Archive of Our Own

*

The first time she sees him, she’s 16 and waiting for the elevator in a shoddy hotel where a convention for aspiring actors is being held.

Her hand clings tightly to the fraying strap of her duffel bag, mother at her side talking amusedly about her father’s latest heartbreak over Ohio State losing to Michigan in order to fill the silence between them, though the chatter from others permeating the air is more than enough to do so. She stifles the urge to roll her eyes, settling instead for checking the clock on the wall opposite them. Nearly half past noon.

They’ve been waiting for close to five minutes, and she half-wonders if maybe they should just take the stairs. (Shoddy hotels equal even worse elevators, more often than not).

When she looks away, she notices the crowd of people scattered about the hallway, each displaying their own version of nervousness- fiddling hands, tapping feet with no rhythm- but all she can seem to focus on is a smattering of freckles and dark, curly hair; a scowl deep enough to make someone shrink away in response. Yet, somehow, it intrigues her.

She figures he’s about her age, maybe a few years older. He’s accompanied by a woman with equally dark hair, presumably his mother, and a young girl. His arms are crossed, and he nods once as the girl smacks playfully at his arm, though he doesn’t look particularly kind in doing so. Clarke wonders if he’s here for the same reason she is, or if maybe they’re guests for a different reason whilst halfway hoping it’s the former of the two.

He glances in her direction, and her mother breaks her attention away before she’s able to make a fool of herself.

“Maybe you should read through the script for that audition you have next week,” she offers, and though Clarke nearly turns down the suggestion, merely wanting to go to their room and take a nap, she nods. Her eyes flit over to him once again, short, as her mother fishes the paper from out of her bag, muttering something about how Clarke needs to learn to be more organized, herself.

The shrill ringing of a phone is almost enough to make her jump, and with a mumbled, “I have to take this. I’ll meet you upstairs,” from her mother, she’s left alone in the midst of people surrounding her, an unsteady feeling in her chest.

The audition’s nothing big, really, she’s not quite sure why her parents have been so frazzled over it; it’s for a commercial that likely won’t reach anyone outside of their area, but she supposes it’s better than nothing, really. The paper crinkles slightly in her grip, and she swallows, reading the words printed there despite her apparent inability to focus on them. Faintly, she hears the ding of the elevator doors opening, and at the realization, she begins to walk forward, still eyeing the script in hand.

It isn’t until she bumps into someone, hears a muttered, “Watch where you’re going,” that she looks up, realizing who, exactly, it is.

“S- sorry,” she mumbles, and when she looks down, she notices she’s caused him to drop his own stack of papers. Without looking at him, she bends down to pick them up, and despite being unsure of what order they belong in, hands them over, their hands brushing as she does so. She can feel herself flush with embarrassment- a pink hue to her chest, a warming of her cheeks- and maybe a little bit of something else, too.

He merely hums in response, as if shrugging her off, and she swallows down the hurt at him, this stranger , turning away from her.

Miraculously, they both manage to make it onto the elevator, only a hair’s breadth away from the doors shutting on them. Clarke can feel her pulse pounding, can hear it flowing in her ears, her shoulder pressed tightly against this man’s. He doesn’t seem to pay it any mind, instead focusing on the lights at the front of the elevator indicating which floor they’re passing, and she decides to take his approach, peering down at the paper in her hand instead of fiddling aimlessly. He doesn’t have to know that she can’t focus, that the smell of his cologne filling her senses despite the several others around them is enough to inhibit her, even if he wasn’t very kind in their single interaction. Quite frankly, she’s unsure what to make of it all.

Maybe he’s having a bad day, she figures.

“Funny,” he whispers once the majority of the crowd has filtered out. She still has several floors to go, and figures he does, too. He nods at the paper in her hand, and Clarke furrows a brow, confused by what he’s meaning. “Don’t see why you feel the need to worry about that,” he finishes with a shrug.

“I’m… sorry?” she falters. “I don’t know what you mean.”  She’s not sure whether he’s being kind, telling her she doesn’t need to fret, or if he’s on the borderline of insulting her by this point.

“Bellamy…” the woman behind her says, voice warning. “Be nice.”

Bellamy. Clarke resists the urge to silently mouth the name, to learn how it feels washing over her tongue. Glancing over at him, she thinks that it makes sense, that the name fits him. But then he opens his mouth again, harsher this time, and suddenly she’s not so sure a person like him deserves a name so beautiful.

“I’m just surprised, is all. Especially considering dear old Mom and Dad could land you any role you want,” he sneers, shaking his head and leaning further against the wall, and Clarke decides that this could probably win world records for both the longest and the most awkward elevator rid to possibly ever occur.

She swallows against the lump in her throat, nodding once, shame coursing through her at the mere mention of her parents and what strings they could possibly pull for her.

She knows what he’s talking about, of course, and her mother has tried to do exactly what he’s describing. Multiple times. Clarke doesn’t want her career to depend upon the careers her parents once led, the agency they run now. She doesn’t want her last name to determine her worth the way it does so many others in the business.

She doesn’t wish to be the girl who only receives offers due to her name, but rather the girl who earns roles due to deservance and loses roles with dignity because she can acknowledge that there are others more deserving than she is. It might be more difficult, but it will at least be done with a clear conscience, much unlike how she would feel if her parents were to pull strings for her.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says stubbornly, heaving a grateful sigh at the sight of the elevator doors finally opening at her floor.

Unfortunately, it’s his, too.

“I know more than you think I do. Your parents could find you work with any director out West, but you stay here and steal roles from people who wouldn’t have a chance in Hell out there instead.”

“Steal?” she repeats, offended. “If I get hired, it’s because I’ve earned it. My parents, and me ‘stealing’ roles have nothing to do with it.”

He pauses, tilts his head to the side, and for a moment she thinks she’s won. “So you think no one’s heard about your mom’s partnership with Marcus Kane then, huh?” His voice is low, taunting, and she fidgets with a string at the bottom of her shirt, wishing to walk away, to shrivel under his gaze instead.

“Bellamy, let’s go,” the younger girl tugs at his arm, trying to get his attention. Clarke, despite her best attempts to not let him get to her, feels blinded by rage, and tears prick at the back of her eyes out of both frustration and guilt. Bellamy’s eyes don’t move away from her as he nods at the other girl, murmuring a low, “Yeah, okay,” though he looks reluctant to do so.

“Sorry about him,” the woman she presumes is his mother apologizes, looking embarrassed. “He gets a little… worked up sometimes, but he shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke responds, voice weak. “I get it.” She tries to offer a smile, but knows it comes off as wobbly, and the woman gives one of her own in return before turning to go, a hand at Bellamy’s shoulder urging him forward.

Clarke takes a deep breath, tries to resist watching as he goes, but it doesn’t work.

Based on the way he glances at her over his shoulder, steps slowing, it doesn’t seem to work for him, either, and she isn’t sure whether that makes her feel better or worse.

Clarke’s never been one for making snap judgements, has always believed it’s best to get to know the person well enough to pass sound judgement instead, but watching him go- the memory of his taunting, the teasing tone to his voice at the back of her mind- she breaks her own rule. Tears threaten to spill over her lashes. She blinks them back once, twice, and as he disappears from her sight, she decides that regardless of the way he made her heart skip and the blood rush to her cheeks in a flush deep enough anyone could see, she doesn’t like him.

She runs a hand through her hair, and with force much greater than she’d like to admit, pulls her gaze away from where he’s just disappeared. Her mother appears only moments later, a grin on her face as she pulls out their room key. Clarke returns her smile, but follows wordlessly.

“Everything okay?” her mother asks as their door opens and Clarke swallows, setting her bags aside. She knows she’s concerned, but doesn’t know what, exactly to tell her. Some guy she doesn’t even know was a jerk, she let him to get to her too easily, and now she’s upset because of it?

Clarke takes a seat at the edge of the bed closest to the window, hand following the patterns on the comforter, dark colored flowers and vines flowing upwards. The script in her hand suddenly feels much heavier than it had earlier. She fixes her gaze on her mother, preoccupied with looking through the mini fridge, and though she can’t see her, forces a smile.

“Yeah, Mom, don’t worry,” she assures her. “I’m just tired, I think. It’s been,” she pauses, considering, but settles for a weak, “a long day.”

Despite it being early still, and knowing she has somewhere to be within a matter of hours, she lies back against the pillows, fingers unfolding from the paper. Her mother hums in acknowledgement of her words, offers a kind yet unhelpful, “Maybe you should try taking a nap,” before heading into the bathroom to take a shower.

Not bothering to pull down the comforter, she lets her eyes slip shut, and finds that they burn with the image of the boy- man- from the elevator. His frown, the hard line of his jaw, the deepness of his voice that directed disdain so easily her way. For a moment, she feels upset by it, a reminder of her privilege, of how people see her. (Of someone she’d hoped wouldn’t see her in such a way).

Yet as she drifts to sleep and his scowl is replaced with a grin, his words soft and kind, she finds she doesn’t mind. She merely hopes that her mind soon forgets him altogether.

Though with her luck, of course, it doesn’t.

He lingers in her mind as she auditions for the commercial her parents urged her to do, seamlessly reciting her lines with a smile on her face despite the war she feels within. His words mock her. Is she taking roles from others that are more deserving, leaving them without a chance? She swallows past the lump in her throat, makes eye contact with the casting director- watching her with an intrigued look himself- and tells herself she isn’t, that the guy from the elevator didn’t have a clue. Not about her, not about what he was talking about.

He didn’t know anything about her.

She gets the role, and excitedly hugs her parents, clinging to them both a moment longer than necessary. They tell her how happy they are for her, that there’s no one more deserving, and she wonders if their words are true. She thinks that there are probably others out there who are just as deserving as she, that someone out there deserved it more. Perhaps the girl who sat with her in the hallway as they waited for their names to be called, nervously reciting the lines under her breath. Clarke wonders what her name was, whether she’s upset by being pushed aside for someone else.

Selfishly, she lets her excitement override the guilt he’s instilled in her. A stranger’s words shouldn’t impact her as much as they do, and she thinks that, perhaps, she hates him for it, burning rage enveloping her at the thought of him where there were once butterflies and warm, fuzzy feelings.

Clarke breathes a sigh of relief at the realization that she’ll never see him again, that he’ll never have the chance to be anything more than the man who once told her unkind words.

She continues to do commercials, small-scale ones for car dealerships and the occasional restaurant, even landing one for a skincare product line she desperately hopes won’t flop.

Sometimes she wonders if she’ll ever make it out of her area, if maybe she should use her parents’ connections to boost her chances. After all, they could get her in contact with nearly any director out West, the snarky voice in her head that sounds all too much like His reminds her. Then she figures that one day, when she’s eventually made it, she’ll be happier if she’s gotten there on her own.  

Her mother asks if she can help, says that all she has to do is dial a number and any role Clarke wants can very well be hers, and as always, she shoots down her suggestions, any offers she gives.

Clarke knows they aren’t being made out of the kindness of her heart.

When she’s 20, after a particularly heavy argument with her mother, she moves out West, gets an agent, and struggles for months in a dingy, shoe-box sized apartment she shares with two people she doesn’t even know. Unable to find work in the area she desires, she gets a job waitressing and practically survives on spare change, and as she’s least expecting it, on her last dime, she lands what she considers her first real role.

It’s nothing much, not really, an Indie film about the struggles of a girl in small-town suburbia. She figures it won’t get much attention in the media or from anywhere other than local film festivals, but she’s near tears by the end of the call with her agent telling her she’s landed the lead role, anyway. The flutter in her chest at the words, “They’re offering you the role,” is like nothing she’s experienced before, and belatedly, she realizes His voice isn’t in her head anymore, weighing her down. She thinks that maybe she left it behind with all of the fears, all of the self-doubt she felt back home, and she feels… free, in a way, and wonders if this is what success is like, if this is how her parents used to feel.

It’s a nice feeling.

The next few years go by in much of the same manner. She lands a role, goes through a few months without landing anything, and it isn’t how she would prefer to live, but she’s happy, doing what she wants to do.

She finds that there isn’t much to complain about.

When she’s 23, her agent calls early one morning with a role she thinks she might like, and Clarke isn’t entirely sold on it at first, truthfully, though that might have a bit to do with her half-asleep state.

“What do you want?” she murmurs into the phone, face still half-buried against her pillow.

“Good morning to you, too, Clarke,” Anya says, in a strangely good mood for how early it is. Or, well, in a strangely good mood for any time of the day, for her. Clarke can feel her eyes grow heavy in the few seconds of silence before Anya says, “I have a role you might like, you should hear me out before deciding to fall asleep again. Unless, of course, you’re not interested in a-”

“I’m listening,” she says, though she doesn’t sit upright, only tucks the phone closer to her ear. “Go on.”

She listens as Anya explains that it’s a pilot for a TV show one of the smaller networks are considering, and that she really thinks Clarke should consider it, and though she could use the money right now, Clarke isn’t entirely buying it.

“It’s a pilot,” she stresses. “What if it doesn’t even get picked up?”

“What does it matter? You still get paid.”

“Okay, but still,” Clarke pauses, biting her lip in thought. “Say that it does get picked up, what happens when ratings tank and it gets cancelled within a year?”

“What happens if it doesn’t?” Anya counters. “Look, Clarke, if you don’t want it, that’s fine. But I don’t see the harm in trying.”

She sighs, considering the woman’s words. Her brain, no longer fogged with sleep, runs through the possibilities, and though she figures a lot could go wrong, there’s always the chance that everything could go right. She hasn’t booked a role in months, hasn’t so much as gotten a callback.

“Fine,” she relents. “I’ll read through the script, and then I’ll… decide,” she settles for. Though she figures there isn’t much that could turn her away from at least auditioning, she’d like to read the script first and get a feel for what she’s looking at if she’s hired.

“My office at 10?”

“I’ll be there.”

Clarke runs a hand through her hair, and with a groan, falls back against the bed, figuring that it won’t hurt to at least try. Her mind runs on autopilot, all of the ways this could go wrong plaguing her thoughts.

She crosses her fingers and hopes for the best, and when she gets to Anya’s office an hour and a half later, ten minutes later than planned due to a missed bus, finds herself pleasantly surprised.

The first thing she notices upon flipping through the script is that the show’s obviously aimed at a young audience, the descriptions of the characters and foreshadowing hinting at flimsy teen romances enough to signal her into the fact.

It’s set in a dystopian era, a community hidden underground hit by a rapidly spreading virus only a select few, including the lead character, are immune to. Strangely enough, Clarke finds herself flipping through the pages, genuinely interested in seeing what comes next, and by the end of it, she thinks she’s made up her mind, transfixed on one character in particular.

“If I do this,” she starts, looking up to meet Anya’s gaze, intimidating still yet somehow comforting all the same. “I’m auditioning for Layla.”

Layla’s the lead character, described as kind yet also ruthless when need be, smarter than she’s given credit for, and for the first time, Clarke truly wants a role, can feel the longing in her chest at the thought of playing this character.

“Glad to see you on board finally,” Anya says. “I think she’d be the best fit for you, but they might prefer you audition for someone else.”

Clarke sighs, agrees that she’ll try and be happy regardless, and flips back through the script, eyes skimming over the area in which Layla meets the lead male, Alex, one of the outsiders with no compassion for people like her, and from the first lines alone, it’s obvious they’ll clash. Yet, with the way the warmth in Layla’s chest is described, the obvious tension between the two, Clarke can’t help but feel that there’s more there.

“I’ll call and set up an audition.”

She reads the script front to back so many times she’s sure she knows not only the lines she needs to, but probably the lines of every other character, too, and despite her stuttering over several lines and the way her hands shake the entire time, she walks away from the audition with the role she wanted, pride blooming within her. It seems like, for once, everything is working out the way Clarke wants it to, and she isn’t sure what to make of it. She thinks the smile on her face may be permanent by this point.

Or, well, she thinks so until she walks into the first table read.

She’s skimming the name tags set on the tables throughout the room- fiddling nervously with a button on the jacket she’s wearing despite the unusually warm weather- when she sees her own, and nearly freezes at the sight of the person sitting next to it. He’s scrolling through his phone, brows furrowed, and his hair isn’t nearly as long as she remembers, though just as unruly.

She’s hit with a fresh wave of nervousness, and weakly, as she takes slow steps in his direction, hopes that he doesn’t remember her.

It’s an empty hope, one immediately invalidated, and she feels foolish for ever thinking he may have forgotten her. Yet she can feel her insides warm at the realization that he hasn’t, at the question swirling around in her head over and over: Has he thought of her? Or is she simply the spoiled brat from the elevator, a face he vaguely remembers.

“Clarke,” a voice to her left startles her, and she breaks her gaze away from him, thankful for the interruption.

Or, well, as thankful as she can be considering he chooses that moment to look up from his phone, sight immediately locking in on her, a slow smile on his lips. She pointedly ignores his eyes on her, willing herself not to flush at the feeling. Thoughts whirl through her head in wonder of what’s running through his, and she looks over to the voice that had called her.

“Diyoza,” Clarke breathes, offering a smile. It was obvious in her audition that the woman’s stern, not the type to play games, and though she still finds her a bit terrifying, she also feels what she thinks is a hint of admiration towards the woman. Or, maybe, it’s also misdirected fright. Much to Clarke’s dismay, her mouth quirks up in what can only be considered a smile before growing wider, and then she’s turning to Bellamy, motioning him over.

He rakes a hand through his hair, and the smirk he wears only seems to grow the closer he gets until for the first time in seven years, they’re close enough to touch, his arm nearly brushing hers. She can feel him glance down at her, and wishes he would quit, tries to figure out how she could somehow step away without it being noticeable.

Belatedly, too distracted by his gaze on her and the way he’s just crossed his arms over his chest, she realizes Diyoza’s speaking again, waving around the hand holding the script for the first episode.

“Have you two met before?” She motions between them, curious, and Clarke swallows, unsure of what to say. She can feel her face heat, and whilst pointedly not looking over at him, opens her mouth to respond, but he beats her to it.

“Not properly,” he says, pausing to put a finger to his chin as if in thought. “Come to think of it, though, I’m pretty sure I saw you in the elevator on the way up.” His voice is bathed in taunting with a hint of arrogance just enough to tell her he does remember her, and she tries her best to ignore the way her heart twists at his words. Despite his apparent nonchalance, she can’t help but wonder once again  if their brief meeting had the same impact on him that it had on her.

“I don’t know,” she says, feigning innocence. The way his jaw ticks at her next words is nothing short of rewarding. “I didn’t see you. Maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else?”

He shakes his head, and briefly, she realizes they’re ignoring the presence of the show-runner standing right next to them, but she can’t bring herself to care. “I don’t think so, Princess.”

“Is this your way of saying I’m memorable?”

“Hardly.”

“Okay, well,” Diyoza starts, clearing her throat once. She glances awkwardly between the two of them as if suspicious, and Clarke shifts on her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a quick phone call before we get started.”

Once she’s walked away, Bellamy turns to face her, looking amused.

“Funny,” he says, shaking his head. “I figured, if anything, the way you refused to look at me was enough to prove you remembered.”

“Well, I try not to make a habit of remembering strangers who are nothing more than asses with preconceived opinions.”

His eyes widen, and he smirks, eyes glimmering with a realization. As if in awe, “So you do remember.”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” she mutters, and then she’s taking the seat behind her name tag, letting her bag fall to the floor.

Her stomach continues to flutter, refusing to settle, and she makes her hand into a fist to try and get a grip on the way it’s shaking. Paired with the excited mutterings surrounding her, the moment is reminiscent of the first day of school, though she hasn’t been in school for years.

Bellamy takes his seat next to her and mumbles something about how she should scoot over as he lifts a bottle of water to his mouth. Her eyes fall to the ring of condensation left on the table instead of drifting over to him.

(If today is a metaphor for the first day of school, he’s the young boy tugging on her braids during recess, singing taunts and feigning innocence when questioned by the teachers on duty, she thinks).

His arm brushes against hers, and Diyoza stands to introduce herself to everyone once again, inevitably giving a lengthy speech about how she won’t put up with any bullshit from the cast, but how excited she is to start filming nonetheless (or something like that, Clarke isn’t really paying much attention). Bellamy leans closer, curls falling into his face as he invades what little personal space she has and smugly whispers, “Looks like we’ll have to get used to each other, huh?”

For some reason, it makes her angry.

“Don’t count on it.” She crosses her arms, leaning against the back of her seat. He merely smiles that infuriating smile of his, and Clarke feels more disdain towards herself for the way it makes her feel inside than she does towards him in the moment.

When her eyes drift over to where his fingers are tapping a rhythm against the tabletop, they catch on the character name printed on the script, and it only occurs to her then why they were seated beside one another in the first place. He’s playing Alex. She doesn’t have time to dwell on the fact, to conjure up a plan to escape the show’s grasp, before the table read’s beginning, and okay, all things considered, it goes well.

It’s different, hearing him play this character. His voice, still the deep rasp it always has been, is somehow more enticing than it is normally, and she finds herself hanging onto every word he speaks, only snapping out of it as she remembers what an ass he’s been to her thus far. Don’t commend him on his acting, Clarke, his ego’s already big enough.

In the moments between his lines and her own, she finds it easy to remember why she doesn’t like him; the smug remarks he whispers into her ear, breath warm against the side of her face as he speaks, the incessant tapping of his foot against the floor no matter how many times she kindly asks him to stop, the way his smile only seems to grow with each second he knows he’s annoying her.

Their characters meet near the end of the script, encountering each other in the middle of a seemingly desolate forest. Both are on the run, only for entirely different reasons.

He clears his throat before speaking, and she thinks maybe she’ll try to avoid looking directly at him when it’s her turn. After all, it could only help, right?

But then he opens his mouth, and all thoughts of avoidance are out the window, her head turning to him as if of its own volition.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks, gruff, almost commanding, and suddenly it’s easy to look at him.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” she supplies, though it’s most definitely not the answer his character was searching for.

He shakes his head, beginning his next line.

It’s strange, that for all they seem to argue- even in the short time they’ve known each other- reading lines with him comes with an ease she’s never felt before, and she can feel herself loosen up the longer they speak, the more their characters bicker. Everyone and everything else fades away, becoming part of the background. It’s easy to forget she’s doing this in front of a group of strangers that could very well be judging how terrible she is, how she stumbles over her words every now and then, for all she knows.

Then the table read’s over and everyone’s filing out, and despite what she felt during the read, Bellamy reminds her exactly why she doesn’t like him, why she seems to be able to tolerate him only when he’s pretending to be someone else.

“Clarke,” he calls, and she turns. Mostly everyone’s already gone, and they’re two of the only few left, the others talking aimlessly whilst packing up their things.

“What?”

“During the read…”

“Yes?” she asks, unsure of where this is going.

“There were some lines you had that just felt… stiff? Maybe you should try actually reading over the script beforehand next time,” and then he’s smirking, and she desperately wishes she could somehow wipe the smug look from his face.

Regardless of what she feels when reading lines with him, it’s obviously not mutual.

“Oh, fuck you, Bellamy,” she scoffs, and before he can get another word in, she turns on her heel, walking out of the room. “What an ass,” she mutters, refusing to let him get under her skin more than he already has.

She half-wonders if doing the show is even worth it, if maybe she should cut her losses and get out while she can, while there’s still time for the casting directors to find another actress to fill her place. But then she thinks of Bellamy and how pleased with himself he’d be, how much easier it would be for him if she were to quit, and decides that if one of them chooses to go, it sure as hell won’t be her.

Later, once she’s finally made it home and changed into a pair of pajamas- her favorite pair, the ones her parents had given her for Christmas a few years back, though they’re worn out enough that they’re fraying at the seams now- she calls Wells. He picks up within seconds, naturally, and then Clarke finds herself smiling as she comes face to face with the best friend she left on the other side of the country. A few seconds’ greeting, Wells tossing his textbook out of view, and then she’s ranting, and has half a mind to feel bad for him. After all, he’s probably busy with exams coming up. He doesn’t have time to listen to her complaining.

“He’s just so... he’s such an asshole, Wells, you don’t understand.”

“Who, exactly? You kind of… launched right into complaining without giving me any background here, Griffin.”

“Bellamy,” she says, as if that clears it up any. Wells furrows an eyebrow, still confused, as he fiddles with the pen still in his hand, clicking and unclicking it enough times to work her nerves.

“Who?” he asks again.

“Elevator guy,” she groans, leaning her head back against the wall, ignoring the reverberating thud. She’s ranted about him enough over the years despite their briefer-than-brief meeting that Wells has become more than familiar with the nickname.

“Him again? Clarke, come on, when do you plan on-”

“He’s my co-star, Wells,” she interrupts, knowing she hasn’t fully explained the situation yet, that there are probably one too many plot holes in the story waiting to be filled. “I really doubt the complaining will let up any time soon.”

“Wait. Co-star?”

She resists the urge to groan again, instead launching into an explanation.

“Yes, co-star. I hadn’t seen him in seven years, hadn’t thought of him for at least the past month- which, I’m pathetic, we know- but then I walk into the table read today, and there he is.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when a knowing smile appears on his face as he opens his mouth to speak, she wishes he would stay that way. “I’m sorry,” he says, biting his lip to keep from laughing despite the near-snort that escapes anyway. “but please tell me he remembered you.”

“For you to be my friend it sounds an awful lot like you’re rooting against me right now,” she deadpans, twirling a piece of hair that’s escaped from her ponytail. In short, “He remembered, but I tried to pretend that I didn’t, which he saw right through. Putting all of that aside, though-”

“Will you at least explain it all later? You can’t just leave me out of the loop, Clarke.”

“Wells-”

“Don’t be selfish, Clarke, c’mon. Think of poor little me, slowly going insane from lack of human interaction, alone on the other side of the country without my best friend, and left out of the loop only to hear shitty gossip from tabloids and fan accounts on twitter. It’ll be unbearable.”

Clarke stifles a laugh of her own, not surprised at his words; he’s always had a flare for dramatics, but she also knows he isn’t completely joking, which is what makes her relent.

“If it’ll make you happy, I’ll go in depth next time okay?”

“Promise?”

“Pinky swear,” she holds up her little finger, knowing how silly it sounds (and looks, for that matter), but he holds up his own, and for a second her heart clenches at the thought of how much she misses him.

“I’m holding you to it.”

“You better.”

He leans forward on his elbows and then, urging, “You can go on now.”

“Thanks,” she mutters. “After all of that, though, when we were leaving, he said I needed to work on my lines more next time- and maybe I do, but he’s not exactly perfect either- and his smirk-”

“Slow there, I might start to mix up the words like and loathe.”

“Very funny.”

Light laughter sounds through the speakers of her phone and she settles further into her bed, tucking the blanket to her chin, and tries to change the subject. He doesn’t let her, of course, but she shrugs, figuring it was worth a shot, and prepares herself for any further questions about Bellamy he might try to throw her way. It annoys her at first, and she desperately wishes she hadn’t complained about him to Wells as much as she had over the past seven years. But later, when his eyes begin to droop, words becoming slurred with sleep, and she realizes how much time he wasted talking to her the past few hours simply because he was interested in what she had to say, she finds she can’t be all that annoyed.

Once she’s sure Wells has fallen asleep, confirmed by the light snores muffled into his pillow, she ends the call and quickly texts him to tell him goodnight.

And rather than going to sleep herself, against her better judgement, she reaches for the script on the bedside table, highlighter abandoned next to it. Flips it open to the page where Layla meets the outsiders- Alex included- and scans the words printed there. Scatters of freckles and warm brown eyes littered with specks of gold bright enough to rival the sun itself fill her mind. She shakes her head, as if to clear the unwarranted thoughts.

A breeze blows in through the half-open window, chills running through her at the feel of it in contrast to the warmth of her room, and she pulls the blankets further over herself.

It’s quiet for the next few weeks.

She’s due in Vancouver the last week of the month to start filming the pilot, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a tad bit nervous. The pessimistic part of her continuously runs through the reminder of how many things could go wrong, how horribly she could fuck up, be forced to go back to barely making it by and eventually being forced to move back to Middle-of-Nowhere, Ohio. And yet, that possibility somehow isn’t what scares her the most. Rather, she fears she won’t be as good as the others, that it won’t come as naturally to her as it does to some of them. The table read was rough for everyone, barely being used to the characters and the lines they were given, but she knows that once on set, everything will be different.

(At least, she tells herself that’s what she’s afraid of.)

As wrong as it may be, a small part of her dreads seeing what Bellamy’s like on set, stomach feeling sick at the thought of not being able to keep up with him, the pleasure he’ll derive from being able to make fun of her.

All she can do is brush aside the thoughts, though she can’t fully ignore the never-ending lump in her throat.

The Monday she arrives on set starts, unsurprisingly, much like how the table read ended.

She gets there nearly an hour early, blinking heavily against the early morning sun as she holds onto her coffee mug for dear life. Her hair’s a mess on top of her head, clothes haphazardly thrown on, but she’s there, script in hand and lines memorized front to back as if naturally occurring from her own mind. No one aside from herself and a couple of the crew have yet to arrive, and she feels almost bad for the sigh of relief let out at the sight of an empty parking lot before her.

It would probably be easier to simply arrive early for her costume fitting, but she figures that staying on everyone’s good side is better guaranteed if she doesn’t arrive too early. After all, they probably aren’t ready for her- if they’re even there yet- regardless. Letting her bag fall to the ground, she sits on the curb below, bits of gravel sticking to her hand, digging into her thighs through the thin material of her pants. Her hands rest upon her knees as she peers down at her phone, aimlessly scrolling through her usual apps and taking a moment to update her Facebook status about her excitement for the day, tacking on a heart and smiley face at the end.

“A bit early, aren’t we?” The already familiar rasp of Bellamy’s voice- obviously roused from sleep only recently- startles her, and she looks up to find him staring down at her, cigarette held between his fingers, other hand fiddling in his pocket. His hair’s a mess of curls on top of his head, a hint of stubble covering his jaw. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

She expects him to sit, but he doesn’t, and she isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed by the fact.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Clarke,” he shrugs, finally pulls a lighter from his jeans, the familiar jingle of loose change left behind. She watches as he puts the cigarette to his mouth, takes a drag, shoulders hunching in relaxation at the exhale. “It means exactly what I said. You just don’t seem like the type.”

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” she says, voice barely above a whisper. His faces etches into one of confusion, and she shakes her head, not feeling up to a fight with him this early. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know all I need to.”

“In that case, so do I.”

She hears him sigh, sees him take another drag in her periphery, and wishes for the day to go by quick enough.

Of course, it doesn’t, and they’re at each other’s throats before they’ve barely had time to breathe, both half-dressed and in the middle of their fittings, Fox and Monroe from the wardrobe department eyeing them suspiciously. Clarke tries to keep her eyes on his face as he grits his teeth, uttering words that pass through one ear and out the other, but finds her gaze flitting down to where the toned muscles of his stomach ripple with each word despite her best attempts to keep focused elsewhere.

The argument doesn’t so much end as it is interrupted, Monty coming in to tell Bellamy he’s needed by Diyoza before he can get another word in. He turns to look over his shoulder at her as he ducks out of the trailer, jaw clenched in doing so, and though she knows it isn’t over, Clarke considers it a win on her part.

“What’s the deal with you two, anyway?” Monty asks after a minute’s silence. Clarke hasn’t had the chance to talk to him much yet, doesn’t know anything about him other than the fact that he and Jasper grew up together, and even that’s only due to what she overhead at the table read. She pushes a piece of hair behind her ear, takes a seat on one of the couches, the leather of it cool against her skin.

“I’d tell you if I knew,” she says, honest, and though it’s all she initially planned on saying, she reconsiders. “I guess we just… can’t seem to find our footing with each other. Doesn’t really help that he didn’t like me in the first place.”

Monty nods, tosses one of the red grapes stashed in nearly every trailer on the lot into his mouth. He shrugs. “He takes some time to get used to, I guess; seems to warm up to certain people quicker than others.”

“Looks like I’m one of the people it’ll probably take some time with then, huh?”

She knows it isn’t a big deal- it shouldn’t be- but she can’t help but feel a pang of hurt at the thought, and quickly tries brushing it aside. It isn’t difficult to change the topic, and then they’re discussing the twist at the end of the episode, and Fox and Monroe are ushering Monty out despite his best attempts to stay just a few minutes longer.

Clarke doesn’t see Bellamy for the rest of the day and can’t help but feel grateful for it, think that maybe it’s the Earth’s way of giving her a break.

Though it’s obviously meant to be a short one.

The next time they see each other for more than a minute or two- the practice run before filming- Clarke is nervous. Her hands are sweating against the fabric of her pants, clenching and unclenching, voice shaky. She stumbles over her lines no matter the fact that all she’s done lately is look over them, make sure she knows them front to back. Her face heats with embarrassment, eyes stinging, and she swallows, tries again; messes up.

“Take a breath, Clarke,” Diyoza tells her, and though Clarke knows she’s trying to be supportive in her own way, she can’t help but continue to feel humiliated. Despite this, she nods, does as she’s told. “It’s okay to mess up, that’s what today’s for.”

“Thanks,” she gives her a smile, turns back to Bellamy. He looks up at her, arms crossed over his chest. She’d hoped today would be better, that maybe for once they wouldn’t butt heads over the most trivial of things. His resounding huff is enough to clue her into his annoyance.

“What.”

He purses his lips, shrugs one shoulder as he leans back against the tree behind him. “Some of us would like to get through the scene, that’s all.”

“Sorry I’m such an inconvenience to you, then,” she replies, lips pulled into a sardonic smile. “You’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Maybe if you’d learn your lines properly, we’d be able to-”

“I know my lines just fine, thank you. Now, if you’d back off and quit being such a condescending ass, maybe we could get through this.” She knows it’s unprofessional, arguing with him here, everyone including their boss there as witness, but she can’t bring herself to quit. His eyes shine with something akin to pride as he peers down at her, and she isn’t sure if it’s in himself or her. Rather than breaking her gaze away from his own, she takes a step closer. “You okay with that?”

“Feeling brave today, huh?” His following smirk is nearly overflowing with mirth, and despite her best attempts not to, she can feel the corners of her mouth beginning to quirk upwards, and rather than inwardly cursing him for it, she allows herself to bask in it, this moment of- well, not quite happiness or agreement between them, but close enough. She ducks her head, and when she hears Diyoza call for a five minute break, nearly breathes a sigh of relief.

She doesn’t walk off, though, and neither does Bellamy.

The two of them are left alone save for the few crew members deciding to stay put, although they’re all distracted in conversation with one another. It surprises her when quiet, almost timid, she hears him say, “Not trying to be a condescending ass- as you put it- or anything, but I have the script on hand if you need to look at it before the break’s up. Just as a refresher, or whatever.”

Pulse threading rapidly beneath her skin, it’s surprising to hear the offer come from him, but she finds she’s okay with it. She has her own script in her trailer, it wouldn’t be any trouble to go get it, and yet she swallows, nods once. Grateful for the moment of kindness (a first between them), “Thanks, Bellamy.”

His eyes flutter in response, surprised for some reason, lashes brushing across his skin. He scratches at the back of his neck, looks at the dirt below as he reaches into his back pocket. “No problem,” he tells her, and she thinks that even if this doesn’t last- even if they both show up to work tomorrow ready to shred one another to pieces, which isn’t an unlikely scenario- she’s glad for it.

Her fingertips brush against the back of his, lingering if only slightly, as they wrap around the script. “I’m sorry,” she feels compelled to say. He tilts his head in confusion.

“For what?”

“It’s probably annoying to have to put up with… you know. Even though it probably doesn’t seem like I do, I know my lines, I swear. But this is a big deal to me, and I get nervous easily, and it’s not like you make it any better, you know?”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering, and she waits with bated breath to hear his response. “I guess this is where I should say I’m sorry, too. You’re right, I can be an ass, and I know acting like I did wasn’t helping any, so… I’m sorry.” His words are awkward, careful, and he seems uncomfortable, whether it’s with simply apologizing or the fact that he has to do so to her.

“Apology accepted,” she says, finds it easy to smile this time, and even less difficult once he smiles back, a slight tilt of his mouth that somehow makes her stomach twist, though not in a bad way. “But for the record, apologies only last for the current conversation. Don’t count yourself covered for next time.”

She can hear the others returning, script feeling heavy where her fingers are wrapped around it. In the background, Diyoza discusses how she wants the next scene to go, one of the crew members tell another the time.

Bellamy looks at her, quiet, and then words gentle, foreign coming from him, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

(It’s easier, once the break ends, to get her lines right. She tries not to think that it’s due to Bellamy in any way, but fails desperately in doing so, though she refuses to let him know as much).

That night, Monty and Jasper throw a party.

Clarke tries to avoid going, and even though she’s barely spoken more than a few words to either of them, they follow her back to her trailer once the day’s done, both insisting she go, and she decides that maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing. After all, she doesn’t have much of anything to go home to, an empty hotel room with sub-par room service and somewhat decent WiFi. It isn’t exactly appealing, and she figures that maybe going to a party, even a small one, could be fun. Plus, she’d be able to get to know her castmates better, which is definitely a plus considering she’s not quite sure she’s had the chance to fully meet everyone yet.

It’s apparent upon stepping into their apartment that they’ve yet to finish unpacking, boxes with permanent marker used as labeling haphazardly strewn throughout the hallway and kitchen area, barely a walkway in sight.

“We haven’t finished yet,” Jasper nods to the boxes, and she gets the gist of it.

“Have you started?” she asks, hesitant, meaning for it to be a joke. They both laugh, and Monty mutters what most definitely sounds like a, “Not really,” under his breath, reaching for the bowl of chips on the counter as he passes it.

He leads her into the living room where the others- people she half-remembers to be Raven, Harper, Murphy, Emori, and Miller- are sitting, loud conversation of which she catches hints of alcohol and '90s romcoms being the subjects of, though she doesn’t understand the correlation between the two and isn’t brave enough to ask. She breathes a polite, “Hi,” waving lamely, and they return the sentiment happily before being dragged back into their previous conversation, and she figures she’ll join them in a minute. Jasper points her over to a coat rack in the corner- one of the few things they have unpacked, apparently- and she sheds her jacket, hanging it on one of the hooks there.

As she turns around, she can’t help it when her eyes begin to search for one person in particular despite already knowing he isn’t there. Distantly, she feels disappointment at Bellamy’s absence, but tries to mend that piece of her in figuring that if he were there, chances are they’d spend the entire time arguing anyway. Perhaps it’s better they keep their distance, then.

“You can help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen, by the way, cups are on the table and drinks on the counter. Let us know if you need help with anything else,” Monty tells her, and she smiles, thankful. She’s always felt awkward in other people’s homes, direction being one thing which helps to lessen the feeling. Nodding once to herself, she heads in way of the kitchen, figures that she can find water at the least if they don’t have anything else she’s up to.

She finds that they do, however, have tequila, and she’s proven wrong in her assumption. Grabbing one of the cups he’d mentioned, she gets a few pieces of ice from the fridge, and fills it a little over halfway once able to get the bottle open.

She sits on the arm of the couch, engages in conversation with Raven and Harper as the others attempt to hook up the TV that, for some reason, hadn’t yet been touched. They’re nice enough, she thinks, but she isn’t sure of their interests yet, what’s okay to talk about, and as the guys return and Harper and Raven are drawn back into their previous conversation, making jokes about how pathetic Miller’s been around some guy from the coffee place down the street, she can’t help but feel a little left out, though that’s partially her own fault.

She takes a drink, winces at the slight burn.

“You okay?” Harper asks, and Clarke nods, genuine.

“Yeah, I’m fine. A little tired.” she pauses, spots the sliding glass door on the far wall. “I think I might slip outside for a few.”

“Okay,” she smiles, “I’ll try and save your seat from any stragglers.”

“Thanks,” Clarke tells her, grip tightening around the plastic cup as she stands, trying to slip out onto the balcony without anyone else noticing.

She knew the city would be cool this time of year, but the chill of the air against her skin still somehow comes as a surprise, and she shivers at the feel of it. The balcony isn’t large by any means, more long than it is wide, and a gentle breeze blows through the treetops only barely tall enough to surround it. Stars shine against the dark canvas of the night around her. She sighs, wrapping an arm around herself, and leans against the railing, regretting the decision to not grab her jacket beforehand.

It’s quiet, and she finds it easy to bask in the silence, a stray bought of laughter carrying its way outside from beyond the walls behind her. Clarke smiles to herself, takes another sip from the cup.

The creaking of the door sliding open is almost enough to startle her, but not quite, and she turns to look at who it is only to find Bellamy, halfway out, staring back at her.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough. The door squeaks as he closes it shut, sound reverberating through the space around them.

“Hi,” she breathes, weaker than she would have liked. She sets her cup aside, forgotten on the small table in the corner, otherwise adorned with an overgrown fern and several empty bottles. “When’d you get here?”

“Oh, uh,” he shrugs, grips at the railing in front of him with one hand, the other wrapped around the neck of a half-empty beer bottle. It clinks against the metal in front of him. “Just a few minutes ago. You having fun yet?”

“Sure looks like you are,” she nods at the bottle. “I didn’t think you were coming.” It’s shy, an admission of sorts, that she’d considered whether he’d be there or not. He clears his throat, turns his head to look at her more clearly, and she almost wishes she hadn’t said it.

“I didn’t think you were, either.”

She can feel the heat of him against her, shoulders brushing, fingertips against metal only barely separated from one another, but she can’t bring herself to change any of it, to step away from him. He doesn’t seem to want to, either, and belatedly, she realizes she’s never been near him for an extended period of time, never been able to get to know him, to see what he’s really like.

It’s strange, the comfort she feels around him in the moment.

“What do you mean?” she smiles, nudges him lightly. “I was here before you. You were one of the stragglers.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he brings the bottle to his lips, takes a drink. “I didn’t know that, and it’s not like you were front and center in there, or anything.”

“I guess not.”

He nods, solemn, lets the silence pass between them only for a moment before breaking it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she answers, honest. “I am. Just felt a little left out, that’s all. But then again, I guess I wasn’t trying too hard to fit in, in the first place.”

“I get it.” He rubs the back of his neck, leans further against the railing. A beat, then, unexpectedly, “I’m sorry, Clarke.”

The words are unfamiliar spoken in his voice, low, a murmur tossed into the air between them, but honest. She has half a mind to wonder where the apology’s coming from, why he’s decided to say it now, especially when he’d seemed so uncomfortable to do so earlier in the day. Her throat feels thick suddenly, heart heavy in her chest. She swallows.

Quiet, she asks, “For what?”

He huffs, shakes his head. “You’re just trying to torture me now, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m just-”

“Relax, it was a joke,” he tilts his head, watching her with an amused smile, and she no longer wishes to shrink under his gaze, decides she likes it there. “For everything, though,” he explains. “The first time we met- if you can call it that, really- you were just trying to be nice to me, picked up the papers I’d dropped, and I was nothing but an ass to you.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “You were.” He laughs, and though her words hold truth, so does she, unable to resist. “But I wasn’t exactly trying to be nice to you after that, either.”

“I guess not. But, God, Clarke, seeing you walk into the room at the table read, it was…” he trails off, takes another drink. “But then I was a jerk again, and again after that, and there’s no excuse for it.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers. “I wasn’t exactly innocent in all of it.”

“You were fun to rile up, though,” he says, grins at the way she narrows her eyes at him, only to smile a second later.

“So were you.”

“Do you think-” he starts, only to cut himself off. He purses his lips, shakes his head as if to forget it.

“What is it?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, and she thinks he isn’t going to until he says, timid, “Do you think we could start over? Maybe try to get off on the right foot this time?”

She considers his words, finds that coming up with an answer is easier than anticipated. It would be easy- ridiculously so- to tell him no, to walk away from his question, and perhaps before, she would have. He watches her, waiting, foot tapping unsteadily against the metal beneath them. She looks up at him and confesses, “I’d like that, yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “But I’m not introducing myself and pretending we just met, if that’s what you were expecting.”

“I wasn’t expecting that, but I mean, if you feel like doing it, go ahead.”

“Very funny.”

She assures him she is funny, but he doesn’t seem to believe her, and when he finishes his bottle off, there’s a pang in her chest at the thought of him leaving to go back inside with the others, but he doesn’t move. He settles further against the railing, looks over at her, more relaxed than she’s seen him, and she’s about to speak again when his phone buzzes from where it sits in his pocket. He struggles for a second before pulling it out, frowns down at the screen prior to realizing who it is.

A smile makes its way across his face, falls a bit as he glances over at her, and despite not feeling it earlier, she begins to feel the cold of the night.

“Sorry, uh,” he crouches down to pick up the empty bottle, runs a hand through his hair. “I have to take this.”

He swipes a finger across the screen before lifting it to his ear.

“Hey, babe,” he greets, and Clarke’s stomach sinks at the realization.

He has a girlfriend.

It shouldn’t matter to her- it doesn’t matter- and yet she can’t help but feel a surge of disappointment.

“I’ll be back,” he mouths quietly, squeezes her shoulder, but she can’t bring herself to do anything other than nod and offer him a tight smile. She grips her arms tighter around herself, swallows heavily.

He glances back at her once before he shuts the door, and she watches through the glass as he disappears down the hallway.

A siren sounds in the distance, cars pass one another on the road below. Clarke thinks the stars burn just a bit dimmer, not twinkling in the way they once were only shortly before.

Alone again, she swirls the liquid in her cup, lifts it to her lips and- for once- relishes in the burn of it.