Work Text:
JANUARY 2015
The Ark is the third most distributed magazine in the country, not counting The Dropship which is distributed in train stations, at bus stops and also in various nicely furnished rest rooms. (No one knows who publishes them. It is the biggest mystery in the publishing industry, right under who is really in charge of Grounders, considering the mysterious Editor-In-Chief has been M.I.A. since June last year.)
So when the position of editorial assistant opens up at The Ark, Clarke goes for it. Being a fresh graduate with the only relevant experience in her resume being sales girl at a candle franchise store and barista slash bartender at a shit hole restaurant, she doesn’t have high hopes.
She sweats through her interview, stammers at opportune moments, and somehow manages to mention to her interviewer that his shirt has dried up vomit on it, only to realise that it’s just the colour.
She’s hired on a humid Tuesday afternoon with about $15 left in her bank account after rent.
“Your desk,” Miller (“Just Miller. No, no first name. Okay?”) says. “I would introduce you to everyone, but they’re all out on various assignments.”
“It’s okay,” She manages. “Thanks for your help and everything.”
“I sit over there, by the desk closest to the Chief’s office.”
“Got it, it was nice meeting-”
“Anyway, since you’ll be handling the admin stuff,” He hands her a teetering pile of papers, haphazardly arranged and yellowing, “You can handle the transport and food claims for everyone. Just sort them out and in excel format. You know, basic.”
This, Clarke thinks grimly, is what University has prepared her for. The papers and exposés written, the absolutely fucking menial hours of research conducted, the unashamedly unscrupulous methods used to obtain interviewees. Right down to this moment.
The positive thing about sorting claims, she thinks, is that it gives her the opportunity to break in her new stationary. Clarke has very strong feelings about new stationary. (Basically, she loves it, okay?)
This includes tape, an industrial sized stapler, and a half-used packet of neon yellow post-it notes. Also, a mug full of half-used pens which she samples until she finds one with ink flow so smooth that she nearly collapses from the sheer novelty of it all.
The second positive thing is that it gives her the opportunity to peer into the lives of her mysterious colleagues.
Miller is the sports editor and ¾ of his finances are spent on cab fares to the strangest and most far flung places. (“I don’t drive,” he says mildly when asked.) He spends way less on food and research material as compared to the guy in charge of politics and current events, who in November last year alone, racked up a bill of $369 on a supposed autobiography of Julius Ceasar that was apparently, essential to his article.
The web writer spends next to nothing whereas features slots comfortably in between the extravagance of politics and the minimalistic spending Miller entails. Clarke thankfully doesn’t get to handle the Editor-In-Chief’s accounts, as he is away on a “research trip in Bali.” (This is accompanied by a slight eye roll and a exaggerated bite of his sandwich on Miller’s part. Clarke decides that she likes Miller.)
The rest of her day positively crawls. By 2.30, she has made two cups of coffee. Miller passes her older issues of The Ark to get her to familiarise myself with the “tone of writing.” Clarke reads issues 2009 through 2011, starts contemplating what it would feel like to stab herself in the eye with a protractor.
She is introduced to the web writer, Monty, at 2.53 pm, when he comes barreling back into the office, bag of Subway in hand. He’s all pale skin and wiry limbs but handles himself with an ease that Clarke wishes she had.
“I’m not usually out of office much,” He says, shrugging as he bites into his meatball marinara, “I’m usually here handling all the social media accounts and short updates on our website.”
“So, like lists?” She mentions offhandedly.
“Jesus, no. That’s so Buzzfeed. We have standards here.”
Lunch rolls by and she mostly finds herself picking chives out of her convenience store potato salad. Monty, seated adjacent from Clarke’s desk, is way louder and fidgety as compared to Miller. He’s constantly tapping his pen against the edge of his desk or muttering “Tumblr is gonna love this shit.” under his breath.
Features breezes past Clarke’s desk at 3.45 pm. At least, Clarke is pretty sure she’s features considering she’s the only other girl in the office. She doesn’t say a word to her or the boys,
just sits at her desk and begins typing. Clarke is, suffice to say, sufficiently intimidated.
By 4.30, with all previous issues of The Ark read, Clarke resigns herself to assisting Monty with proofreading while he goes on a Starbucks run.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Ah, the elusive politics. His desk is directly across hers and he has assumed the position of territorial pitbull, arms crossed and teeth bared. Surprisingly younger than expected. With all the boring biographies lining the side of his desk, she had expected someone in their mid-thirties.
“Erm, hi, I’m the new editorial assistant.”
“New editorial assistant, you mind taking your feet off my desk?”
“It’s actually my desk.”
“It’s also very distracting to see the sole of your size 5 shoes looming up at me.”
She swings her feet off the table, tries not to let her discomfort or anger show. He’s staring. She refuses to give him the satisfaction of making eye contact.
“So what brings you here?”
Small talk. She hates small talk.
“The Ark had an opening.” She manages. “And-”
“You’re doing the lifestyle pieces then.” He cuts in, nostrils flaring.
“Yeah. As I was saying-”
“Well, all in good fun,” He interrupts, tone ever so derisive, “Soft news is always a great jumping off point when you’re in this industry.”
Clarke bristles, forces herself to take a deep breath, “Well, it takes a certain set of skills to write soft news. So.”
“But, as you know, it is undisputedly more challenging to write hard news.”
“No, I don’t know actually-”
She’s saved from launching into a full on rant about the different styles of journalism by Monty’s return. He introduces her to politics, Bellamy (A condescending, “oh we’ve met,” is all he says ) and features, Anya, who (finally!) acknowledges Clarke with a bored, vaguely in her direction wave.
“So how are you liking The Ark so far?” Miller says from across the room. She’s surprised he even brought it up- in all the few hours she has known Miller- she pegged him as the ‘if you don’t talk to me, I won’t talk to you’ type which suits her just fine.
“It’s alright. Still making up my mind on everything.” She says. Monty smiles at her, small and hopeful. Bellamy just glares. She elects to ignore it.
“Well I hope you like it long enough to stay,” Anya says, “Nice to have some fresh meat around here.”
Bellamy snorts, “If princess deigns to stay, that is.”
There’s a roaring in her ears and Clarke can barely hear anything over her silent, pounding fury, “I have no idea what I did to give you that impression but-”
“Your mother’s Abigail Griffin.” He says brusquely.
“So?”
“So what’s a trust fund brat like you working at a magazine? Couldn’t get an internship at the hospital instead?”
“I graduated with a journalism degree,” She seethes, “What good would I do at a fucking hospital?”
He shrugs, but his shoulders are set at a tense line, his eyes hard, “You don’t seem like you need this job, that’s all.”
She scoffs, a scathing comeback poised to roll off her tongue when Miller pipes in.
“Is anyone going down to the Art department? I need Harper’s intake on this.”
Monty chimes in with something, Anya pushes on the back of her chair, standing up, and provides her two cents. Eventually, Bellamy breaks eye contact with her, joins the others at Miller’s desk.
Clarke stays seated, anger rolling off her in waves, until the clock strikes six. That’s when she grabs her things, storms out the room, and takes great pleasure in slamming the fucking door.
----------
The next few days at work are better, but also, worst.
Better, because Clarke survives all her meetings, editorial and photography, relatively unscathed, aside from her bruised ego during the editorial meeting where they’re all pitching ideas. (She brings up Joss Whedon. It ends badly. Anya’s, “That man is trash,” and Bellamy’s derisive, “Been there, done that, princess.” haunts her nightmares.)
But she does well in her first photography meeting. Photography meetings, she had been warned by Monty, was the equivalent of journalism thunderdome. Three departments: editorial, art and fashion duking it out for the limited number of photographers hired at the magazine.
The contenders: Clarke from editorial, Lincoln from art and Lexa from fashion. The battle is brutal, bloody and downright dirty. There is bribing, a lot of choice swear words, and a burrito thrown around. Clarke holds her ground, stands firm, and gets almost all the slots the editorial team needs. (Bellamy grunts approvingly when she presents them the photography slots schedule. Miller pats her back. She tries not to think about how she now has standards to live up to.)
Worst, because Bellamy Blake is an absolute dick and she hates just everything about him.
Okay, objectively, he is attractive. Anya drops her press pass under the copier once and Bellamy just lifts the fucking copier off the ground without any effort. (She was not looking at his muscles through his shirt okay? Jesus. She’s 21 not 16 mooning over some stupid boy and his well developed back muscles, okay?)
The spattering of freckles on his face is downright distracting though. Clarke forces herself never to linger over those.
Attractiveness aside, Bellamy Blake is a jerk who criticizes her work constantly (and not constructively, mind you), drinks all the black coffee in the office, and is just a pain in her ass. He spends a lot of time in the office grumping around but does churn out articles consistently. She catches him smoking in the break room a few times, a towel stuffed under the door. When she threatens to throw out his stupid cigarette, he just smirks.
He makes fun of her need for organization, her penchant for snacking on fruit gummies when working on articles, her choice of footwear. One time, he renamed all the files on her laptop to GET HEAD OUT OF ASS (1).doc. She was livid.
Interactions between the two are downright confrontational. Given that they sit directly across from one another, Clarke has taken to balling up her rough drafts and throwing it at his head from time to time. Sometimes he scowls, threatens to pour coffee down her blouse. Other times he just rolls his eyes and retaliates by flicking paper clips.
“With all your bad eating habits, I think you’re going to die at 45.” He mutters as she rips into another pack of candy.
“Excuse me? You practically smoke a pack a day.”
“Still.”
“I’m going to outlive you. It’s literally, going to be my life goal. On my tombstone, it’s going to say I told you so, Bellamy, you fucking dickweed.”
“Fuck you princess.”
“I wouldn’t fuck you under any circumstances, Blake.”
It’s unfortunate that Bellamy has amazingly good taste in music. No one else plays music during work so most of the time they’re all just listening to his Spotify playlist which consists of AC/DC, KISS, and Aerosmith. Sometimes to mix things up he throws in some eighties oldies and everyone pretends to grumble but Clarke catches Anya tapping her foot two minutes later.
She’s finishing up her scathing review of the latest Marvel movie and secretly playing air guitar under her desk when he notices.
“AC/DC? I pegged you more as a Backstreet Boys kind of person.” Stupid, insufferable smirk. Stupid alternative, mainstream media is shit, Coachella is the worst asshole. For a second she’s paralysed, blush settling in her cheeks, her mind scrambling before it lands on what she’s most comfortable with: confrontation.
“Who gave you the right to be the only one who plays his music out loud in this office? It’s really disruptive and counterproductive and-”
“Well if you had a problem with it you should have voiced it out earlier.” He’s oddly smug about it, hands crossed over chest, legs swung up at a jaunty angle.
“Would that have stopped you?” She gripes.
There are a pair of bose headphones on her desk the next day and a post-it, don’t get your panties in a twist princess, they were a gift from some lame event written in large, loopy scrawl.
Really. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he goes and does something like this.
He doesn’t bring it up and she doesn’t acknowledge it, but she thinks she might have caught a hint of a smile from him when she slips them on.
DECEMBER 2014
Raven and Clarke find the apartment on a rainy Wednesday afternoon.
Five rooms, three which are already occupied, in close vicinity to Raven’s workplace. It smells vaguely like cat pee (“No pets!” The landlord barks) and maybe a little bit of curry. Angry rock music coming from a closed door makes the potted plants by the kitchen counter tremble.
“This is as good as it gets,” Clarke mutters, “Can’t afford to be picky.”
Raven scowls, tilts up her chin obstinately, “Yes we can.”
“I hate to remind you but, journalism graduates and engineering majors don’t have much options. Especially when their budgets are $300 a month.”
“I have a job.”
“At a garage,” Clarke presses on, “It’s temporary. You earn $6.50 an hour. Your boss calls you wrench monkey.”
“At least I have a job.”
“I’m working on it, okay? God.”
“The tenants here work odd hours so you’ll have to get used to them coming and going in the middle of the night,” Susan the landlord says, waving her hand over the three mysteriously closed doors, “This is room one and room two. Take it or leave it.”
Room one is a shit hole. Clarke sees mould, can practically feel the layer of grime on the bed spread. Room two is not that much better but at least she can see out the window, revealing the spectacular view of a dirty reservoir.
“Mine.” They both say simultaneously.
Raven raises a perfectly shaped brow, rearranges her mischevious expression to a mock grave one, bows her head and says solemnly, “But Clarke, what about Spacewalker?”
A beat. Clarke resists the urge to throttle her. “Room one it is.” She growls, throwing her backpack onto the ground. “Also bringing up Spacewalker every time you want it your way is getting old!” She slams the door shut.
“I’ll bring it up until the day I’m dead in the ground!” Raven bawls, barely discernable through the music.
Fucking Finn Collins.
----------
Clarke Griffin is 21, financially independent, a official adult and she hates her life.
----------
“This neighbourhood is officially the pits.” Raven declares, slamming Clarke’s bedroom door shut.
She grunts in response, tries to come up with another word for ambition. She could use the Thesaurus but it feels desperate and tired. Her hair feels oily, not just at the roots, but all the way down to the tips. She has not left the house in three days. Clarke is drowning. In job applications, rejections, viagra emails. God forbid she receives a positive e-mail.
“My colleague was mugged on the way home yesterday and was stabbed in between his ribs. He’s in the hospital now, jesus.”
“Shit,” She says, slamming my laptop shut, “Is he going to be okay?”
“I think so, but I’m covering a few of his shifts this week.” Raven mumbles, collapsing on the bed. She sniffs the air, says ever so subtly, “When is the last time you took a shower?”
Clarke chooses to ignore the question. “Crime rates are rising in this district though. I saw it in the papers but it didn’t really make sense to me because I haven’t been keeping up much lately.”
“More unemployed people,” Raven mutters, picking at her fingernails, “That huge factory a few blocks from here just closed down recently so people are unemployed and desperate.”
Clarke turns to look at her; her smooth, tanned skin, dark hair pulled up into a tight ponytail, perfect teeth, her best fucking friend; “Well, I promise if I suddenly have criminal tendencies I’ll warn you first.”
Raven rolls her eyes, jostles Clarke’s shoulder, “You know if you’re desperate for a job, the garage is hiring.”
“I know. It’s at the back of my head, always an option. But I also know I’ll be bad at it and potentially embarrass you, so there’s that.”
Raven nudges Clarke’s knee with her foot, the movement chastising. Clarke retaliates by digging her elbow into Raven’s ribs.
“God,” Clarke leans back against her headboard, knocking against the wood gently, “Sometimes I wish we never left school.”
Raven sighs, ruffles her unruly blonde hair, “You’ll adapt.”
“I have been eating ramen noodles for three days straight.”
“Well no wonder your room smells like crap.”
“End of the week,” Clarke mumbles into her pillow, “If I don’t get a job by the end of the week, I’m heading down to the garage and grabbing an application.”
“That’s the spirit,” Raven murmurs, before tacking on oh so casually, “How’s Abby?”
“Hopefully dead,” Clarke was trying for nonchalance but she mostly just sounds petulant. She thinks of her dad and it gets a little harder to breathe.
“Well, ” Raven says conversationally, “Sure she cut you off and the whole thing with your dad was unwarranted but...” She trails off, casts a worried look towards her. Clarke chooses not to acknowledge it.
“She sent me a e-mail the other day. I deleted it. If she sends me another, Clarke, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you your father was ill e-mail, I am going to pull out my hair.”
The tricky thing about bitching about your parents to your friends is that it is never socially acceptable for your friends to talk smack about them. It’s just not done. Raven, the queen of un-subtlety, is weirdly understanding of this rule. She just grunts and traces the wood on Clarke’s desk instead.
“Let’s wrap up the pity party,” Raven says, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly, “At least you weren’t stabbed.”
Clarke winces, “Sorry. I really hope your colleague gets better though. Are you guys close?”
“Nah, I’m just worried by how dangerous this neighbourhood is. Hate walking back to this shitty apartment alone at night.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Or I could always walk you back from the garage, just call me.”
She bursts into laughter, “Clarke, you’re positively tiny!”
“I’m intimidating!” Clarke yelps. “Seriously!” Raven’s still laughing so she chooses the moment to jerk her arm, give it a tiny pinch.
“I,” Raven gasps in between laughs, “Have known you for a while now. You’re as intimidating as a goldfish. You cry every time The Notebook is on and you like to watch art documentaries for shits and giggles. Jesus!”
“Well, if you don’t want me to walk you back,” Clarke sulks.
“I appreciate the sentiment.” Raven says, patting her head condescendingly as she gets up to leave.
“You’re a jerk!” Clarke calls to her retreating back.
APRIL 2015
Cage Wallace smiles with too much teeth.
Clarke forces herself to smile back, pushes away her inherent dislike for him and his distinctive smarminess, and continues with the interview.
Cage Wallace is now the chief executive officer of the Mount Weather Foundation (previously held by his father Dante) and it’s Clarke’s job to write a glowing testimonial of his life, his achievements, his accomplishments. It’s a huge piece, with five whole pages set aside for the interview and Clarke feels like she would enjoy it a lot more if she actually liked the man.
“It is my job to protect my people,” He says earnestly, (Clarke nods, tries not to yawn in his face), “My father has created a legacy and I intend to uphold it.”
“Will you be handling any aspects of Mount Weather differently?”
“We’ll be upping the fundraising efforts,” He says, smiling widely. Clarke is distinctly reminded of a shark. “Going to be bringing in more funds for the poor and needy.”
She looks at the expensive, pressed suit, the immaculately styled hair, the dark, gleaming car waiting by the side. For the poor and needy. Her stomach flips.
“Thank you for your time.” Is all she says instead.
----------
The article is due in November (!) to coincide with the magazine’s third anniversary, so thankfully, Clarke has a few months to work out the kinks and spin something plausible and admirable about the man.
She works on the more pressing pieces first, tries to put the Cage Wallace piece on the backburner but she somehow always comes back to it. Back to staring at the blank word document, thinking about the ostentatious clothes and the lavish house (Yes, she googled his address. It’s her job, sue her), the fleet of cars.
It isn’t her job to question, she tells herself, just report the facts. Put your fucking head down and do your job and for the love of god, don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.
“What are you working so hard on?”
“The Cage Wallace piece.” She mutters.
Bellamy frowns, “It’s not due until some time in November, right?”
It’s weird but somehow she and Bellamy are sort of friends now. Working together in close quarters does that to people. Along with their shared hatred of Jaha (the notoriously missing editor-in-chief, only contactable via emails and crackly phone calls), the fashion department (fucking stuck up snobs), and the crappy copier machine. Also, that night. But they don’t talk about it. (they never talk about it, that’s the point)
They still argue of course- Bellamy has an opinion on everything and Clarke would rather rip out her toenails than back down- but there’s camaraderie too. It’s hard not to like someone you have stayed up 48 hours with to rush out articles after a scandal breaks. (Avian influenza. Clarke has never hated birds so much. How does one broach Avian influenza in a lifestyle column?)
“Yeah, but I just thought I’ll transcribe and lay the structure out early. I’m struggling with it just a little.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She forces through gritted teeth.
Bellamy snorts, “What, you don’t like the guy? Tough luck. I fucking hate pretty much everyone I interview.”
“Cage Wallace is different, okay? He-” She pauses, tries to gather her thoughts, “I don’t think he’s doing Arcadia any favours.”
Bellamy falls silent so Clarke uses the opportunity to google stalk him further. She doesn’t really know what she’s hoping to find or achieve with this but research always makes her feel better.
“If your gut is telling you that there’s something up with this guy, maybe you should look into it.”
She’s staring so hard at her computer screen that the words are blurry. Her throat is tight.
“It’s not part of my job.” She mutters and goes back to her research.
----------
She catches him reading up on Cage Wallace twenty minutes before they get off work.
He’s still reading after she leaves but she knows that he printed the article out.
----------
Clarke is great at many things. Writing, for one. Drawing is another strong suit. She can name all the bones in the human body and can rattle off basketball statistics like the champ she is.
Drinking, unfortunately, is not one of them.
Monroe from the Art department is going for her maternity leave so everyone from The Ark throws one last office party for her with a shit lot of booze and gifts. (Monroe sips ginger ale from a wine glass. Clarke thanks the stars that she’s not the pregnant one) It’s kind of like a baby shower because everyone is lavishing her with gifts. Baby shower with booze.
When everyone starts singing 99 bottles of beer sometime after 8.30, Clarke decisively chooses to stagger out to the balcony instead to get some air. It’s small, beyond cramped and also has the spectacular view of the car park. Clarke loves it.
“Princess?”
She dimly recognizes the voice, forces herself to focus on it. Bellamy comes into view, sliding the balcony door shut. His hair is a mess and he took his jacket off. He has freckles on his arms, she notes stupidly, watching the movement of his bicep as he reaches for her. Stupidly gorgeous arms.
“Are you okay?” He asks. Clarke nods, wonders if it would be a bad idea to reach out and take his hand. Count the freckles and form constellations. Probably, she concludes.
“Not drunk,” She stutters, leaning back against the wall so she can feel a slight breeze.
He smirks, “Yeah I believe you princess. You wanna go back inside?”
“No,” She scowls, “Dickbag.”
He laughs and it's a nice sound. Bellamy hardly laughs, she realises. He smirks, he snorts, sometimes a dry chuckle. It’s nice.
“Why were you such a dick to me back then?” She mumbles, waves her hands around to illustrate her point. “You.” She tries to poke his chest, misses wildly, “Were. So. Mean.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly!”
“Well, I didn’t think you were going to take the job seriously.” He says baldly.
“But-”
“Yeah Clarke,” He cuts in, small smile back on his face, “But you proved me wrong. You’re good at this and I’m sorry for how I acted, okay?” He looks away, embarrassed, palm rubbing against the back of his neck. It’s a good look for him, Clarke realises. He’s kind of adorable. Wait what?
“You called me Clarke,” Is all she manages, before she’s leaning forward and puking all over his shoes.
The last thing she registers is his weary sigh.
----------
The next morning is horrendous, worsened by the new wallpaper on her laptop, courtesy of Bellamy. His puke-stained oxfords just isn’t something she wants to look at.
----------
FEBRUARY 2015
“I hope you’re vaccinated against the flu.”
Raven’s voice comes over the line, crackly and disjointed, but Clarke knows she’s smiling, “What?”
“Avian flu is making its rounds in Asia. Who knows, right? Anyway are you home safe?”
“Yup,” Raven says, and Clarke can hear the TV in the background, probably Friday Night Lights, “You?”
“I’m walking to my car. Had to stay late to finish up some articles.”
“Be safe.”
“Yup.”
She hangs up, rustles in her bag for keys to her shit hole of a car when she realises someone is trying to jimmy the lock on her car. Her blood turns to ice and her heart is pounding and all she can think of is no, god no please I just paid it off.
“Hey!” She screams, faintly registering that he’s twice her size, holding- is that a crowbar?- when he swings out at her wildly and she screams, dropping to the ground.
The crowbar hits her side mirror instead, she hears the crack and the sound of the crowbar being flung to the ground. She scrambles to her feet, readies herself for a fight, only to realise that he’s making a run for it.
For a second, Clarke contemplates going after him. Doing something crazy like dragging him to the police station or pummeling his face in or maybe even threatening him with the crowbar. But the anger dissipates in seconds, adrenaline leaving her in a flood, and all she feels is cold and scared and alone.
“Fuck, hey, are you okay?”
She knows it’s Bellamy without turning to look because he was the only one in the office when she decided to make a break for it. Of all people. Clarke sniffs, tries to wipe away the moisture that has gathered by the corners of her eyes inconspicuously. “Fine,” She tries to say, but it leaves her tongue unintelligible and garbled. She swallows, tries to hear over the pounding in her ears.
“Hey,” He grabs her by her arms, traces soothing circles against her wrists, “I think you’re in shock. Just look at me okay? I want you to take a deep breath.”
He’s a lot taller than her so Clarke focuses on his mouth first. Chapped, but they look soft. Freckles lining the sides of them. His breath smells like cigarettes and coffee and its warm against her face. She leans in, rests her forehead against the bridge of his nose, exhales raggedly. Closes her eyes. Don’t fucking cry.
He doesn’t say anything, just moves on to kneading her knuckles instead while she rests her full weight on him. She’s okay. Yeah. She’s good.
Clarke opens her eyes, swallows in another lungful of air. He’s sort of- she realises stupidly- staring at her lips. Oh god, is he trying to kiss her? The thought doesn’t nauseate her or anything (fuck) but she can’t- they can’t- “We’re co-workers,” She squeaks, backing away so quickly she slams into the side of her car, “This, we can’t, you know.”
“No! Okay you misread me, that, that was not what I was doing, or thinking! I swear. Seriously.”
Great, now he’s flustered and she’s embarrassed and they’re both uncomfortable. She peeks at him through her lashes. He’s blushing. She made him blush. The knowledge of it makes her feel strangely triumphant.
“Thanks. For calming me down.”
“Yeah,” He grunts. He’s staring pointedly at the floor, scraping his shoe against the concrete. She wonders briefly if it’s a nervous tic. “No problem. You, er, you good?”
“I think I am.” Clarke finally locates her car keys, unlocks the doors. “Where’s your car?”
“Further down,” Bellamy shrugs, “Do you need me to drive you back or…?” He ducks his head bashfully, gestures at her car wildly. Her heart constricts a little because when has he ever been shy? Jesus. What a clusterfuck.
“No, it’s fine!” She yelps a little quickly, ducks into her car, “I’ll just see you tomorrow.”
His mouth quirks up, almost a smile, “See you around princess.”
“See you.”
She watches him in the rearview mirror when she drives off. He has a cigarette stuck between his lips when she turns the corner.
----------
He screams at her the very next day for not understanding how to format her stories properly and she sweeps eraser dust onto his chair in retaliation.
So you know. All is normal.
----------
It’s hilarious when Monty and Miller get together because they think it’s a huge secret or whatever but Clarke catches on pretty quickly.
She allows herself to briefly wonder why the fuck is Miller giving her the sex eyes when she realises it’s a mis-fire and he’s clearly looking at Monty. She stuffs her fist into her mouth and has to remind herself not to pump her fist in the air.
She waits until everyone files out for their respective assignments (Miller- profile on up and coming soccer star. Anya- release of some self-help guru’s book. Bellamy- dead politician. “Funerals,” He snarled under his breath as he grabbed his jacket) before she asks, “So, how long have you guys been dating?”
In hindsight, she should have asked the question after he finished his sandwich because Monty is choking on his chicken and bacon ranch and Clarke understands the theory of the heimlich manoeuvre but just the theory. She pats him on the back awkwardly instead.
“I’m- I am not dating anyone.” He sputters, colour rising in his cheeks.
“Does Miller know that?” She says dryly.
Monty doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares down at his sandwich and she feels bad. Maybe she’s pushed too hard on something that was meant to stay private. She deliberates between just staying quiet or apologizing and she just about decides on the latter when Monty says, “Miller doesn’t want people to know.”
“Oh.”
“Miller’s dad can be kind of a dick. And it’s frowned upon for co-workers to date each other.”
“Are you,” She searches for the words, tries to put it tactfully, “Are you okay with it?”
“Yeah, I am.” He’s calmer now, goes back to chewing his sandwich. “What gave it away?”
Clarke snorts, “I’m not blind. You guys are constantly eye humping each other.”
“Hey! I thought we were pretty discreet.”
She reaches out, ruffles his hair, feels an incredible rush of fondness for her colleague, dare she say it? Her friend. “Mon,” She drawls, “You could have seen the sexual tension from Mars.”
“What about you and Blake then?” He asks mischievously and Clarke chooses that moment to (finally) give her salad the attention it deserves.
----------
NOVEMBER 2015 (I)
They have been working on the article for two nights straight. Endless cups of coffee, three McDonald’s runs and one breakdown later, they’re done.
Bellamy gives her the honour of typing out the byline. She stares at a little after they’re done. It’s pretty fucking magnificent.
He hovers behind her, reads over her shoulder. “Now or nothing, Clarke.” He breathes into her ear.
She reaches for his hand. He laces them effortlessly. Yeah, she allows herself to think, I might have the smallest of crushes on him. Just a small one though. Purely physical attraction, she reminds herself. Clarke just really, really wants to jump his bones.
“Now or nothing,” She parrots him, hits the send button. It whizzs off into the great unknown.
Clarke stands up, screws up the courage to peck him on the cheek (he stares, makes a strangled noise that she never knew he was capable of) and starts packing her things.
----------
MARCH 2015
RAVEN: I may or may not have just made out with my boss
CLARKE: did he at least promote you
CLARKE: is he hot
CLARKE: oh god he’s the one with the facial hair isn’t he
RAVEN: fuck you clarke
----------
Despite Clarke’s no strays or homeless people in the apartment rule, Raven starts bringing Wick home all the time.
Clarke has taken to calling him Kyle puppy dog Wick. Not to his face, of course. Just Raven’s. Raven hates it and Clarke realises that the best way to rile her up is to talk about what a great couple they make.
“We’re not like, dating dating,” Raven scoffs, “We’re, you know. Hanging out. Stuff.”
“Having very loud and inappropriate sex in the kitchen.”
“That was one time!” She shrieks and Clarke has to duck so she doesn’t get a face full of milk. It soaks the countertop instead.
“God, you know I’m just happy for you right?” She says after the giggles wear off, “I’m teasing you because I think it’s great.”
“I know,” Raven mumbles, gives her a bone crushing hug, “Thanks for being happy that I’m happy. Wick’s kind of an idiot, but you know.”
“Well. He’s not spacewalker so I’m pretty sure you upgraded.”
She snorts and Clarke laughs into her hair. Finn Collins feels like a decade ago. A completely different time when their lives were all about parties and 12,000 word thesis papers.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” Clarke asks, busying herself with her cereal.
“Oh come on. No one interesting?”
Her mind kind of jumps straight to Bellamy which is ridiculous because she doesn’t even like the guy. They’re not even friends, she reminds herself. Just yesterday he was ranting about so and so’s new campaign manager and he kept running his fingers through his hair and it was downright unattractive alright?
“You’re blushing.” Raven says smugly. “Spill.”
“There’s no one in particular and I am not blushing.”
“Clarkkeeeee,” She whines.
“It’s really nothing,” She insists, “Most of my colleagues are attached anyway.”
“Have you looked at the other departments?”
“There’s this girl in fashion. Lexa. She’s pretty hot.”
“And…?”
“And what?”
“You’re not doing anything about it because…?”
Clarke blinks. Sure, Lexa is gorgeous and she has flirted with Clarke occasionally but she has never really considered it. Actually, she’s not sure why she hasn’t. Lexa’s smart, funny, has a dry kind of humour that she can appreciate. Why not, really.
“Yeah okay,” She says finally and Raven starts clapping her hands in glee, “Why not?”
----------
No one in the office really picks up on the fact that she and Lexa are dating until Anya catches them leaving in the same car that one time.
“Congrats,” She says the next day during their usual editorial de-brief, “You guys seem great together.”
“Who and what?” Miller says and it’s weird but she’s hyper-aware of how Bellamy would react at this point. She sneaks a peek. He’s not even paying attention, too busy texting and all.
“Clarke and Lexa.” Anya says. Monty gives a little cheer and Miller pats her on her back. She just kind of grins at them, unsure of what to say. It’s nice but also a little weird considering the last time she had a relationship was years back.
“What do you think Bell?” Miller asks.
“I think it’s great,” He says sincerely, meeting her eyes briefly, “Have fun Clarke.”
She’s absolutely not disappointed with his response. Not at all.
----------
Lexa breaks up with her a week later to reunite with her ex, Costia. It’s one of those first love, high school sweetheart situations that Clarke knows nothing about but she wishes she did.
It’s a little awkward seeing her around the office at first but it’s not excruciating or anything. They still exchange hellos and Clarke still makes it a point to get Lexa her sea-salt cookies every time she’s in the area of her favourite cafe.
“This is literally one of the most peaceful and unassuming breakups ever,” Monty announces one day after Lexa drops by her desk to hand her some invoices.
“Well, it wasn’t anything serious,” Clarke says irritably, “And we’re still friends.”
“It’s weird,” Monty mumbles. Clarke briefly wonders if he’s right before she decides that she doesn’t really care.
“Well who are you to judge her relationships anyway?” Bellamy drawls. Monty sputters something in response. Clarke just kind of tunes it out.
She does buy him a latte when she goes out for a Starbucks run after though, just to thank him for coming to her defense.
“Lattes are too sweet,” He grouches and Clarke is this close to just dumping it over his head when he takes it from her. “Thanks.” He mutters.
“Well, it’s not like I know how you take your coffee.” She snipes back.
“Flat white,” He says finally after what feels like a thousand years.
“I like cappuccinos.” She shoots back.
He doesn’t say anything, just studies her. It’s a little unnerving.
“Good to know.” Bellamy says and that’s that.
----------
MAY 2015
Bellamy uses up all the holidays he has saved up to go visit his sister Octavia in the city for a few weeks. The office is eerily quiet without his presence and its weird but Clarke misses yelling at him.
“It’s too quiet in here,” Miller grumbles on the second day.
“Clarke, pick a fight with someone.” Monty complains on the fourth day.
“Who?” She mutters and goes back to bashing away at her keyboard. This is the most bored and unfulfilled she has ever felt at work.
On the seventh day, Anya comes to work with a printed picture of Bellamy. She glues it onto his desk chair. Monty and Clarke take turns throwing gum at it. A wodge of it lands on top of his left eye.
On the ninth day, Clarke looks through his stuff. She’s not proud of it but she’s bored and the office has cleared out. She’s waiting around for art to put the finishing touches on the layout for the next issue and well. It’s not like she’s going through his e-mail or anything.
His coffee mug, black and chipped, has Veni, Vidi, Vici printed on it. Typical. He has a picture of a stunningly pretty girl tacked up by his computer- olive skin, dark hair- and Clarke realises this could very well be the elusive Octavia. Or his girlfriend. Whatever.
He reads a lot of biographies and the calendar by the side of his desk is neatly labelled with things like 4.00 interview and coffee with E and in bright red and capitals, ARTICLES DUE. It’s underlined three times. She has to give him props for stressing the urgency of deadlines.
She gets bored and goes back to playing solitaire on her laptop. She receives a text from him at 9.40- a picture of a new pair of sneakers- with the caption, I’m billing these to you when we get back
It’s a little weird considering that they have never texted each other before and she has his contact saved as Dickweed Blake but she replies him anyway.
CLARKE: you better not have paid more than $30 for them they’re not very stylish
DICKWEED BLAKE: My sister picked them out for me are you questioning her great taste??
CLARKE: I don’t believe you this has you all over it
DICKWEED BLAKE: hypothetically you might be right
DICKWEED BLAKE: how’s work without me?
She deliberates telling him that its good but eventually honesty wins out. She snaps a picture of the Bellamy chair and sends it off with the caption, miss you its too quiet
He doesn’t reply for seven minutes. Not that Clarke was keeping track or anything. Her phone buzzes and she nearly sweeps her laptop off her desk.
DICKWEED BLAKE: missed you too princess
----------
SEPTEMBER 2015
Stakeouts, Clarke realises, are a lot more fun in theory.
“Can’t you just get the shot from here?” She hisses.
“Clarke,” Jasper says with exaggerated patience, “I can’t just get the shot. Firstly, it goes against my principles to take a bad photo. Secondly, we’re too far away and if I take the shot here, it’s just going to look all grainy. Is that what you want? Thirdly-”
“I think I get the gist.”
“We have to get a lot closer.”
“I gleaned that the first couple of times you said that.”
Clarke Griffin, an employed adult with a great understanding of taxes, is currently squatting in a bush outside Cage Wallace’s house desperately holding her pee.
“We have to wait until he actually leaves the house.” She sighs, crumpling to the ground, “And what if he has security?”
“You sure thought this through, didn’t you?”
She fixes him with a venomous glare. “Shut up. I knew I should have asked Harper instead.”
“Well you couldn’t have even if you wanted to anyway. She’s out on assignment with Blake today.”
“Blake?”
The lights go off and Jasper tenses beside her. Clarke counts to thirty before she finally catches a glimpse of Cage ducking into his car. She keeps counting until he pulls out of his driveway at hundred and thirty.
“Do we move in now?”
She wets her lips, tries to push down her anxiety by reciting all the American presidents in her head (George Washington), “Yup.”
They crawl out of the bush and skirt the perimeter. John Adams. Jasper boosts her up and she clambers over the wall, landing ungracefully on her knees. She braces herself, waits for wailing alarms and guard dogs. Nothing. Thomas Jefferson. Jasper lands next to her and nearly breaks his expensive camera. She gives him two seconds to whine and wipe his smudged lenses.
James… James Monroe? James Madison? Fuck. “How are we going to get into the house?”
“We’re not breaking in!” She nearly screeches. She’s sweating furiously, the back of her neck damp. “Just climb that tree. We should be able to get a good view of his bathroom and bedroom from here. According to the contractors I bribed, he has a gold-plated tap.”
“Big spender.” Jasper mutters under his breath.
“That is exactly what I’m trying to prove.”
Jasper is surprisingly limber so she lets him go on ahead while she slowly pulls herself up. She hasn’t climbed a tree since she was eight. She had scraped her knee on the rough bark and her dad had bandaged it up. John Quincy Adams.
“Holy shit.”
“What?”
“You’re right. Gold-plated tap, glass panelled shower. That toilet bowl looks remarkably expensive.”
“I knew it! That son-of-a-bitch-” She loses her footing and for a minute blind panic takes over until she somehow grabs onto a branch, “I was right.”
“His bedroom is bananas.” Jasper says, his voice slightly muffled by the high-intensity clicks of the camera, “It’s kind of unbelievable.”
“You better believe it,” Clarke huffs, hauling herself up to his height, “I have so much dirt on him right now. Including financial transactions.”
“I think we’re good.”
This is the part Clarke hates the most- the getting down part- so she lets Jasper bumble his way down first. She heads down after, comparatively slower and cautious, and prays that breaking her neck climbing down a tree is not how she goes.
“Fuck. The garage light is on.”
“What?” She shrieks, then remembers that what they’re doing is kind of illegal, “Shit, what?”
“Someone’s out there.”
The light goes off and they’re plunged back into darkness. Clarke swears, gropes the air for Jasper’s hand until she finds it and they take off.
They’re over the wall and jogging to the car when she seems them.
“Oh my fucking god, this is my story! I was going to break it!”
Bellamy raises his arms in mock surrender, “What, afraid of a little healthy competition?”
“I can’t believe you, you-”
“Relax Clarke, we can work on it together.”
She stomps her foot, instantly regrets it. “No.”
He crosses his arms, adds teasingly, “I have photos of his completely unnecessary and splashy fleet of cars.”
Fuck.
“This isn’t a game, okay?” Clarke says hotly, briefly aware of Jasper fidgeting beside her, “We could all get fired. I’m doing this with the clarity that my job is on the fucking line.”
“And you don’t think I considered that?”
She’s a little shocked by that. Clarke isn’t an expert on Bellamy per se but she knows he loves his job. He’s loyal to a fault and he’s really, really good at what he does. She also knows that he’s angling for Jaha’s job. Has been, actually, for the past year or so.
“So, you’re risking everything because…?”
He clenches his jaw and she doesn’t miss the way he curls his fingers into a fist, “People deserve to know.” He mumbles and she almost scoffs because who would have thought.
Bellamy Blake. Noble.
She unlocks her crap car. “Get in, Blake.”
----------
JULY 2015
Clarke is the worst when she’s sick. Or so she has been told by Raven. You know, whiny, grumpy, hungry. Reverts back to being a six year old. All that jazz.
So when Clarke gets the flu and wakes up with a raging fever on Friday, Raven has the foresight to tell her to stay in bed and call in sick.
“I can’t,” Clarke whines, “I have articles to write.”
“Are they due anytime soon?” Raven demands. Clarke shakes her head, wipes her nose on her covers. (Raven tries to conceal her disgust. Fails.) “No? Well then you’re going back to bed.”
She calls Miller (She’s can’t deal with Monty in mornings, its doubtful that Anya will pick up her calls, and Bellamy. Well. She doesn’t need the aggravation.) and he tells her to rest up, reminds her to get all the fluids she needs. She hangs up before he’s done.
Slipping under the coolness of her sheets, she sleeps for another five hours. By the time she gets up, Raven is gone (work) and it’s two in the afternoon.
Clarke considers making chicken soup but considering it requires to get up and you know, actually make an effort at something, she decides against it. She grabs a box of tissues off her desk, switches on her laptop and spends the afternoon blowing her nose and watching old movies.
She’s dizzy and hungry and she’s pretty sure she’s sneezing up blood. She closes her eyes, wills the vertigo to pass. At one point, her phone rings and she picks up but she can’t comprehend what’s going on. Much like the movie playing on her laptop, its all just white noise. She goes back to sleep.
She wakes up to the sound of hammering.
Go away, she thinks. The pounding persists. Make it stop. God. Nope. There’s someone at the door, she realises faintly. Oh.
She slides off her bed cautiously, slams her arm against the doorway as she stumbles out. There’s a brief flare of pain but she doesn’t really care. She struggles with the locks- her fingers feel clumsy and bloated- but gets them open on the third try.
“Clarke?”
Bellamy. “Ugh,” is all she manages instead.
“I called you and you were incoherent. I got worried.”
There’s a crease in between his brows. Clarke reaches out, smooths them away with her palm. “Come in,” she mumbles, pushing the door open wide.
She sits down on the living room couch and he follows suit. His lips are moving, she notes, asking her something. Clarke tries to concentrate but her brain refuses to cooperate. Her stomach hurts. She wants to die. She closes her eyes again.
The next time she wakes up, there’s chicken noodle soup. He offers her a spoon but it looks heavy so she declines. She does, however, accept it when he feeds it to her.
“You must have been really hungry,” He says absentmindedly. Clarke swallows, wincing at how sore her throat feels. “I think your friend made you something in the kitchen but one of your other flatmates must have eaten it.”
“One of them always steals our food,” She croaks, “We never even got her name.”
“Wow, she speaks,” Bellamy remarks, lifts the spoon back to her lips, “Welcome back to the world of the living, Clarke.”
Her brain still feels fuzzy, like she’s treading through quicksand, sinking at every step. “Shouldn’t you be at the office?”
“My interview finished up early. I was in the area.” He scrapes the bottom of the bowl. A part of her wonders if he made it from scratch or if Raven had stocked up on the packet versions last month.
“Why- why did you call me?”
He smiles a little, taps her bottom lip with the spoon to get her to open her mouth. She does it obediently. “Miller said you were sick and I just wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess. You didn’t exactly sound good on the phone so I figured I would drop by.”
“You should come by more often now,” She mumbles, lays her head back onto the sofa, “The last time you came over I tried to set you on fire.”
He chuckles, “That’s kind of an exaggeration. You threatened to set me on fire. To be fair, I shouldn’t have dropped off the invoices on your day off.”
“Yeah,” She blurts out, “And you weren’t my friend back then.”
The smile she receives is blinding. “We’re friends now?”
She takes in the messy curls, the sweet smile, the beat up jacket he hardly changes out of. She knows him and yes, she likes him and of course, of course he’s her friend.
“Yeah you goof. We’re friends. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Just a few months ago I figured you wanted my head on a stick.”
Clarke snorts, “Sometimes I still do.”
----------
Bellamy’s remarkably patient, she realises, as he hands her yet another tissue to blow her nose with. She’s gone through five boxes.
Throughout the day, he has fed her, stood outside her door and yelled at her until she changed out of her ‘germ-infested pyjamas (his words, not hers), tolerated the hissy fit she threw when she realised that there was no tea, and at one point, he washed her dishes while she lolled about on the sofa.
It was downright domestic. Clarke doesn’t know how she feels about this.
They’re seated on the couch now, side by side, watching Game of Thrones. He brought her blankets but they start to feel suffocating so she kicks them off.
“Aren’t you cold?” He remarks and Clarke sniffs in response. She is, in fact, fucking freezing but she doesn’t want to bury under the blankets she wiped her nose on. She burrows into his side instead, pressing her face into the worn material of his jacket.
He does tense a little, and a part of her recognizes that she would be a lot less bold if she wasn’t so delirious but she’s cold and he’s warm and he smells nice. She waits, keeps her face in his jacket, until she finally feels him relax.
Mid-way through episode five, he slings his arm over her shoulders. Plays with the ends of her hair. She shifts her feet and lays it over his on the coffee table and he hisses.
“Your feet are literally blocks of ice.”
“Warm them up then.” She mutters. Bellamy sighs, makes a remark about buying her a pair of socks but courteously sandwiches her tiny feet between his.
She falls asleep again around episode ten, her head pressed against Bellamy’s chest. It’s dark out when she gets up and Bellamy is nowhere to be seen.
Raven saunters out of the kitchen, ponytail swinging. “Hey,” She chirps, sitting down beside Clarke. She smooths the hair off her forehead, her fingers warm and soft against her clammy skin. “You feeling better?”
“Did,” She scrambles to formulate her question, “My friend was just here. Did he leave?”
Raven smirks, “Loverboy is in the kitchen making us dinner. I’m pretty sure it’s just grilled cheese sandwiches though, the fridge is a disaster.”
Her mouth goes dry at the thought. Bellamy making dinner. Raven meeting Bellamy. Worlds colliding and all.
“It’s not like that,” She blushes furiously, “He’s just a friend.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Raven says mischievously, pressing her hand against her chest dramatically, “Though I did come home to find both of you cuddling on the couch.”
“I was cold.” She protests feebly. Raven just winks at her as Bellamy emerges with three plates.
It is just grilled cheese sandwiches but it’s pretty fucking fantastic. Raven and Bellamy argue the entire time about the best way to make a perfect grilled cheese. (Raven insists that you have to smother the bread with butter first, then toast. It’s all in the bread. Bellamy not so respectfully disagrees. Everything to do with the cheese.)
By the time they finish up Clarke is feeling pretty much recovered. Raven still insists on getting her to bed though so at Clarke’s insistence, they change her sheets and wrap her up in them like a burrito.
“Sleep,” Bellamy admonishes after she whines to him about the 100th time on missing out on work, “God knows you need the rest.”
“I’m falling behind,” She insists, “I have half the mind to head off to the office now and finish up some stuff.”
He laughs, “Just sleep. If you feel better tomorrow, you can come down.” And before she realises what he’s doing, he leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek. “See you soon.”
Raven sees him out and Clarke pushes off a few of the blankets, wondering how it got so hot in a simple matter of minutes. Jesus.
“He kissed you on the cheek,” Raven says smugly, leaning against her doorway.
“Doesn’t mean anything.”
“You guys cuddled.” She adds triumphantly.
Clarke grunts, prays for an earthquake to swallow her up.
“You like him.”
“Raven I need my sleep, can’t we just do this another day?”
Thankfully that’s when the interrogation ends. The lights flick off and Raven, mercifully, shuts the door.
----------
OCTOBER 2015
Bellamy’s apartment is a lot nicer than hers.
He doesn’t have to deal with flatmates for one, so that’s awesome. He has hot water all the time and his refrigerator is so well stocked it puts the 7-11 around the corner to shame.
She stays over a few times when they’re churning out the Cage Wallace piece (he insists on taking the couch despite her protests) and it’s embarrassing to admit how much she likes sleeping in his bed. It’s a lot bigger for one and the sheets smell like his cologne.
They’re eating cold chinese food on his living room floor when he broaches the question.
“So what are you going to do if you get fired?”
“Erm,” She stabs at her noodles valiantly, tries to ignore the twist she feels in her stomach at the thought of being unemployed all over again, “I don’t really know actually. What about you?”
He nods thoughtfully, reaches for the wontons next to her. His bare arm brushes against hers and she squirms. His skin practically radiates heat.
“I haven’t got it quite figured out either,” He says between mouthfuls of food, “Might not be able to get a job in this industry anymore. So.”
She puts down her chopsticks, queasy, “We’re doing the right thing. Right?”
“Clarke,” He says firmly, “We are 100% doing the right thing here. Cage Wallace is a fucking menace and the public deserves to know it.”
She cracks a smile at that, “Cage Wallace is a fucktruck.”
“Hey, that could be the title of our piece.”
“Has a certain ring to it.”
They lapse back into comfortable silence. Clarke contemplates texting Raven to let her know that she won’t be back again today when Bellamy says, “Maybe I could do teaching or something.”
She’s a little surprised, but she can see it. He’s good with kids for one. Supremely patient. Knowledgeable in english and politics and history. He would be the kind of professor that would leave the door open during office hours so his students can badger him with questions. She smiles a little at the thought.
“You could teach in a college.”
“That was what I was thinking. Might have to spend a few years training up for it though.”
“You’ll be really good at it.”
“I’ll miss working with you though.” He says bluntly and Clarke swears her heart stops.
“We could always hang out,” She tries to say casually, “Like in a non-work context.”
“Non-work context,” He smirks, “Like Game Of Thrones night?”
“That was fun,” She squeaks. Prays she isn’t blushing.
Thankfully she manages to divert the topic back to Cage Wallace and they spend the next few hours dissecting the outline and editing their respective paragraphs. They argue over sentence structure and placement of fucking commas. They argue some more over the selective pieces of evidence they want to feature. But it all works out eventually and Clarke has to admit that despite all the disagreeing, they make a pretty good team.
By the time its midnight, the piece is about 60% done and Clarke wants nothing more than a hot shower and two bags of double stuffed oreos.
“I’m going to shower,” She tells him, grabbing her bag of toiletries, “Won’t use up all the hot water so you don’t have to worry.”
“Yeah,” He says distractedly, still editing on his laptop, “Go on ahead.”
Clarke has her own shower gel and shampoo but sometimes she likes to filch Bellamy’s for pure novelty’s sake. (Okay so she likes how he smells, sue her) She washes up quickly and it’s only when she’s out of the shower that she realises he set aside a towel for her. It’s pink. Bellamy Blake bought her a fucking pink towel. There’s also a toothbrush for her that wasn’t here yesterday. His is green. The one he got for her is also, surprise, surprise, pink.
She brushes her teeth, towels her hair dry and steps out back into the living room.
“Thanks for the towel. And erm, the toothbrush.”
She doesn’t miss the flush that rises up his cheeks. “I thought you mind need them. It isn’t like a big deal or anything. And O says most girls like pink stuff. So, you know.”
Oh my god. What a nerd.
“My favourite colour is actually orange.” She mumbles, picking at her cuticles. She peeks at him from under her lashes. He’s still blushing.
“Okay.” He mutters. He can’t even look directly at her. He’s staring at her forehead.
“Okay night!” She says quickly, turning on her heel. Better to leave before she does something stupid like kiss him or tell him that his hair smells nice. Oh god, she’s in too deep.
It takes them both a little longer to fall asleep that night.
----------
AUGUST 2015
Gathering dirt on Cage Wallace is surprisingly easier than she thought.
Changing the entire direction of her article a few months before deadline is borderline suicidal but the intense fundraising campaigns Cage is organising makes her sick to the stomach. Especially when just knows that its not going to charity.
So Clarke types up a resignation letter on her laptop the night before, prints it out and puts it in a sealed envelope. Not to be touched until November. Then she starts poking around.
Turns out there are a lot of people who don’t like Cage and it’s hard to close the floodgates once she opens them. She gets financial records and invoices for luxury furniture and even his dry cleaning bills. She needs pictures too but she’ll worry about those later.
She’ll miss The Ark though, she realises, after a particularly fun afternoon in the office involving Monty making the world map out of uncooked macaroni for their website.
She’ll miss her co-workers for one. The editorial team mostly, but she’s gotten close to the photographers too and the fashion department is always friendly now after Lexa. She’ll probably miss drinking the shitty instant coffee months after she leaves. The route to work is so familiar to her now she could probably walk over to the office in her sleep.
She’s not going to miss the deadlines, the rushing, or Jaha (god, she hates that guy) but yeah, she figures, she’ll miss everything else. She tells this to Raven over breakfast.
“Of course you’ll miss it,” She says, “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know, I thought it’ll just blow over. Like the whole Lexa thing.”
Raven snorts, “Did you even like her?”
“I liked her as a person,” Clarke says defiantly, “We could have worked.”
“Be honest here though. You didn’t want it to.”
“I-” She hesitates, considers lying. But it’s Raven. And if you can’t even be honest with your best friend, well, what’s the point? “Yeah. I didn’t want it to work.”
“Bear in mind you poured your heart and soul into this magazine for,” Raven starts counting the months off her fingers- “Six months,” Clarke cuts in- “Six months so far,” Raven nods. “It’s something. Plus you like what you’re doing.”
“I love what I’m doing. But the chance of me getting hired anywhere else in this industry is zero.”
“You could always change your mind.” Raven says quietly, “Go back to writing the original piece.”
It’s not something Clarke hasn’t considered. It’ll be a hell lot easier for one. More practical, too. If she was still talking to her mother, Abby would tell her that keeping to the original piece would be the mature decision. The smart decision.
“No,” She says instead, “I can’t do it. I don’t think I can just take this lying down. It’s just- it’s not fair Raven.”
She comes over to her side of the counter, leans on Clarke’s shoulder. Clarke tilts her face towards her, rests her cheek against hers. Comfort at its best.
“Do what you have to do.” Raven says.
----------
JUNE 2015
Monty and Miller go public and it causes an office-wide scandal considering co-workers can’t date. Human Resources gets involved and there’s a whole lot of unnecessary drama that culminates in Miller throwing his desk phone against the wall.
It does work out with no casualties involved (thank god because Clarke can’t bear work without both Monty and Miller by her side) and now Clarke has to knock every time she enters the break room because god forbid she walks in on them.
“All this fucking drama,” Bellamy grumbles over his coffee, “Let them live already. Jesus. It’s not like either one of us is dating Jaha.”
“Human resources can be a real dick.” Clarke agrees.
“Why didn’t they harass you about Lexa?”
“Contrary to what you think, not everyone knew about Lexa and I. It was just you guys and a few people in her department I think.”
“Very hush hush,” He says mildly, “Impressive. Now if only these idiots thought about it.”
“They did. It’s been months, Bellamy. They’re serious about each other.”
“Did he have to declare his love at a office party though?”
“You’re just jealous,” She says. He sticks his tongue out at her. (It’s kind of endearing and Clarke hates herself for thinking that.)
“I have concluded that it is not worth the trouble.” Clarke adds, “The whole co-worker relationship thing. Unless you’re practically married like these two.”
“What, just because of the stupid rule?”
“I mean, yeah. Kind of. It’s not really worth the trouble, is it?”
Bellamy just looks at her. “Yeah,” He says finally, “Not worth the trouble.”
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NOVEMBER 2015 (II)
On her last day of work, Clarke drinks all the free crappy instant coffee, writes notes to all her friends (some heartfelt, some stupid) in the office and uses the copier-printer for personal reasons like the badass that she is.
She’s photocopying all the articles she wrote for her portfolio when Bellamy finds her.
“Hey,” She says, “All packed up?”
“Yup. Thought I would hide out here for a while. Monty’s crying again.” He slides down onto the floor, into the small space between the copier and the door. She squeezes in next to him, knees touching.
“Ah, fuck.”
“Tell me about it.” He mutters. “I just want some peace and quiet. I wanted to smoke in the breakroom but Anya’s in there talking to Lexa.”
Clarke grins, “You could just smoke here.”
He laughs, “Oh my god. Are you trying to corrupt me, princess?”
“It’s your last day dumbass,” She nudges him with her foot, “You can do whatever the hell you want. Go crazy.”
“Okay,” He says, and then he kisses her. It’s slow and careful at first but then he deepens the kiss and Clarke sighs in his mouth. She grapples with the collar of his shirt, pulls him closer, feels the hard ridges of his back under her fingertips.
He pulls away first. Her fingers are still tangled in his hair and she likes the way he looks at her, all soft and pliant and just different.
“So, we’re not co-workers anymore.”
She shivers a little at the hoarseness of his voice. Yeah, she could get used to that.
“We’re not,” She agrees, leaning in to nip his lower lip, “What a shame.”
“Shame.” He whispers against her mouth and Clarke is grinning like an idiot because fucking finally.
“We should probably have sex in the breakroom at some point.”
“Definitely.”
(They don’t get to but Miller walks in on them making out by the copier and he screams so loud that Clarke’s pretty sure she’s partially deaf now. There were apparently bets involved and Miller is now $500 richer.)