Work Text:
The first time Bellamy sees Clarke Griffin, he has no idea who she is.
He walks into his office at Griffin & Kane one morning and there is a girl in a leather jacket combing through his file locker.
"Excuse me?"
She turns as if she was expecting him and says without missing a beat, "These are ordered all wrong."
He takes a step back, and assesses her again. She looks too young to work here, but she holds herself like she’s the owner.
"Who are you again?"
She cocks an eyebrow at him. "My mom didn't tell you? I'm-"
Then he gets it, just in time for Abby to power walk down the hallway and huff in exasperation.
"Bellamy, hello. I see you two met already. This is-"
"Clarke. You're Clarke Griffin," he presses out and then she's frowning at him.
He can't reconcile the girl in front of him with New York's darling.
The daughter of the most capable lawyer in the whole country, always posing for the press while volunteering.
When she got into law school and started dating Lexa Woods, the tabloids proclaimed them to be New York's next power couple. And then it all died down.
The city was left in the dark after a piece titled: What Happened to New York's Darling Clarke Griffin?
But the girl in the tabloids Octavia read looked different.
This girl looks like a washed-out version of the darling. Her mother’s gaze is more pronounced, the circles under her eyes are darker.
"Abby?" Bellamy asks, turning to his boss. He'd never met Clarke before - Abigail Griffin's private life was always that. Private.
The woman clears her throat and straightens up with a smile.
"Clarke is going to be your assistant, Bellamy. She is taking a break from college this year and we both felt like she could learn from you immensely."
Oh, so it's not about him. It's about giving the Darling what she needs.
Bellamy bites it down and smiles at Abby, curt. He owes her this much - they both know it.
"Of course. Thank you."
"She's going to be here for whatever you need."
"She's not a paralegal. She can't work the cases," he adds, raising an eyebrow. She doesn't look like she could work the cases. Mostly eyes his lockers tensely, her arms crossed at her chest.
Abby blinks and straightens up her skirt, meets his eye with a steely gaze. Not up for discussion.
"Of course. She can be useful in other ways."
"She means," Clarke pipes in and the coldness of her voice surprises Bellamy. Here's the other side of the media darling, "I'm your errand girl. Do you take your coffee with sugar or black?"
Abby gives her an admonishing look but Bellamy bites down on a smile. This is not new; Manhattan is full of rich kids whose parents have to fix their DUIs or donate for library wings so they'd graduate.
Clarke Griffin, however, at least has a sense of sarcasm.
"We'll be fine, Abby. Don't worry about it," he tells her, moving past her to get to his desk. The room already smells like the darling - expensive French perfume with a hint of musk and young adult rebellion.
When Abby leaves, Bellamy pages through the folder on top of the heap on his desk and Clarke takes a seat in the chair across from him.
Peripherally, he can see her pulling out her phone, unlocking it with a swipe. Then she frowns and shoves it back into her jacket pocket.
Her nails are long, emerald green, and she taps at the chair for a beat or two. Gets up, makes her way around the room.
She only stops when she reaches the window.
When Abby hired him, she gave him the best office in the whole building. He could see the entire skyline.
Some days, when he was working late and exhaustion pressed down on him like the weight of the world, he'd pour himself some whiskey and just stand there watching New York breathe.
Now Clarke is pacing there but he doesn't know what she's thinking and it’s unnerving him.
"Stop pacing. You're distracting me."
She stops wordlessly, pauses with her eyes locked on the view. When he lifts his head, a laugh nearly escapes him.
There are words "Darling" stitched on the back of her jacket.
"Alright, let's get you something to do. What can you do?"
She narrows her eyes at him immediately. "You got any calls you need to make? Meetings to schedule?"
"I need to see Kane about a case. Can you call Pike and reschedule for Thursday? Also, Monty from IT called. He wants to run a company-wide server update."
She grins like the edge of a blade.
"Consider it done."
He doesn't think about her until two hours pass and he's received no calls. His coffee is running low so he keeps an eye out for her as he leaves for the kitchen.
There she is, sitting in front of his office with his planner in her lap and his phone pressed to her ear.
"Well, sure, he could do that, but I see no point. Thank you for your call," she clicks on the phone and then presses her ear to it again, sees him and motions to her empty cup of coffee, "Hey Monty, it's going to have to be Saturday."
Bellamy frowns at her but takes her cup anyway. She spends the rest of the day out there and by the time he is done with meetings, Clarke Griffin is gone.
***
His apartment is always empty. He hates coming back to it, really. Knows he should love it. It's a penthouse that actually gets light in the morning, isn't stuck in the perpetual shade of skyscrapers.
It even has a french press for coffee imported from Nigeria and marble floors.
But it's empty.
Bellamy comes back home and there's no one to come back to.
His mother was right about making deals with the devil, but he can't force himself to think about that now. Instead, he turns on the TV and orders delivery.
When Abigail Griffin hired him, she made it clear that he wouldn't have to think about money ever again.
And loneliness, he realizes, was just an added bonus.
***
He doesn't talk to Clarke much in the days that follow.
Pike's case is draining him; there are so many witnesses who have to make depositions, so much evidence to reexamine.
He's going to lose the case and he knows it.
"It's not that bad, man," Miller tells him one morning as they're refilling their coffee.
They're the youngest lawyers in the firm but Miller is sharing a desk. Bellamy got a corner office. It doesn't feel fair.
"Even if you do lose the case, it's not like Griffin was expecting an easy win. She just gave it to you because you're her wonder boy."
In every law firm, there's always one lawyer who does the impossible. In Griffin & Kane, that's Bellamy.
It's not magic. It's just a byproduct of growing up on the wrong side of the tracks.
You don't learn how people think. You learn how they take action.
In the grand scheme of things, the why doesn’t matter. It’s recognizing the how that can save your life. Knowing if the murderous look in someone’s eyes leads to them being capable of assaulting innocent people in the street. Understanding the difference between yelling and being out for blood. Ducking when you ought to duck, and swinging when there’s nothing else left to do but fight.
Bellamy leans on the sink, takes a deep breath. He wants whiskey now, wants it to burn like kerosene as it slides on down.
Miller pats him on the shoulder.
"Cheer up. Your assistant is here."
Bellamy doesn't even straighten up, just turns his head to the left and meets Clarke's eye.
She's idling in the doorway, wearing her typical leather jacket and a pair of boots that probably cost more than his rent.
His voice is gruff when he asks, "What?"
She flinches at that, shifts her posture. "Just came to see if you needed me to do anything."
"I don't. Take the rest of the day off, I don't care."
He's half-expecting her to argue but she doesn't. Instead, she shrugs and spins on her heel.
"Suit yourself."
Back in his office, he loosens his tie and gets that whiskey. He figures he deserved it.
***
"Nathan, well done. Abby told me how you cross-examined the witnesses in State vs Sydney. Diana is really happy, too."
Everyone claps and Bellamy gets the sudden urge to slam his head against the table. Most of their Fridays end with a meeting. Recognition and 360 feedback, Kane told them.
It's important for morale.
"Bellamy, is there anything you would like to say about Nathan?"
"Yeah. Great coffee, man."
Everyone laughs and Kane is about to admonish him for the joke when the doors of the meeting room slam open.
Bellamy turns around and sees Clarke there, breathless and staring right at him.
"You need to come right now. It's Pike."
He's hot on her trail before she's even explained. Pike's case is a hole of misery that just keeps on giving.
"What happened?"
"He's in the ninth precinct. Witnesses say he attacked Indra Trikru."
"There are witnesses? Fuck."
Clarke throws him an apologetic glance and hands him the phone as soon as they're in his office. Then, she leans on the door with all of her weight. The knob jangles but no one comes in.
He talks with the officer for at least half an hour. Assault, attempted murder, the charges just keep coming.
There is no way out of this one.
Not when his client threatened to kill one of the key witnesses.
By the time he hangs up, Clarke has slid to the floor. Bellamy can hear voices outside but he doesn't have the energy to think about them.
Not now.
Instead, he reaches for the whiskey in his cupboard and glances at Clarke. "You old enough to drink?"
"I'm twenty three."
"Good."
He hands her a glass and then slides on the floor next to her, loosening his tie.
She eyes him for a second and then takes a sip, swallows hard.
"Pike is going to be a problem."
"What do you know about him, Darling?” he asks, a sardonic smile pulling his lips upwards. She recognizes the nickname, rolls her eyes. There’s no bite to it.
They’re both too tired to argue.
"I know he's homicidal and believes that he's doing the right thing. You can't reason with a man who believes in his actions."
Her words take him by surprise and he leans forward, nursing the glass of whiskey in his hand.
"He was arrested for murder. They don't have a lot of evidence. Only Indra's testimony that he was threatening one of her employees.”
"She's from the Trikru clan. How is Pike involved?"
Bellamy's exhale is sharp. He’s sold his soul to the devil, his mother was right.
"Turf wars. A drug deal gone wrong. Officially, they got into a bar fight."
Clarke laughs, a high-pitched sound. Clear like sleigh bells, like back when he took Octavia to see Santa in Times Square.
"Oh, that's gold. My mom's just getting better and better. Can't even defend normal mobsters anymore."
Bellamy smiles at her. His shirt is already itching, the Italian leather shoes nearly ruined with how much he's pressing his toes to the ground in meetings.
"So what do you have on her? Indra," she clarifies when he frowns. She shoots the rest of her whiskey like it's nothing. Darling.
"I can't tell you that."
She leans back and closes her eyes. "Because you don't have anything."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"You just need a reason, Bellamy. Just one reason why she'd want to see him ruined. The court may not take it into account, but it's enough to discredit the witness for the jury."
Then she gets up and straightens her shirt.
"Have a good night."
He spends the rest of the weekend getting Pike out of jail. The judge finally agrees to let him out on bail with a monitoring device.
He's stir crazy by the time Bellamy visits him on Sunday.
"That bitch. She provoked me, Blake! She started it! Like I'm an idiot who doesn't know she plans to move in on my turf."
"Do you have proof?"
Pike hands him enough emails to prove Indra wanted to buy his land in Queens, and it may not be much but it's a beginning.
He drives back home late and stops at the kebab place Octavia used to love. The owner asks him about her and Bellamy's not sure how to respond.
She's great. Refuses to talk to me since I put her in a boarding school. That's just the price you pay, I guess.
"She's fine. Misses this place," he says, the owner giving him a refill. He's always loved it here.
He could come in a three-piece suit or in a pair of beat up jeans, and the owner would still smile at him and ask about Octavia.
It's nearly dawn when he makes it home, throws himself in the shower and just stands there.
His alarm rings at six sharp and he wipes off the condensation on his mirror, takes a good look at himself.
He's grown older but it looks good on him. Thirty and all the creature comforts at his disposal. Only Octavia and his mother would notice that there is something vital missing from him.
For the rest of the world, he is a criminal defense attorney on the rise. Kane said he'd win an award before the year is done.
When he comes to the office, Clarke is missing.
He waits around for her, realizing she's not going to show only when his calls start coming through.
For a second, he feels a sharp tinge of worry. She may be a rich kid, but she’s always showed up.
Two months of working together and he doesn't even have her number.
"Hey, have you seen Clarke?" he asks Maya, the front desk receptionist.
He must say something wrong because she frowns.
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
She digs through the drawers and produces one of those idiotic newspapers.
Clarke's face is on the front cover.
Trouble In Paradise: Police Comes A Knockin' for Clarke Griffin and Lexa Woods
His stomach plummets and he pages through the paper to reach the article. There is a brief timeline of their relationship, as well as their bios.
Lexa Woods is sharp, ambitious. The first thing Bellamy thinks is ruthless.
He reads the piece. The cops were called to Clarke's apartment on domestic violence allegations in the night between Saturday and Sunday. The press even states her address.
The neighbors heard shouting, and they found canvases and clothes in the hallway. It lasted well into the night, which is when they finally took action.
Lexa Woods left in the patrol car and Abby showed up right after.
"Have you called her?" he demands, lifting his head from the paper.
Maya shakes her head.
"No one's going to press charges. No one does in these cases," she explains.
Now, that makes Bellamy furious. He can stand rich people five days a week, their coverups, their bullshit.
But he can't stand the fact that someone is getting hurt and no one is reaching out to help.
"Cancel my meetings."
Then he's out the door and storming to the garage.
He's careless as he drives to Clarke's place, barely makes it through yellow lights as he hits the gas pedal as far as it will go.
He comes to a screeching halt in front of her building.
"Excuse me, sir, you can't-"
He throws the guard at the door a nasty look.
“I’m Bellamy Blake from Griffin & Kane. Here to see Clarke Griffin.”
Then he pushes past the man and heads for the elevator. She lives on the top floor. When he rings the bell, she doesn’t open the door.
"Clarke, come on. It's me. Bellamy."
There is still broken glass littering the hallway behind him. A woman with a distinctly southern updo steps over the shards and keeps walking her dog.
"Griffin, I swear to God, if you don't open this door-"
The rest of the sentence dies on his lips. Clarke opens the door and the very sight of her makes him want to wrap his arms around her.
She looks like she’s been crying but she paws at her cheeks, crossing her arms and staring him down.
"Bellamy, what the hell are you doing here?"
It's a natural state for the Griffin women: when they are sad and tired, they get pissed off.
She's shooting daggers at him but he leans on her door all the same, carefully assesses the state of her.
Her hair is a mess, there is a bruise on her bicep, and tear tracks stuck on her cheeks. She's wearing nothing but a huge white t-shirt and a frown.
Behind her, the apartment is full of women's clothes and ripped up canvases.
"I wanted to make sure you're okay," he tries, moving away just a step. Suddenly he understands that he is the last person she wants to see looming over her. "Maya told me."
She rolls her eyes and steps aside, inviting him inside.
"The entire city knows. I was on Twitter. I saw."
"Did she hurt you?"
He drops his jacket on the chair in her kitchen. Her apartment is bigger than his own and it was tastefully decorated, probably.
Now he just sees the remnants of last night's wreckage, paint spilling all over, ripped shirts and the impossible smell of violence.
The whole place is twenty degrees colder than it should be.
Clarke throws him a look over her shoulder. He can't read this one because he doesn't even really know her. They’re not friends. She’s just his assistant.
But he still wanted to make sure she was okay. And seeing that she’s not, he’s prepared to put his foot down and stay for as long as it takes to help.
"No. We fought." She points at her arm. "I wanted to throw my paintings out the window. Lexa stopped me."
She makes him coffee and sets the mug on the counter. There are paint stains all over the porcelain but he drinks it anyway.
She's chewing the top of her thumb, eyeing him.
"She said it would kill someone on the street. I didn't care."
He doesn't care either.
"Are you okay?" She makes a face like she's just going to brush it off but he can't let that happen. It's not right. He reaches for her hand on the counter. "Really. How are you?"
Her thumb brushes over his and she shoots him a tired smile.
"It was just… ugly."
He drinks his coffee and listens. The watch on his wrist reminds him that there will be hell to pay for storming off but he doesn't care.
Clarke Griffin is curling in on herself and he wants to break something.
"We both knew it was a long time coming. Things stopped working out months ago. Lexa was… overworked. I was distant after everything.
"But then she just sat me down last night and told me she'd be taking her things and leaving. She made it sound like she was cancelling a cable contract."
She picks at the chipped wood on the counter. Her fingers are pale white in the morning light and Bellamy tenses immediately.
"I was going to break up with her but I was just putting it off. When she did it, I…" She draws a sharp inhale, looks away. "I was so angry. She was leaving, too. After everything. It was like she didn't care.
"She told me she couldn’t wait around for me to get my life back on track. Told me painting and working for a- an attorney at my mom's company as an assistant was beneath me."
Bellamy grits his teeth and she notices, smiles placatingly.
"I think what she couldn't understand was that I didn't share her ambitions. She wanted to be on top of the world. I just wanted to get some rest."
She's silent for a long time, taking her mug and turning towards an open window. New York autumn was in full swing and she closed her eyes against the wind.
"We were not okay for a long time. I was not okay for a long time. But Lexa was familiar. As long as she was there, I knew I could take it. She was there when my dad died, too."
He had no idea. The lack of knowledge astounds him, disgusts him. That he could work with her for months and not know anything. Just two strangers passing each other in the hallway.
"Abby never said a word." But now he understands.
The corners of her mouth turn upwards in a rueful smile.
"No, mom wouldn't. She just threw herself into more work. When I couldn't do the same, I disappointed both her and Lexa." At seeing his expression, she adds, "She'd never say that, of course, but I knew she wanted me to keep going."
"But you couldn't."
She smacks her lips then and takes a sip of coffee. The sun is lighting her up from behind, making her hair look like a burning halo.
"Mm, no. I couldn't. That's why I dropped out. Because I did drop out - I didn't just take a break. My dad was gone. I couldn't figure out the life I'd been making up to that point. It no longer made sense."
That's the thing with loss, Bellamy knew. When a key player vanishes, you need to rearrange the board. You need to rearrange your life around their absence.
In the end, you have to relearn everything all over again.
He doesn't reach for her because she doesn't need more hands on her. Instead, he says, "I understand."
"Your mom died too, didn't she?"
It feels clinical, the way she talks about it. Like she's run clean out of emotions, like she has nothing else left to give.
She slides down to the floor and watches him for the longest time.
"She was sick. I had time to get used to it."
"But you never get used to it. Not really."
He chuckles darkly, runs a hand through his hair.
"No, you don't."
Then he crosses the distance between them and sits on the floor next to her. His dark slacks look sharp contrasted with her miles of bare, pale skin. Her shirt has raised up, baring her thighs.
"I'm sorry this happened to you. All of it. I'm really sorry, Clarke."
She smiles at him. It's real this time, an honest smile. Another one of hers, even if he hadn't realized he's been mapping all the smiles of Clarke Griffin.
"You should get back to the office."
Bellamy shakes his head, something overpowering him. It's not important - just another criminal to defend.
He doesn't realize he said it out loud until she raises her eyebrows, mirth dancing in her eyes.
"Don't let my mom hear. She let her husband die because of one of them."
Jake Griffin's death is a mystery to him.
Now he remembers reading something about it but when Abby never mentioned it, he thought he got the name wrong.
"What happened to your dad, Clarke?"
"You want the official version?"
"The truth, if you're up for it."
She shrugs, takes another sip of coffee. When it's back in her lap, Bellamy sees the mug is empty. She's long run out of it.
Now she's just going through the motions.
"My mom had him drive Thelonious Jaha to a safe house. A driver T-boned them coming from the wrong direction. It was a message and Jaha survived. My dad didn't."
Oh.
"That's fucked up."
"That's our life for you. Everyone thinks it’s fast cars and diamonds. They don't say there's a price."
Her phone rings and she scrambles to get it. When she sees who it is, she drops it back on the table.
"It's mom," she sighs and sinks back to her knees. Her leg brushes his and he can see her wondering if she should come closer just to warm up.
So he picks up instead, keeping his palm on Clarke's knee.
"Abby, hello."
"Bellamy? What- where are you?"
He looks at the darling and smiles just for a split second. She smiles back, toying with his watch.
"I'm with Clarke. I wanted to make sure she was okay."
"Oh," it escapes her and then she clears her throat. "Right. Well, can you ask her if she needs any money?"
"She's with me. It's fine."
A moment of silence passes and then Abby is talking again, her voice suddenly more tired than he's ever heard her.
"Thank you, Bellamy."
When they hang up, Clarke is still inspecting his watch and he just watches her, amused.
Her life is a shitstorm. All things considered, she's doing pretty good.
"What did she say?"
"Not much. Asked me if you needed money."
Clarke rolls her eyes. "I have a trust fund. I think I’m okay in that department."
"Why are you working at the firm then?"
Her fingers let go of his watch gently, like it’s a precious thing, not just a scrap of metal with a hefty price tag. She shrugs.
"Keeping myself busy. Well, that and painting."
Her living room is practically a studio. She doesn't have a flat screen TV but she has tarp and a huge easel.
Bellamy smiles at her. "Then we can't have you freezing to death. Where's your thermometer?"
She laughs but points him to it, lets him turn it up until it's warm enough for him to roll up his sleeves and unbutton his shirt, warm enough for her to start dozing off on his shoulder.
When he's carrying her to bed, he wonders if she's going to be alright. He may not know a lot about her but he knows loneliness. That’s universal.
He places her gently on the bed. She murmurs something quietly when he’s pulling the curtains closed, but he doesn’t hear it.
The entire New York City is rushing beneath their feet and Bellamy Blake just wants to stop for a second.
***
They don't talk about it when she comes back to work.
She's as efficient as always but doesn't look at her phone so much. Brings him coffee in the morning but doesn't stick around to drink it.
In fact, they don't speak until he's coming out of the courthouse on the day Pike's trial begins and suddenly the press are swarming him, closing in on him.
"Blake, how is your client doing? Do you think you'll win?"
He doesn't know what to say, feels like a weirdly overgrown deer caught in the headlights.
The camera flashes won't stop going off.
"We-"
He feels a shove and then Clarke is standing next to him, voice cool as she cuts in:
"We never comment on our cases. You of all people should know that, McCreary."
There are whispers and hushed questions, all the journalists in disbelief that they are really seeing her. That Clarke Griffin is back.
She ignores them and ushers him in the car. Her hands are so steady on the steering wheel as she’s driving them right where she knows no one will follow. Bellamy can’t stop staring at her, still feeling the cameras going off.
Finally, he breathes out: “Thank you.”
It's the first time she saves him.
The second time comes months after they've won the Pike case. It turned out she was right. Juries don't trust witnesses who can profit from someone's conviction.
By then, he’s dating Echo Isley.
They somehow slip into it. They’re both attorneys, both have chips the size of Alaska on their shoulders; loving this new world they’re in and hating it at the same time.
It feels like she understands him perfectly, like it could be going somewhere, until the Times runs a piece on conflict of interest:
Is Bellamy Blake Breaching Confidentiality?
The picture of him kissing Echo in front of a restaurant on Fifth Avenue looks like an accusation.
"She works for Azgeda & Partners," Kane tells him quietly when the news breaks out. Clarke is sitting in his office with them, scrolling on her iPad so fast it makes Bellamy’s head whirl.
"And why is that a problem?"
Kane shakes his head, loosening his tie. "Clarke, do you mind?"
"Luna Rivers just scheduled a consultation with you. She's suing Nia Azgeda for fifty million."
He's out of his depth and she's still scrolling.
"Echo knew, Bellamy," Marcus explains patient. "She's known that Luna would sue Nia and come to you for months."
"If she implicated you, you couldn't work for Luna. And if she played her cards right, you'd get fired too."
It's a cutthroat world, Clarke told him once. It was right after his last date with Echo.
She'd shown up out of nowhere, asked Echo if she minded and then dragged Bellamy back to the office to sign a few pointless papers. He’d even teased her for it, asked if she was jealous.
He didn't understand then.
He understands now.
"How do I fix this?"
Clarke smiles and tells him.
It takes weeks to undo the damage. More interviews than he'd like. Luna Rivers’ case is given to Marcus and Bellamy takes a different route home for a few days. Even Echo texts him once and Clarke shows him the message.
I'm sorry. I meant what I said. I love you.
Clarke’s face is neutral and Bellamy sighs.
"What do you think?" he asks. "Is she telling the truth?"
Clarke's teeth graze her bottom lip, the screen going black before she puts the phone back on his table.
"She is. If you want to see her, I can help you."
He thinks it over for a second. They had something. But now, looking at Clarke, he finally realizes that, like all things in Manhattan, it would never last.
Bellamy shakes his head.
"Let's just get lunch."
By the time spring rolls around, it's like nothing even happened.
He gets to work, goes to the court, defends people he'd never defend if he had a say in the matter, and comes back home exhausted.
Clarke is always there on the periphery of his vision, taking care of things quietly. On the outside, she's the same as she ever was. Efficient, wordless.
But on the inside, she’s resigned and he doesn’t know how to help.
She’s just going through the motions, playing assistant and going back home as soon as 4pm rolls around.
He calls her one weekend. Even comes over. She’s not even painting, just mindlessly scrolling on her phone.
“Is this what you’ve been doing?” he asks and tries not to make it sound like an accusation. She just laughs self-deprecatingly and shrugs, motioning towards her entire empty apartment.
“What else is there left to do?”
In May, he walks into his office to find Octavia sitting there. She's still in her uniform, playing Solitaire on his computer.
Clarke is right there, keeping her company.
"O, what the-"
Clarke stands up so fast it makes his head spin, puts herself between them with raised hands.
"I brought her. It's okay, Bellamy."
"Yeah, big brother. I wouldn't impose on you and your perfect little life."
He eyes them both warily and then Clarke is dragging him to the kitchen, locking the door behind them.
At first, he thinks she's going to argue with him. But he forgot that this Clarke doesn't do that. She just goes with the flow.
"The principal called. She got into a fight. They wanted to expel her but I argued for a suspension. Two weeks."
"Fuck." He drops his head to his hands, a headache already coming on. He doesn't know where to begin unpacking that.
Clarke brushes her hand against his arm, smiles in that quiet way she’s got now.
"Why didn't you tell me you had a sister?"
What is there to say? She doesn't want him, and he doesn't know how to change that. Their mother's death only made her angrier.
He tried living with her for a while after getting a job at Griffin & Kane, but she couldn't do it.
She was expelled out of three schools before Abby told him about the prep school two hours out of New York.
It felt like a God sent.
"You've met her. I'm not exactly her favorite person."
"You're all she could talk about, though," Clarke offers, puts the kettle on. "Just give her time."
Octavia doesn't come quietly, even threatens to run away to her aunt in Nebraska. They fight in the car until Clarke says:
"You could stay with me."
"Clarke, there is no way-"
"Sure."
She only has a duffel bag and Bellamy watches Clarke help her get settled in.
"What?" she asks when she notices him staring. In this light, she looks older. Tired, in a way that can't be fixed with sleep. "It’s not like I don’t have room."
"Why are you doing this?"
Clarke shrugs, hands him the pillows she fished out of her massive walk-in closet. It's probably bigger than their entire house.
"Because I was seventeen once. So were you," she adds, hip checking him. "You'd do well to remember that."
Then they both send him off, making him promise he'll come for dinner.
He watches Clarke do her magic on Octavia.
Now that he has her number, she texts him constantly. The two of them with face masks, Octavia sticking her tongue out for the camera. They visit the Met and pose in front of the pyramid display, Clarke pretending that she's falling into the water.
Every night, he shows up to dinner.
Sometimes Clarke cooks. Other times, it’s Bellamy who whips a rag over his shoulder, rolls his sleeves up and makes Blake family specials.
The first few days, Octavia ignores him, speaking only to Clarke. Then, one day, she forgets herself and launches into talking about their day, ultimately realizing that it's Bellamy she's talking to when she sees him beaming.
By the time the two weeks run out, she even hugs him in the car.
"I'll be back in July."
He and Clarke are silent on the drive back to New York. She leans her head on the window of his BMW, watches the scenery as a hip-hop tune booms from his speakers.
"Thank you, Clarke."
She looks at him, amused. "What for?"
"Octavia, Echo, Pike… It's a long list."
She smiles knowingly. "I've had a lot of practice."
They get slurpees at a gas station, laugh at people watching them. Bellamy in his Italian suit, Clarke in her leather Darling jacket, making obscene sounds with their mouths blue.
He laughs honestly for the first time then, lets the sound out like something coming undone in his chest.
By the time he pulls up to her building, it’s night. They both idle. Neither is willing to open the door and break the spell.
"You're a good man, Bellamy," she tells him, face open and honest. These days, he's mapping the degree of sadness on her face.
There is none right now and so he smiles, winds a hand around her waist and pulls her into a hug.
"And you're the best there is, Darling."
Her laugh reverberates against his neck, her nose warm against his skin. "You really should stop calling me that."
"How can I help it?" he asks, looking her in the eye again. There's something there, but he can't quite place a finger on it. "You're New York's darling."
She smiles quizzically and asks, "What about you?"
He can't come back from this but maybe he doesn't care. She cards her fingers through his hair and smiles.
"You're my friend, Clarke."
Her lips are so close he could just lean forward and touch them. The heat blasting from outside is pushing tiny beads of sweat down her neck.
For a second, he thinks she'll kiss him, crooks her head just so, moves forward.
He can almost taste her smile when she moves an inch and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He exhales.
"You're my friend too, Bellamy."
He kisses her temple and then he's opening the passenger side door, helping her out.
"Have a good night, huh, Clarke?"
She nods. "I promise. You too."
She props up on her toes and pecks his cheek. Her hand is warm on his chest and she’s beaming at him, young in a way that makes him young. Her tongue is still blue.
It's going to be a feral summer.
He watches her leave and stays there, leaning on his car for the longest time. He watches Clarke Griffin walk away and all he wants her to do is stay.
***
They don't address the trip for months.
Octavia is back on her summer break, content to keep herself busy during the day and have dinner with him in the evening.
It's not all good, but they're getting better.
For her part, Clarke is always on the run.
He brings her coffee in the morning but she's gone by the time he's done with work. When he asks her what she's doing, she just smiles quizzically and winks at him. He comes by her apartment once or twice, Chinese takeout in hand, but she’s never there.
Kane calls him into his office one morning in early September and announces, "Congratulations, Bellamy."
He's really receiving an award for being the most accomplished attorney this year.
Clarke shoots him a shit-eating grin when he tells her but she doesn't look surprised. No one does. Not even Octavia.
It's only him who gapes when he sees the banner by the banquet hall. His face is blown up and he has the most self-satisfied smirk he’s ever seen in his life.
People around him rush forward to congratulate him and pat him on the back. He only knows some of them.
The rest are drawn to his success like moths to light and he's grateful for the gentle hand that weaves through his, steers him forward with a polite excuse.
He knows it's Clarke even before he sees her. And when he does, the sight knocks the breath out of his lungs.
Her dress looks like molten gold. Every inch of it hugs her curves, then cascades into a wave of luxurious light.
Her smile, though.
Her smile looks perfect on her.
"You look…" he grasps for words and fails. Instead, he hangs his head and runs a hand over the back of his neck as he shoots her a smile that’s likely as incompetent as he feels. "Incredible. You look like a glass of champagne."
She laughs at that, throwing her head back and baring her neck to the sky.
"Well, we are celebrating, aren't we?"
Then they're making the rounds around the room, Clarke telling him who to greet and who to skip.
Some have eyes green with envy, others' smiles dawn when they see Bellamy and Clarke.
He doesn't understand it, the smiles, the looks, until they're standing by a mirror, hand in hand, and suddenly he realizes: They fit.
They look right next to each other.
Clarke in her dress, miles of skin and hair cascading down her back. Bellamy in his tuxedo, looking at her like she makes the sun rise in the morning.
His heart clenches whenever he catches her smiling at him.
"Bellamy, it's time," Miller tells him and ushers him towards the podium.
All eyes on him, Bellamy almost wants to laugh.
"If you'd told me ten years ago I'd be looking at New York's creme de la creme gathered in a room because of me - and not because I got into a fight with someone - I wouldn't believe you."
Everyone laughs and he throws them an easy smile.
"The truth is, I still can't believe I'm receiving this award. This year was one of the hardest for me," he says and looks at Echo and Roan in the corner, the tense expression permanently etched into her features since she saw him with Clarke. "But it was immensely gratifying."
Clarke shoots him a thumbs up and his smile widens.
"Being an attorney is hard work. There isn't a day I don't wake up and imagine choosing a different profession. But at the end of it, I know I'm where I can help the most. Standing up for people who want to redeem themselves. Defending those who cannot defend themselves.
"And if there is anything I'd like to leave you all with, then it's that we may be here, wearing expensive suits and jetting off to Milan over weekends, but our lives aren't perfect. For every dollar, there are thousands' worth of trouble. But no matter what messes we make, we owe it to ourselves to give one another a hand in fixing them. We're only human, and we're doing the best we can."
He thanks Abby and Marcus in particular, his family and God, accepts the statue of Lady Justice with the scales tipped slightly in his favor.
Clarke finds him, as she always does, and brushes her shoulder against his.
"I loved the speech."
They have dinner and laugh with Abby and Miller over some of their cases. Kane joins them with a platter full of sandwiches and they all dig in. There are partners and clients, of course. Even Pike makes an appearance to thank Bellamy.
It's a mess of light and laughter until the chatter dies down and the music starts. Then, he can finally lean against the wall next to Clarke and enjoy some peace and quiet.
"My mom's very proud of you," she tells him, sipping her champagne and watching people mill around.
"Is she?"
She hums, fixing the chain on her neck. Her birthday was a month ago and he bought it for her. Picked out the most dazzling thing on the shelf of Tiffany.
She's wearing it now and he's smiling.
"You're like a son-"
She stops abruptly because a man is in front of them now, his smile dripping with pure contempt.
"Well, if it isn't our darling Clarke. I see you're back from the dead. Or was it your dad?"
Bellamy pushes off the wall immediately.
"Cage. How is your dad? Still smuggling kidneys to pay for your lifestyle?" she shoots back coolly.
The man, slicked back hair and an even greasier smile, moves in imperceptibly closer.
This time, Bellamy does come in between them, asserting himself to shield Clarke.
"Come on now, Clarkey. At least my dad is here. Your mom-"
This time, Bellamy doesn't let him finish.
He grabs the shorter man by his lapels, lifting him off the ground.
All eyes are on them now and Clarke places a hand on the small of his back.
"Listen here, asshole. One more word and I will rip that tongue out of your mouth. Now apologize."
He lets out an undignified squeak and Bellamy narrows his eyes, squeezes tighter.
"I said apologize."
"Bellamy, let him go. He's just stirring up shit," Clarke tells him, her voice right by his ear, but Bellamy can't let go.
He's seeing red, the fury boiling in him and threatening to tip over.
Kane’s hand comes next, inches from Bellamy’s. "Son, come on. He is not worth it."
The word son stings a little but Bellamy tightens his grip.
"Not until he apologizes to Clarke."
"Fine! I'm sorry, Clarke!"
A growl looses from Bellamy's mouth and then he lets go, pushing him away so that he stumbles and falls.
He turns to Clarke immediately, taking her face in his hands. "Are you okay?"
She nods, tries to smile but falters. "Yeah, fine. Can we just-"
Bellamy is ushering her out the door before she can even finish the sentence, pushing people away and handing the prize statue to Kane.
He doesn't care if he's making a scene. All he wants to do is make sure she is okay and get her away from that mess.
The valet is already waiting with his car and he helps her inside, gives her a hand to lean on.
Her palm looks so small in his.
"You good?"
Clarke nods, hugging her sides and breathing in. Bellamy counts her breaths for her. A long inhale, a long exhale. Once, twice, all the way to seven seconds in and eight seconds out.
She deflates as he navigates the streets of New York, running all the red lights for her.
She looks so small now and something in him wants to turn around, kill Wallace anyway.
He's a criminal defense attorney, he'd get away with it.
At some point, she takes his hand and he links her fingers with his, brings her knuckles over to kiss them.
"I'm gonna fucking kill him."
She laughs, a little hysterical. "He's not worth it. Hated me since our first torts exam."
She giggles through her words, breaths coming in quick and sharp.
Bellamy doesn't even know where he's driving to until they're at the kebab place and he pulls over.
"I'm cold," Clarke says suddenly. It sounds like the very idea of it surprises her, her eyes wide and searching.
"Of course."
He shrugs his jacket off and drapes it across her shoulders.
She doesn't look at him but she nestles into his jacket, stays right there.
Bellamy turns on the heating, loving the decadence of seat warmers for the first time in his life because they are keeping Clarke warm.
"Where are we?"
"It's a place Octavia and I used to love. Their kebabs are amazing, but they serve the best coffee in New York."
"I'd love a kebab."
He pauses, surprised. "You would?"
Her small nod is the best thing that's happened to him all evening.
He goes to grab the kebabs and some coffee while she waits in the car. The heat is blasting in full swing and the owner smiles when he sees Bellamy.
"Is that your girlfriend?" he asks, motioning towards the window.
Clarke is standing on the sidewalk, looking a little lost. Then she grabs a scarf out of his car and takes a seat on the pavement.
Bellamy's heart clenches.
"She's my-
The owner smiles, hands him the coffee first. "I understand. The kebabs will be up in a second."
Bellamy watches her as he waits.
She left the door open and he imagines the heat pouring out. His mother always made him close the house windows in winter; told him she doesn’t plan on warming the entire city.
Now he's looking at Clarke and wishing he left the windows open.
When he joins her, she looks calmer. Even smiles at him when she takes her kebab.
"I'm sorry. This was supposed to be your big night."
He picks up his slacks as he takes a seat on the sidewalk next to her. It's cold in September but he's fine. They're making their little tropical oasis right there in Brooklyn.
"I've had a lot of big nights. They're all boring," he tells her conspiratorially and she chuckles into her kebab. The sauce threatens to drip on her dress and he catches the trickle, licks it clean off his finger.
Her pupils blow up and Bellamy smirks.
"I hope you don't like this jacket. I can't eat a kebab for shit."
He chuckles, bites into his own. "Wanna know a secret, Darling?"
It sounds like a name when he says it like this and Clarke rolls her eyes.
"No one actually knows how to eat a kebab. The mess is the point."
She hums and digs in again.
They sit there in silence for a while, both eating like they're starved, ignoring all the things they should probably talk about.
Like how well she fit by his side. Like how he always wants to be there, to defend her or turn up the heating.
Like the fact the best day of his life was drinking slurpees with her at a gas station near Albany.
He bites it down, like always. The words only burn a little on their way down.
When she's done, she wipes her mouth with a napkin and turns to look at him with her chin in his palm. Her makeup is smeared and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.
"I was actually going to tell you something tonight."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I can't be your assistant anymore." His stomach drops but then she's smiling. "I'm taking the plunge. I'm opening my own art gallery right here in Brooklyn."
Oh.
"Clarke, that's fantastic!" His cheeks hurt now, his smile straining the limitations of his body. She's always talked about it when she thought no one could hear and there she is now.
"I'm so proud of you."
She smiles, sheepish. "Yeah, it- my mom was happy, too. I signed the lease two weeks ago. We're supposed to open the doors in November and we're already getting submissions."
The way she talks about it… Bellamy can't stop smiling.
"Well, if you need a pair of hands, I worked construction in college."
She raises her eyebrows, gives him a once over that lasts a little too long. Her look makes him want to shrivel in on himself, but he doesn't move.
"Bellamy Blake with a sledgehammer in his hands. I'd pay to see that."
He chuckles at that, averts his gaze. His affection for her is climbing up his throat, making him want to say something stupid.
Fortunately, she beats him to it.
Clarke Griffin, in all of her daring glory, places a finger under his chin and makes him look at her.
"Thank you, Bellamy. For everything."
But he's the one who should be thanking her so he closes the gap between them.
He kisses her like he was always supposed to.
It feels like being young and innocent again, drinking coffee with Clarke Griffin on a sidewalk in Brooklyn. Clarke in her princess dress, Bellamy in his suit. All of their messes making sense in the end.
Two months later, he'll hold her hand as she welcomes guests to her art gallery opening. He'll tell anyone who wants to listen how proud he is of her.
But tonight she moans into his mouth, and it feels like the entire New York City stopped rushing just to give them a second to get where they are supposed to be.
Together.