raining rose petals.

They were wrong.

It was none of those things. It was infinitely better. Just Clarke and Bellamy and this ridiculous, unbelievable, soul-searing warmth—a surety that Clarke would miss the moment it was gone. His lips were dry, verging on chapped, but Clarke was hard pressed to come up with a better feeling. Not until his tongue traced across her bottom lip and she deepened that kiss. After all, why not go all in while she had this chance? She couldn't be sure that she'd get another. But for those precious few moments, while everyone else was wrapped up in their own New Year's bubble, it was just them, finally united in a single purpose.

By the time "New York, New York" started to play through Times Square, Bellamy had pulled away. Not far; his forehead pressed against Clarke's, a kiss of its own. Clarke kept her eyes squeezed shut, scared of what emotions might play over Bellamy's face and unwilling to find out. Or, maybe this was just another dream. Another morning that she would wake up on edge. In and out, she told herself. Maybe if she could get a handle on one thing, everything would be fine. She could hardly even tell if the rapid, hummingbird thrum between them was her heart or his. 

When she felt his shaky exhale breeze across her face, she blinked open her eyes. There he was, just like in her dream, inches away. But his expression wasn't serious or even all that concerned. If anything, Clarke would call it thunderstruck. Their hands were still tangled together while the thumb on her neck rubbed soothing circles. This was going much better than her dreams. She hated to ruin it. 

But Bellamy had to know. He had a right to know. Kissing him had made that clearer than ever. And if knowing made him hate her, well, Clarke would have to live with that. 

She licked her lips and a little part of her that lived on hope shriveled up and died at the way his eyes followed the movement intensely. Would he ever do that again? She drew breath and parted her lips and—

"Oh my god! Happy New Year!" Jasper and Octavia nearly slammed into them. Octavia enveloped Clarke in a hug so tight, she was sure she'd be washing off body glitter for weeks to come. Jasper hung off Bellamy's neck, bleating the lime green party horn in his ear. 

Bellamy, however, didn't take his eyes off her. His gaze was intense even as he shrugged helplessly at the lunatics they called friends. 

"Yeah, O. Happy New Year," Clarke responded, though she couldn't bring herself to break eye contact with her friend's brother. She watched as he exchanged manly hugs with Miller and Lincoln and Monty. Watched as he and Murphy had some weird stare down. Watched as he let his sister festoon him a boa and tiara. 

Watched as her heart sank into her stomach.

Chapter Text

"Rough day at the office?"

Clarke huffed. There were still a few days of break left and she'd been hoping to take advantage of an empty library. Since no one had left town for the holidays, it felt like the house had a constantly revolving door. Which was fine. Clarke loved her friends and was happy to hang out, but she needed some alone time or she might just start screaming. (To be fair, Clarke acknowledged that there were... other factors at play, too. It didn't mean she wasn't about to lose it.) Hence the library. Specifically, the library's basement, where all the microfiche and old magazines were kept. It also happened to house an unfortunate assortment of furniture that was, nonetheless, usually occupied. Really, this trip was killing two birds with one stone: some much needed down time and a chance to see why everyone loved this tacky, outdated furniture. Clarke had claimed the comfiest couch all for herself. No sharing for her, not after the morning she'd had. 

It started with Raven picking at her to get a move on with the Bellamy situation: 

"I know, Ray, but it's kind of complicated," she'd protested.

"Only because you made it complicated," Raven had thrown back, not incorrectly.

"I can't just ambush him with this information. It requires some delicacy."

"You kissed him. It's time to throw delicacy out the window before anyone gets more hurt."

Truthfully, though, that kiss was what made Clarke reluctant to say anything at all. Well, Bellamy's reaction to it. Lack of reaction.

For all he'd looked at her like she was all he ever wanted to look at that night—she'd felt the weight of his gaze until the moment she and Raven left to sleep in their own beds—in the days since, he hadn't brought it up once. And he'd had multiple opportunities given the way everyone apparently lived at the house, now. He hadn't sent her strange, indecipherable looks. Sometimes, she could sense him looking at her for a beat too long, but he'd almost always done that. He hadn't moped or seemed at all out of sorts. Which was a good thing, Clarke had to keep telling herself. She didn't want Bellamy to be unhappy or confused or frustrated like she was. Really. It just would have been nice to have some sort of indication that that kiss meant anything at all to him.

(It would only be fair. Sometimes, Clarke would swear that she could still feel the pressure of his lips on hers, the warmth of his fingers against the back of her neck. It was distracting to say the least.)

So, she'd decided to play his game. If he wasn't gonna bring it up, then neither would she. 

Which, of course, left Raven plenty of opportunities to point out how stubborn she was being and then refuse to admit that maybe, just maybe, Clarke had a valid point. Which would allow Clarke to snipe that Raven was being a nosy busy body and send everyone into a huff.

Really, it wasn't anything to worry over. Clarke and Raven had worse squabbles over breakfast cereal at the grocery store. Just not a great way to start her day. 

Well, things could only improve from there. 

(Ha. Right, said the Universe.)

Unfortunately, wrapped up in the turmoil that was Clarke's personal life, she had conveniently forgotten about the regularly scheduled call with her mother. Which was why she picked up her phone without checking the caller ID and had her spirits further dampened by the sound of Abby Griffin's voice.  

Abby and Clarke's relationship was conducted almost solely over the phone or via email. It was a step up from Clarke's boarding school years, during which she'd essentially refused to acknowledge her mother's existence. Much as Clarke blamed her mother for her dad's death, the woman was the only family she had left. They had to love each other. But currently, they happened to love each other best at a distance and with as little direct communication as possible. Some day, Clarke was sure they would be able to bridge the gap and start behaving like other mothers and daughters—dysfunctional mothers and daughters since anything else was a pipe dream—but that was still a ways off. 

So, they'd exchanged stilted pleasantries and fumbled through a halting conversation for fifteen minutes before Abby brought up school. She asked how Clarke was liking her classes, which from anyone else would have been perfectly polite. From Abby, it conveyed a strained displeasure over the content of those classes, raising her daughter's hackles without saying much of anything. The matter of Clarke's major was well-trod territory. They'd gone around on it too many times to count, starting before Clarke was even in high school. Abby would love it if Clarke followed in her footsteps, while Clarke had very little practical interest in medicine. She'd declared herself a Studio Art major earlier in the year and her mother was less than pleased for all she'd known it was coming.

Only a few minutes of well-bred sniping and Abby gave in, said she needed to meet with a patient. Clarke tried not to read into the palpable resignation in her mother's voice, but she still hung up feeling deeply inadequate. 

That was when she decided to try and salvage the day by holing up in the library basement with her sketchpad and an iPod full of music.

Which was exactly where Bellamy found her roughly an hour into her self-imposed solitude.

By this point, Clarke had stopped questioning how he had gotten so good at tracking her down, especially since he almost never appeared in the same two spots. Different floors of the library, hidden away in the stacks, inhaling caffeine at the campus coffeehouse: it was like Bellamy's personal sixth sense was entirely Clarke-based. He'd never come to bother her in the photo lab, the one place she could be reliably found, though. Probably because he harbored actual respect for places of employment. Clarke had seen him in the mail room a few times while she was on shift and although he saw her and would raise a hand in greeting, he never stayed to bother her. Bellamy was a strange one like that. 

(Not so strange. He'd told her about the time he was fired from his part-time job because he'd brought Octavia along. She hadn't been old enough to stay at home alone and her after-school club had been cancelled. It hadn't helped that she'd tried to kick the boss when he demanded Bellamy "Leave the brat at home next time.")

But now, Clarke was wishing that she'd thought to camp out in the photo lab if it meant getting a little peace and quiet. Because being confronted by the subject of all her problems—okay, all her romantic problems? Not a great way to relax. 

He kept grinning, even as she tuned her glare to its most withering. So, she sniffed and turned back to her sketch. She wasn't sure she had the presence of mind to actually deal with this right now. It wasn't all that often that she and Bellamy were completely alone, which was wholly purposeful on Clarke's part. Every time Bellamy tracked her down, popping up where she least expected him, she had to jump through hoops to herd him back into a group setting. After all, she couldn't talk to a group of people when it was just Bellamy. And passing notes was weird outside of a classroom setting. Her only move when she was truly alone with Bellamy was to let him fill the silence.

Something he was more than happy to do on occasion. More often, he simply let her carry on with whatever she was doing and sank into his own work.

(Today, she would find out, was one of the former.)

And so, easily, despite the eddy of worries that would surface if Clarke gave herself half a chance, they settled into a companionable rhythm. It was funny how casually he distracted her from her shitty morning without even trying. She hadn't yet figured out if he did it on purpose, or if that was just the way Bellamy was. It wasn't as if she could ask him. Either way, Clarke quickly gave up on her quiet, solitary afternoon and accepted that Bellamy wouldn't be leaving any time soon. She worked on capturing the strange half-light of the library basement and he chipped away at his lit review, running his mouth absentmindedly the whole while.

Clarke was fairly certain that, sometimes, Bellamy just liked to hear himself talk. It was part of what would eventually make him a good teacher, or at least a monumentally better one than Wallace. It wasn't as if it was a high bar to clear. As long as he actually left the room during end-of-semester evaluations, Bellamy would have nothing to worry about. 

He prattled on about the progress he'd made on his thesis and the interview he'd conducted with a well-regarded historian. He said that O wanted to move in with Lincoln and it was hard not to laugh at the disgust in his voice. Clarke wanted to tease him for that, but she stuck to absent-minded hums and tsks, keeping her attention mostly on the sketchpad in her lap. She didn't even bother to take out her earbuds, though she'd turned off the music at Bellamy's first appearance. For whatever reason, Bellamy was always more likely to share if she pretended to be detached. The minute she showed an interest, he would clam up and head back to safer, shallower waters. 

Mostly, that meant doing everything in his power to get under her skin. They weren't as openly antagonistic as they'd first been, but Clarke would be lying if she said she didn't purposefully pick fights with Bellamy just to get a rise out of him. He did the same to her. It was how they showed each other they cared. 

(She already missed it.)

Sometimes, he'd grab her sketchbook and insist that she pose for a portrait. The first time, she'd frantically scrambled for the book, huffing in frustration when he used his height and strength against her. She'd held her hand out expectantly, but he'd just settled in, flipped to a clean page, and started to draw. When he finally gave it back, she was gifted with what could only generously be termed a portrait of her pouting face. Eventually, it became something of a ritual. Bellamy would join Clarke and whatever friend she was using as a buffer that day, she would slide over some scrap paper, and he would get to work on his latest effort. Often, she would join him. The pages of her sketchbook were already filled with his face, furtively jotted down when she was sure his attention was elsewhere. She figured she could take the opportunity to get him out of her system. Artistically, at least.

She should have known better. No matter how many times she put his face on paper, Clarke never lost the impulse to capture Bellamy and his many facets.

She did, however, start finding his antics less annoying as time went on. Which wasn't to say that she suddenly stopped finding Bellamy annoying, she just started to see his charm, too.

Maybe that was the annoying part. 

No, she told herself, roughly shoving a book back onto its shelf. The annoying part is not knowing if it's better or worse having him around. 

She'd wandered off into the haphazard collection of shelves and happened upon a crammed corner of coffee table art books. Some librarian had apparently decided to screw with the Dewey Decimal system when the upper stacks ran out of room Clarke's freshman year and shunted this sad, little collection to the basement. That there had been years of malcontented art students looking for such gems as 100 Concrete Buildings only increased Clarke's delight in her find. She flipped through a few, though nothing had given her any flash of inspiration. 

Bellamy was always so smug whenever her sketch of him made him look handsome and strong, while the one of her looked like something done by an eighth-grader with their wrong hand. He'd preened and said that she was welcome to try and make him look unappealing, but it would take a lot of work. Laughingly, she'd determined to prove him wrong. 

She had yet to succeed.

Maybe cubism? she pondered, fingering the spine of one volume before moving onto another. No, Francis Bacon or Chaïm Soutine would be better. Really underline the grotesque. It would be better in oil pastels, but I could probably make it work.

Mulling it over, Clarke considered a few of Soutine's still lifes. If it worked, she could probably gross him out with own face, even if he argued about the artistic liberties of expressionism. Before she could turn away from the shelf, tome in hand, a hand closed over the top of her shoulder. 

She shrieked, spinning around and wildly brandishing the heavy book. After all, no one with good intentions snuck up on a girl in the middle of a mostly deserted library.

Sometimes, Clarke hated being right. 

Standing before her, looking as composed as ever, was Lexa. 

Her ex-girlfriend. 

The same ex-girlfriend who stabbed her in the back out of sheer self-interest.

And damn it if she wasn't as beautiful as she'd ever been.

Clarke's breath caught and, immediately, she wanted to scold herself for letting the other woman effect her. Just like that, all the calm that Bellamy had somehow gifted her just by virtue of his proximity was out the window and a couple shitty, but isolated, events were about to form a pattern. This was just about the opposite of what she needed.

"Clarke," Lexa greeted, almost warmly, not that that was enough for Clarke to lower her guard. 

"I didn't know you were back," she responded warily. 

"Yes. Paris was wonderful, just like I always imagined," Lexa enthused. A soft, hopeful smile played over her lips as she continued, "I missed you while I was gone."

It was that smile that snapped Clarke out of her haze. Soft and hopeful, as if there was something between them to nurture. Well, all Clarke could feel between them was a jagged, yawning crevice where something good had once grown. Shaking her head in disbelief, she shouldered past Lexa. She did not have the time or patience to deal with this. Clarke wove through the shelves of dusty, forgotten magazines, intent on returning to Bellamy. Why she was so positive Bellamy would make everything better, she didn't want to examine too closely. (She knew the answer. Didn't mean she was all that eager to acknowledge it.) At the very least, she was sure Bellamy's presence would deter the usually circumspect Lexa from airing their dirty laundry. 

"Clarke, please! Will you stop running away and speak with me like an adult?" 

To emphasize her point, Lexa's hand closed around Clarke's wrist. She ground to a stop at the tug, jaw already clenched. Clarke stared at Lexa's hand, only turning to face her when she let go. Strange, Clarke thought through a fog of anger, it never used to feel like that when she touched me. Now, all Clarke felt was righteous indignation and none of the fluttery, gentle excitement that Lexa used to elicit. 

"I'm not the adult? I'm sorry, I didn't realize that underhanded sabotage was a sign of maturity," she spat viciously.

Had Lexa been anyone else, she would have rolled her eyes at Clarke's melodrama. Hell, Clarke wanted to roll her eyes, never mind how firmly she believed her words. Lexa, though, just regarded her ex-girlfriend dispassionately. Only the faintest signs of a frown wrinkled her brow as she declared, "You would have done the same, had I given you the opening."

The thing was, Clarke was pretty sure she wouldn't have. Much as she wanted that scholarship, she wouldn't have ruined her girlfriend's chances of getting it. She hadn't even known Lexa was applying for it!

"Is everything all right?" Both Lexa and Clarke whirled on their intruder, though they had markedly different reactions. Bellamy stood at the end of the aisle, looking uncertainly between the two women. Clarke slumped in relief at the sight of him while Lexa drew herself up, a frown puckering her mouth. "It's just," he seemed a little lost, trying to suss out the situation, "I heard arguing."

Clarke quickly moved to his side, tucking herself as securely as possible against his bulk. Immediately, Clarke felt better. Bellamy looked down at her in concern. "Are you okay?" he murmured, for her ears only. Jerkily, she nodded before meeting Lexa's eye again. 

Lexa's gaze swept over Clarke and Bellamy. "I see you've spent your time well," she pronounced, something bitter and maybe even insecure crept into her voice. "Making new friends. Are you going to introduce us?"

"This is Bellamy, Lexa." Hearing herself, Clarke wanted to wince. Ice gilded her words and she worried about what Bellamy was going to think. Which was ridiculous, but so much about this situation was ridiculous, what was one more indignity piled on? After all, Bellamy knew in a general sense about Clarke's reputation for unfriendliness. Just because he'd never really seen it in action—as long as she discounted her refusal to speak to him—didn't mean he didn't believe it to be true. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she could see Bellamy nod once, doing nothing else to acknowledge the introduction. He didn't even send a curious glance her way.

Lexa's gaze turned calculating, darting again between Clarke and Bellamy. Something like understanding dawned and Clarke shifted uncomfortably. Leave it to Lexa to figure out at least some of Clarke's secret with one look. 

The understanding flashed to sadness before settling into the steely resolve Clarke was accustomed to. "I see how it is. Well, if you change your mind about," Lexa's eyes flicked up and down Bellamy, who straightened at the scrutiny, dismissively, "this, you know where to find me." And then, with a swish of her long coat, she was gone. 

Bellamy and Clarke stood, shellshocked, for a moment before glancing at one another. Clarke could practically see the questions brimming in Bellamy's mind, questions she had no interest in answering. Even if she could. She stepped away from his comforting heat to curtail any discussion of what just happened. She felt the removal keenly and was astonished at how that one little step could make her feel so much worse. 

Clarke hadn't let herself think about Lexa very much this semester and, foolishly, she'd thought that the fact that she hadn't had to force herself away from the subject meant that she was over it. She wasn't dwelling. She wasn't making brash promises to herself. Mostly, she just got on with her life. Which happened to become very complex post-Lexa, requiring much of Clarke's time and energy. But, hey! Progress was progress. She was more than willing to count this as a win on the Clarke Learns Adult Behavior To-Do List.

But now, confronted with Lexa once again, Clarke felt almost as gutted as she'd been last spring. Sure, it was more muffled, less galling than it had been, but six months made for pretty good padding. Somewhere deep inside, though, Clarke had been sure that she could meet Lexa again without feeling much of anything at all. Indifference was the goal. It was disappointing that she'd fallen short. 

Could this day get any worse?  she wondered to herself, leaving the site of her latest showdown with Lexa, Bellamy trailing behind. 

Unfortunately, Clarke Griffin had never learned her lesson when it came to tempting fate. 

Clarke thought she'd experienced the extent of Bellamy's ability to annoy, vex, and otherwise get under her skin. He was a big brother. It was his job to annoy his sister's friends and he had elevated it to an art form. More than that, though, his personality meant that Bellamy Blake was a formidable pain in the ass when he wanted to be. Deadpan snark paired with an acute eye for detail meant that he could zero in on that one doubt, that one chink in the armor, and exploit it for all he was worth. It made him a formidable debate partner (not that Clarke had ever actually gotten a chance at a proper argument with him), and a worryingly observant friend. 

Right now, though, Clarke was seeing Bellamy operate on a whole new level. 

Since flinging herself back on the lumpy library basement couch, Bellamy had not shut up. About Lexa. About what their fight had been about. About whether or not Clarke wanted to talk. 

It was strange. The only reason Clarke had gotten away with her deception was because much as Bellamy liked to talk, he wasn't big on forcing other people to. He almost always knew when one of their friends had a problem, but not because he spent all his time in mushy heart-to-hearts. Rather, he used his enviable powers of observation and drew his own conclusions. He wasn't particularly interested in confirmation of those suspicions, though. Instead, he'd ramp up his hovering, always ready to be a sounding board or solid shoulder if someone decided they needed him. That was how Harper finally got over her weird thing for Jasper and why Miller eventually admitted that things weren't working out with Bryan. The man had an uncanny knack for coaxing these problems into the open, all with hardly any fuss. 

And yet, here he was, looking at her with such concern on his face, insisting that Clarke would feel better if she would just talk. 

She really, really wouldn't. The small issue of voxnota and soulmates aside, Clarke had learned to get herself through her problems. She'd had to. There was no need to talk them over with another person, least of all her goddamn soulmate. 

(On second thought, maybe there was no putting the soulmate issue aside.)

And here was the crux of Clarke's problem. It wasn't enough that she had to deal with criticism from her friends, her mother, and even her ex. No, she had to listen to it from Bellamy, too. The person who was supposed to understand her better than anyone. The person who should have just known to leave well enough alone. Not for the first time, Clarke told herself that this whole cosmic destiny thing was bullshit. Still, just looking at Bellamy's concerned face, she couldn't quite bring herself to write it off completely. Not if it meant giving him up. 

That didn't mean, though, that she wasn't sick of his incessant, obtrusive needling. From the acidity of her glare and basic context clues, he'd figured out that Clarke had, at one time, dated Lexa. Since there was only so much information she could, or wanted, to supply nonverbally, he'd started spinning increasingly exaggerated stories to goad her into opening up. He'd started with the obvious: cheating; and moved onto the improbable: Lexa framing Clarke for murder. 

Honestly, either of those scenarios might have been easier to deal with. The first, because while Clarke could never actually imagine Lexa being unfaithful, at least she would have been on familiar ground. (It was only the second time Clarke ever thought to be grateful to Finn Collins.) The second, well. As estranged as Clarke and her mother were, she doubted Abby Griffin would let her only child stand accused of a violent crime. In fact, Clarke doubted her mother would even care about the veracity of the accusation; she'd have a team of lawyers handling the situation in no time at all.

(What really happened was this: 

Last spring, Clarke was accepted to a highly competitive fine arts program in Paris. Unfortunately, it was pricey and none of her usual financial aid would cover a trip abroad. So, she'd done her research and found a program that would cover her costs if she qualified after a completing a detailed application process, which included a faculty recommendation. Her professors assured her that she would be a shoo-in. So, imagine everyone's surprise when organized, detail-oriented Clarke's application was denied based on incompletion.

After she'd found out that she hadn't gotten the scholarship, Clarke had gone to her advisor to discuss options. Her shock only deepened when he informed her that her girlfriend had told him the recommendation letter probably wouldn't be necessary, Clarke was so flighty that she'd likely change her mind. It wouldn't have done Lexa any good to pretend that she hadn't been involved, not that she tried. So, Clarke broke it off with the girl she'd planned to discover Paris with. As she did, Lexa just nodded and walked away. 

It wasn't until later that Clarke learned the scholarship was ultimately awarded to one Lexa Dubois.)

"So, here's what I'm thinking: she's an international art thief. Initially, she befriended you for your expertise, but never expected her emotions to come into play." He tore his attention away from the work he mostly had ignored for the past hour to peer at her again. There'd been a lot of that in the past hour. "How close am I?"

She glared, though she was pretty sure that the frequency with which she'd had to level him with that particular expression was leaving her with diminishing returns on its effectiveness. She was proved right when Bellamy smirked lazily at her dark look.

Clarke turned her own attention back to sketch. The thick, heavy strokes of her charcoal complemented both the style she'd settled on and her foul mood. That the Bellamy taking shape on her page was disjointed, verging on grotesque, was all for the better. Serves him right, she thought viciously, hand slashing across the paper. Something loud and jangly started to play through her earbuds, only fueling her annoyance. She'd put them in as soon as they got back to their spot, hoping that Bellamy would take the hint and let what he'd just seen drop. Of course, he hadn't. 

"Hmm. No, that doesn't seem quite right." He rubbed his chin, staring at her critically for a moment before slumping in overplayed defeat. "All right," he sighed, "I give up. Are you going to tell me what the hell was up with that scene back there?"

She focused on the sketch, filling out the shadow cast by his unruly mop of hair. Music still blared into her ears, fighting Bellamy's voice for her attention. Her temples throbbed. 

"Come on, Clarke. You have to at least explain the Ice Queen act. Does she kick puppies or something?"

It was too much. Clarke dropped the stick of charcoal, its impact smudged the delicate constellations of freckles she'd dotted in. Her fingers twitched at the loss. She leveled one more poisonous glare at him, resolving to do something if he was going to just keep ignoring her. That she wasn't sure what that something was was a problem for Future Clarke.

Something about her frosty silence must finally have pushed Bellamy to the brink. "Tell me to back off and I will, but, God, Clarke. Can't you just trust me with this?"

He kept talking, heat and frustration building, but Clarke could hardly make sense of his words. Just sound. Vulnerability tinged with a too-familiar anger. Or maybe sadness edged with determination. Whatever it was, it clashed with the music pounding against her eardrums, which pulsed in a nauseating counterpoint to the throbbing in her skull. Woodenly, she pulled the earbuds out, wrapping them up because she always wrapped them up when she was done using them. With the music gone, just Bellamy filled her head, cascading over a roaring static.

Later, Clarke would think about what that static meant and decide that it was one last warning that she was about to fall over the edge. 

But that was later. At the moment, rushing white noise filling up her brain, Clarke felt like she was losing her mind. Bellamy's voice just kept going on and on, drowning out any protest she could have mustered. All those years of carefully planned contingencies and strategies disappeared in the face of his unrelenting insistence. Her methodically crafted walls shook against the onslaught.

And just like that, the vague annoyance she'd been feeling snapped; searing anger filled the void.

Who was he to demand her trust? Her soulmate, but what did that even mean?

Nothing.

It meant nothing.

It had to mean nothing!

She wanted to lash out, to push him away and keep him at arm's length. Anything to get him to stop.

"What do you want me to say?" 

It spilled from her tongue, more acid than anything she'd entertained. But the words were out of her control, now, hanging in the air between them. All she could feel was dread, cold and dripping down her spine. How could she have crumbled like that? She couldn't breathe, watching in almost slow motion as he opened his mouth. Shock or a response? Clarke thrummed with the anxiety of not knowing.

"Just say something! Jesus, Clarke, it’s like all I do is wait and wait for you to open up. Is that ever gonna happen?” He looked desperate, pleading, but there was no underlying current of shock. No widening of the eyes, no hitch of breath, no understanding creeping over his face.

And just like that, Clarke broke her own heart. Of course she wasn’t Bellamy’s soulmate. Of course someone who played games like she did didn’t have a reciprocal connection. Just one more big fuck you from the universe. 

“What do you wanna know?" She felt brittle, ready to blow away at the slightest breath, but he deserved a response. "That this is maybe the shittiest day I’ve had in a while and there isn’t a lot you can do to make it better?”

“You don’t know that.” Bellamy had his stubborn face on. Jaw set and tendon twitching as he ground his teeth. 

Clarke’s laugh skirted just shy of contempt. If she were meaner, more callous, she would enjoy the extra jump of that tendon. But what Clarke was, was tired. All that heat, that rage, had guttered out at the realization that Clarke was in this thing alone. Inside, it was just curling, choking smoke where fire just burned. “I do,” she said, the rebuttal gentle. After all, it wasn’t Bellamy’s fault that this situation was so messed up. He didn't deserve her anger and never had. She'd made her bed, now she'd have to lie in it. Even if it was more like a bed of nails. 

Now that she knew, it almost hurt to look at him. To take in the swirls of freckles and the premature wrinkles in his forehead, the dark sweep of curls over his ears. It hurt, but Clarke still forced herself to do it. Forced herself to acknowledge all the mistakes she'd made and the fact that she only hurt because of her actions. After all, if she'd just bit the bullet to begin with, she'd have known from the outset that she wasn't Bellamy's soulmate. And then, maybe she wouldn't have gotten so invested. So curious about what it might be like, to love someone the way people are supposed to. Maybe they could have just been friends without her building up all these expectations, telling herself that he would still be there when she was ready. It was selfish and Clarke reconciled herself to the fact that she'd probably gotten what she deserved. 

(She definitely didn't let herself think about him knowing about her words, his lack of them and not caring. Didn't let herself wonder what it would be like if he picked her anyway. Down that path lay danger.)

He stared back, hurt and confused and Clarke knew that she wouldn't be able to shut him out forever. Didn't want to, even, despite a crumbling void in her chest. He was, for better or worse, her friend and he didn't deserve her cold shoulder. Some day, she could go back to being just his friend again and put this whole fucking ordeal behind her. She hoped she could at least. Still, that day would not be today. Today, she needed to process. Alone. 

She smiled at him and ordinarily, she would have cared that it felt like the veneer of normalcy she sheltered in had cracked down the middle. But most of Clarke currently felt like it had cracked down the middle, so she maintained that wobbly smile. If she dropped it she might do something truly embarrassing like break down in tears. Then, he'd never let her leave. "I'm fine. I'll get over," she paused, considering her word choice, "this. I just need some time."

He nodded. Clarke could see the disbelief dance across his face. How did I get here? it said, thinking of the way he'd been teasing her only minutes ago.

Silently, because it was strange being allowed to talk to him, she packed up her belongings. Wrapping that silence around her, armor or a blanket—something to keep the world at bay—she left. She didn't turn back, didn't want to see any more of his confusion or concern. Not with her heart rattling around her chest in pieces.

It figured that it would take a broken heart for Clarke to figure out how to burn this print the way she wanted. She watched as the picture emerged, slightly distorted under the gentle waves of the chemical bath. The balance of shadow and light was perfect, though Clarke didn't feel the glow of pride that she might have on any other day. Numbly, she counted along with the second hand. Maybe that's why she finally got this one right. There were no more distractions, nothing crowding out the purity of the process in her head. After all, the worse had happened. What else did she have to worry about?

Time's up. 

As she transferred the print to its next bath, she heard the outer door to the photo lab thud shut. She sighed. Who actually needed the photo lab during the last few days of break? Just as she took a breath to tell them to wait a minute, their voice cut her off.

“Clarke?” 

She froze, tongs hovering over her print in the stop bath. 

A knock sounded at the darkroom door. “Are you in there? The ‘In Use’ light is on, so I’m pretty sure you’re in there.” Her tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Mechanically, she slid the print into the next pool of chemicals and strained to listen to the silence beyond her hiding place. She would swear she heard the whoosh of his sigh. “Listen, if you’re not going to answer me, I’m just going to come in.”

“No!” It burst out of her before she could help herself. “Um, no. Just, just a minute!” she called, eyes on the ticking second hand, not sure if she wanted it to stop or speed up. 

But it seemed that Bellamy couldn’t wait. As she finished up with her print, rinsing it and hanging it on the drying rack, he started to speak. He sounded agitated, which maybe explained his total non sequitur: “Did you know that I’ve never gotten a tattoo?”

Clarke paused and thought for a moment. This didn’t seem like a rhetorical question, not that Bellamy didn’t love some good rhetoric. “No,” she finally answered, pitching her voice to be heard through the door. “I didn’t know that.”

“I figured. It’s not like we really talk much.” The way his voice faded and swelled made her think he was pacing. He went quiet for a second before continuing. “So, I was at the pool, swimming laps. It’s what I do when I need to tire myself out. Anyway, I get through my set and I’m heading back to the locker room when this girl stops me. And you know what she says to me?”

“No?” Clarke had tidied away all the chemicals. She’d straightened all the enlargers and tucked away all the photo paper. All that was left was to flip off the light switch. The light switch that would turn off the “In Use” sign hanging outside the door. The light switch that would alert Bellamy to her impending exit. One finger. That's all it would take. She couldn’t do it. 

“She tells me that she likes my tattoo and wants to show me hers.”

The bottom dropped out of Clarke’s stomach. It wasn’t enough that Bellamy wasn’t her soulmate, now he had to tell her about the people that were hitting on him and using weird, untrue pickup lines to do it. She was suddenly and intensely grateful for the dim, red shadows that enveloped the darkroom. They told her that she was inside and almost safe while danger lay outside. Never in her life did she think she would identify so profoundly with photo paper.

“So, what do you think I did, Clarke?” There was an edge to his voice that made her reluctant to answer, but he repeated himself, more insistently. 

The metal door of the darkroom was cool against her forehead. Why did he think that pressing her about the girl that flirted with him was a good idea right now? It wasn't a good idea any time, to be honest, but especially not now. “I don’t—“ her vocal cords seized, but she still answered him. “I don’t know.”

A sound dangerously like a grumpy hmph floated through the door before Bellamy continued. “Well, I thanked her and kept right on going, chalking it up to average campus weirdness. But then, I get into the locker room and I catch sight of myself in the mirror and—“

It clicked. What Bellamy was trying to tell her. She wasn't sure how, but suddenly, she knew. 

The door was open almost before she could tell herself to do it. In the bright lights of the photo lab, Bellamy had been pacing away from the darkroom. His hair was still damp from the swim, patches of wet sticking his shirt to his body. Clarke drank him in, unwilling to admit that this might not be the last time she ever saw him. She told herself that he'd only come to let her know that she was awful at being a person and he wasn't going to put up with it, no matter what the Universe had to say about it. Not when there were random girls willing to flirt with him at the pool. At the sound of the door’s light seal dragging against the floor, he’d turned, eyes wild. 

“And?” Clarke prompted, chest tightening in unimaginable hope. 

“And fuck, Clarke. There they were.” He tapped a spot inches above his heart. “The first words you ever said to me. Did you know that was the first thing you ever said to me?”

Wordlessly, she nodded, though she couldn't tear her eyes away from the spot he'd jabbed. For all that his shirt clung damply to his skin, the fabric was still opaque. She couldn't see the words, couldn't quite believe that they were there.

"How?"

Bewilderment colored her words. "I don't think anyone knows how—"

He waved her off, exasperation crowding out the wild confusion. "You know that's not what I meant." She hadn't, but thought he wouldn't appreciate the correction. "How were those your first words to me? We've known each other for months."

Clarke looked away, not that that lessened the weight of his gaze on her. Steeling herself, she straightened and said, "I decided not to talk to you." Something shuttered across his face and Clarke hurried to correct herself. "I mean, it wasn't you that I decided not to talk to. Just my soulmate. Who is you." She wilted. It had been a pipe dream to believe she could ever tell Bellamy without ruining this.

Bellamy shook his head. "That's not possible, Clarke. You've spoken to me before this." It started out as a statement of fact, but something in her expression made him tack on, "Right?" She shook her head, hating every choice she'd made that got her to this point. "You have," he insisted, a plea and a demand. "We argue all the fucking time. How else would I know that you think Rugrats was the best cartoon as a kid?"

"I've spoken around you. And to you when you're in a group, but never just to you alone. The way I never actually address you when we argue, that was to keep you from finding out."

He slumped onto one of the empty stools, rubbing a hand through his hair as he tried to wrap his mind around this information. Clarke hovered, unsure if she should say anything more, not that there was a lot to say. She'd just confessed to willfully keeping him in the dark. Her decision was made for her when Bellamy got unsteadily to his feet. Instinctively, she reached out, but he stepped away and left her hands bereftly empty. Fingers curled in, nails biting into her palms, though it wasn't enough of a distraction from the swift, sudden pain that bloomed in her chest. Bellamy stared at her, like he saw everything that flitted through Clarke's mind and wasn't sure what to make of it.

"I can't do this right now," he announced, though gently. Still, that pain only seared deeper inside Clarke. Bellamy shook his head like it would shake his thoughts into order. "Just. You've had months to figure this out. Years, even. This got sprung on me not even an hour ago."

Weakly, Clarke nodded her agreement. "Okay," she breathed, unable to say anything else with the well of wretchedness clawing it's way up her stomach. 

Bellamy didn't leave right away, studying Clarke as confusion and anger and resentment warred across his face. She couldn't look at him, couldn't face the reality of what she'd done. So, Clarke kept her eyes down, staring at the chapped, weather-bitten skin of her knuckles until, finally, the door to the lab opened, paused for an interminable moment, and swung shut. 

She was alone, just as she'd always planned. 

Somehow, it didn't feel the way she'd imagined.

Clarke didn't bother to look up when someone slid into the seat across from her at Drip-Dropship Coffee. Various friends had slid in and out of that seat all morning; she assumed this was her newest caretaker. In fact, she'd hardly had a moment to herself in the past week. She wouldn't have been surprised if Raven had a google calendar for their friends to sign up for Clarke Watching duty. Her roommate had insisted on knowing Clarke's schedule in full. In a way, it was gratifying, knowing that her friends wanted to take care of her even when they didn't know what was wrong. In another way, it was grating on her very last nerve. She continued to annotate The Yellow Wallpaper, entirely sympathetic with the narrator. 

A throat cleared. She glanced up and went back to reading, hoping that brief acknowledgement would serve. Hardly a few lines in and her brain caught up with the situation. Her hand skittered across the page she was so startled. Slowly, self-consciously, she straightened, unable to keep her eyes from going wide and disbelieving at the sight that greeted her. 

"Bellamy," she breathed. 

He looked tired. Not in that bullshit way that people used it to mean sick or awful. He just looked tired, half moons of bruises sitting under his eyes, slumped in the uncomfortably angular chair. Tired or not, though, he was probably the best thing Clarke had ever laid her eyes on. It wasn't until this moment that she fully realized that she'd thought she would never see him again. She'd surrendered herself to it without even making a conscious decision. The flood of relief that came, even before her realization, was diverted by the quizzical look on his face. She'd expected thunderous or resigned, but not curiosity. It took her a moment to figure out it wasn't meant for her, but the torn out page of note paper in her hands. 

Her hands had automatically reached for a piece of paper to slide over to him. She flushed, caught in an act of intimacy she wasn't sure she was allowed. It was achingly reassuring when he simply took the offered paper, even if he didn't draw the way he usually did. He let it sit in front of him as he leaned back in his chair, unwilling to be drawn in further. He frowned, but it was the frown that said he was still mulling something over, that he had yet to make up his mind. As quick as it came, Clarke smothered the spark of hope that flared from just that bit of familiarity. It was something she'd gotten good at over the past week.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, having decided that Bellamy had done more than his fair share of waiting over the past months. He raised a brow and she flushed, looking down at lines of text that had been perfectly clear a moment ago. Strange. They wobbled unevenly now, even though Clarke knew she should be focusing on the matter at hand. "Um. I know I never said that before, but I was. I am." She bit her lip to keep more words from spilling out. Finally, she looked up again.

Bellamy nodded, though he didn't say anything for a minute. The silence was agonizing. Clarke recognized and cursed the irony. Finally, he sighed, some of the tension leaking out of his frame. Somehow, he looked even more tired. 

"I've had a lot of time to think and try to understand," he shook his head ruefully, "but I don't think I will until I hear it from you."

"All right," she agreed, laying her pen down and folding her hands in her lap. Really, an explanation was the least she could provide. "What would you like to know?"

"Why?"

Clarke blinked. She'd been careful not to build up expectations about this conversation, unsure if it would ever happen. Still, she wasn't sure if she'd have been able to come up with this scenario: Bellamy with his crossed arms sitting across from her in a crowded public place and a single word question. Looking at him, Clarke was fairly sure he wouldn't appreciate a request for clarification, that he would view it as a delay tactic. To an extent, it would be, but mostly she wanted an idea of where to start and how much he wanted to know. She mulled over her answer carefully, unsure of herself in a way that had become uncomfortably familiar. The longer she thought, the more it became clear that only the whole story would do. So, she took a ragged breath and started from the beginning. 

She started with the plan she'd made when she was sixteen and heartbroken. The rules she put in place in order to insulate herself from a cruel, indifferent universe. But none of that made any sense without context, so she backtracked to the real start. Jake Griffin. The man that he was, the kind of husband and father he'd been. It had been a long time since she'd told anyone about her dad, probably Raven when they got drunk on wine coolers one night and shared all their darkest secrets. That's how she'd ended up confessing about her voxnota, anyway. This felt better. Sharing because she'd made the decision and not because alcohol had loosened her tongue. It hardly even hurt to recount her father's death and the suspicious circumstances surrounding it.

"After I figured it all out, I kind of lost it," she confessed, staring off over Bellamy's shoulder. (It was one thing to unload and another to maintain eye contact while doing it.) "Not in the traditional sense. I didn't dye my hair or start acting out, that came after other setbacks. I just. I decided that I wasn't ever going to let someone else have that kind of power over me. I wouldn't trust someone with my life or my heart or anything, including my soulmate." She huffed out a rueful laugh and finally returned her attention to Bellamy. "I should have known better, right?"

Bellamy shifted a bit, like he had to hold himself back from offering a soothing reply. "That it?" he questioned gruffly.

Clarke frowned, unsure if her tragically dead dad should really warrant that kind of attitude. Still, she pressed on, "Yeah. I mean, that was the catalyst. And none of my relationships ever really convinced me to change my mind. Did a pretty good job of making me dig in deeper, actually."

"Lexa?"

Her heart was already laid bare, what was the harm in dredging up more of her sordid past? Clarke started with the good: how easily they fit together and how brightly their passion burned. Kissing Lexa had been like the metaphorical fireworks everyone talked about: sizzle and smoke and spectacle. It was easy to forget how quickly fireworks burned out while she was caught in the middle of it. Which led her to the bad: the increasing isolation from her friends, the terrifying beginnings of unhealthy codependence. Finally, she ended with the worst: Lexa's casual betrayal, as if she and Clarke hadn't talked about Paris like it was something they'd do together, making plans to climb the Eiffel Tower together, to walk through the Musée de l'Orangerie hand in hand. 

She didn't shy away from revealing the mistakes she'd made, how much she disliked the person she'd become to fit with Lexa. Bellamy deserved the honesty, much as it pained her to rehash everything.

"Well, I can't blame you for the Ice Queen impersonation, then, but I still think it would be worse if she'd kicked puppies."

It was enough to startle a laugh out of Clarke. Creaky from disuse, it hung in the air between them, Bellamy's lips quirking up for a moment before settling back into their serious line.

"So how did you think this was going to end?"

"I don't know."

His expression was pure exasperation, from his unimpressed stare to the disappointed tilt of his head. "Clarke, you've had plans and contingencies for this since you were in high school. Do you really expect me to believe you didn't have a vision for the way this would play out?"

"I guess I assumed that if I ever met my soulmate, I'd be able to avoid them. After I knew." She swallowed dryly and worried her lip. "Easier said than done."

Bellamy snorted, but there was still hurt wedged into the lines of his brow. She wanted to reach out and smooth them away, but wasn't sure if anything she could say would erase the fact that she'd put it there in the first place.

"It wasn't about you," she offered, plucking at a loose thread in her jeans.

The twist in Bellamy's mouth didn't quite hit bitterness, but it was well on its way. "Yeah, that doesn't help the way you think it does," he observed dryly.

She nodded to hide her wince. "I'm sorry."

"And anyway, that ignores the fact that it was about me. The minute you knew who I was, this whole thing became about me." Clarke didn't have an excuse, though she wasn't sure she would offer one if she did. He was right. She watched him, gnawing on her lip as she waited for him to continue. Bellamy watched her just as soberly. Then, all the air rushed out of him and with it went some of the resentment. "You should have told me. I shouldn't have had to find out like I did. Why didn't you tell me?"

Unsaid, but heard all the same: Was I the reason you didn't say anything? Wasn't I good enough?

Clarke leaned forward, stomach pressing against the edge of the table. How she ached to reach out a hand to him, but Bellamy had hardly moved a muscle in all this time. He remained settled back in his seat, as far away from her as he could get while still sitting at the table. "I wanted to tell you. Of course I did!" she said, fiercer than she meant to. "Once I knew..." she trailed off, wishing that that was the complete thought. "Once I knew you, who you are, of course I wanted to tell you.

"I just couldn't figure out how. How was I supposed to tell you you're my soulmate? That I'd been keeping this secret from you? First because of my own issues and then because I didn't want you to hate me? Even when I hate the very idea of soulmates, but you, you make me want—"

Clarke broke off, not sure if she could handle finishing her sentence when she didn't know what his answer would be. She stared at him, anguish still spilling from her tongue and wondering if it showed on her face, too.

"Want what, Clarke?" he pushed, harsher than he'd yet been. He focused on her intently as he finally leaned forward.

"I want to try." If anything, it was the roughness in his voice that pushed Clarke to utter, straightforward honesty. It told her that maybe she wasn't the only one with something on the line. Still, that didn't make it any easier to look Bellamy in the eye as she made her statement. Didn't make it any easier as he stared her down, not a whiff of relief loosening his frown.

"Try? Clarke, you ran before you even knew trying was an option." It was like a switch inside him flipped. His gaze was open and vulnerable, letting her see every insecurity this past week had awoken in him. Every doubt and fear played itself out on his face, making Clarke's heart ache with self-reproach.

On the one hand, she was glad he wasn't shielding her from his pain. She deserved all of it and more. On the other, she felt her cruelty over again, this time without the hope that Bellamy had shaken off the incident. That was brutally clear. The subtext of his rebuke was just as brutal. An accusation: You left me before I could prove myself.

How could he believe that? That he'd need to prove himself to her? As if he was the flawed one, wanting in some way. Guilt boiled up her chest and throat, settling hotly behind her eyes. That she'd ever encouraged him to think he was anything less than selfless and good was, in her opinion, unforgivable. 

Clarke sniffed, hating the heat that prickled behind her eyes. Hating the tear that rolled down her cheek even more. She turned away from him, trying to hide her weakness, little good that it would do. Another tear joined the first and she wanted to dash them away even as she knew that would only bring attention to them. She curled her hands into fists, willing the tears to dry. 

Then, better than magic, warmth covered her hands. It was enough to startle her into looking at him. Well, the parts of him that were touching her. Because he was. His hands cradled hers—tenderly, reverently—and offered comfort she was sure he was incapable of denying. 

Finally, when she convinced herself to meet his gaze again, he was looking back at her, steady and composed. He wasn't disgusted or putting on a brave face. Shades of resentment still lurked in the set of his jaw, but it was less pronounced than it had been when he sat down. Better than Clarke had dared to hope. It was enough to make her smile, soft and certain, relishing the reassuring pressure of his hands around hers. 

"I know we can fix this." She did. Any doubts she'd had about Bellamy had faded long ago, almost before she even realized she liked him. That was just who he was, a man that inspired confidence and hated to disappoint. He was her complement, in all the most important ways, and Clarke knew she could be his, too. 

Someday, if he gave her the chance, she'd prove that they were better together. Not because the universe had branded them soulmates, but because they'd choose each other. Maybe not forever because not even their words were a guarantee. But Clarke was done with trying to curtail heartbreak. It hadn't gotten her very far in life, had probably made a bigger mess than her problems warranted. She couldn't say what the future would bring, just that it would whether or not she was happy. And, oh, did she want to be happy.

Right now, Clarke Griffin was sure that Bellamy Blake was a part of that happiness. She wanted to face the future with him for as long as they chose each other. 

Bellamy didn't move his hand, though he fixed Clarke with one last, careful study. He searched her face. Clarke would never know what it was he saw; the earnest, apologetic hope that swirled through her gut or some deeper truth that only he could find. Whatever it was, he nodded after a silent moment that seemed, to Clarke, to stretch into eons. Reflexively, his fingers tightened around hers and he smiled, a little uncertain, but a smile nonetheless. It was the best thing Clarke had ever seen, she could hardly hold back her own. 

So, in the middle of a crowded coffeeshop, smiles alight, Clarke finally accepted what the universe had been telling her all along.

(She, however, would maintain that the universe could take a flying leap.)