Chapter Text
The smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the lunch rush, because of course it does.
For a second, while everyone is frozen, Clarke thinks to herself, damn thing is malfunctioning.
Then she realizes that the small coffee shop is getting hazy, and she can smell thick, acrid smoke. “Okay,” she yells over the din. “Okay, everyone out! Slowly and calmly!” She shoos Harper out from behind the counter. “Call 911, okay?”
Jasper comes running from the bathroom, zipping his fly hastily, feet skidding across the floor. “What the fuck?! Did you burn something?”
A plaintive voice reaches her ears, some asshole in a suit leans over the bar: “what am I supposed to do about my coffee?!”
Harper glares at him: “go to Starbucks,” she snaps, yanking at his arm, steering him towards the door.
Clarke rushes into the small hallway, pushing open both bathroom doors and then the supply room, calling, “hey, we’re evacuating,” into the empty spaces. Then the cramped kitchen, where the chef and busboy are hastily flipping off the water and stove burners.
“It wasn’t us!” Murphy protests, before she can say a word.
Clarke glances around quickly. No source of smoke.
“Okay,” she says. “Everything off? Let’s get out of here.”
She has only been a manager for three weeks, having been promoted from plain ole barista, to shift lead, and then to assistant manager.
It won’t look good on her resume if a customer dies on her watch.
She checks the bathrooms again.
The customers who came for a quick coffee in between classes or on their lunch break have cleared out quickly, but the students who were studying over espresso and snacks are huddled awkwardly around Harper, Jasper, Murphy, and Monty. Grounders is a family of sorts, and that extends to the regulars who come in frequently. Clarke knows names and coffee orders. She’s been to weddings and played Agony Aunt during late shifts.
Her eyes run over the remaining customers, and she’s fairly certain everyone who was in the building, came out.
The fire engine screeches to a halt barely a half minute after Clarke comes to stand with her coworkers. As the firefighters unload, Harper takes a deep breath. “Holy shit,” she whispers. “If I’d known firefighters looked like that, I’d have lit my dorm on fire.”
And…well…they do look like something from a television show.
One strides up to the group: “who’s in charge?”
Clarke swallows nervously. “Me,” she says, stepping forward just a bit. “I don’t know where the smoke is coming from, though.”
A taller, burlier firefighter asks, “everyone out?”
Clarke wrings her hands, blathers on a bit: “I’m pretty sure, yeah. I checked the bathrooms, kitchen, supply room because sometimes Octavia and Atom make out back there…”
She isn’t sure what changes, but something ripples over them, the first firefighter asking tightly, “Octavia?”
“Yeah, uh, she’s a regular, she studies at ACC. Blake, maybe? Yeah, Octavia Blake.”
“She was here today?”
The building could be burning down in the background, but the man is single minded: Octavia.
“Earlier. But I’m pretty sure she left around 11. She has a class at 12:10.”
“Pretty sure? Fuck.” He swings around to face the building, striding off at a fast clip, while his coworker yells,
“hey, Bellamy, wait up!”
“Does he know Octavia?” Harper is all confusion.
“Yeah,” the remaining firefighter says, “she’s his sister,” and he breaks into an awkward jog behind Bellamy.
Clarke is mortified; she just told Octavia’s brother that Octavia has been making out in the supply room like a horny teenager.
It feels like hours before the team comes out of Grounders. Clarke is sitting on the sidewalk, tapping her fingers on her knee. Bellamy approaches her; there’s a tiny smudge of soot on his left cheek. “Good news! It was just a small electrical fire. Smelled worse than it was.”
Clarke sags against Harper, tension whooshing out of her body almost audibly. “No damage, then? And Octavia wasn't in there?”
“Ah, no.” He seems a little embarrassed. “She texted me and said she was in class.”
“I told you,” Clarke is somewhat peevish. “She has a 12:10 class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She always comes in around 11 to get her coffee, maybe 10 if she wants to get some studying done, like today. She wouldn't be here at this time.”
He shrugs and wipes his hands off on a towel–one definitely stolen from the supply room where Clarke looked for Octavia and Atom. Then he changes the subject.
“You’ll need to get an electrician in. The wires are totally fried, and it’s not safe for you to be in the building until they’re seen to. Come on, lemme show you.”
She follows his broad back into Grounders. The mess is mostly contained–a hole cut into the ceiling, smoke-stains and a wad of nasty wire hanging down over the table where Octavia and Atom had been studying, only a few hours before.
“Jesus,” she whispers to herself. “If this had happened when we weren’t here, the whole damn place could have burned down.”
“I think you were really lucky. Have you called the owner?”
Clarke nods miserably. “She’s out of town. She took her daughter to Disneyland. Soon as we’re done here, I’ll call her again. God, I hope I don’t get fired.”
His eyebrows draw together. “That wouldn’t be fair. You didn’t cause the fire. It’s just an old building, these things happen.”
He’s really very handsome, Bellamy the firefighter.
“I have the number of an electrician who does emergency repairs. Your boss’s insurance policy should cover it.”
“I’d appreciate that,” she says. “Can I let my customers in to get their stuff?”
“Yeah, we’re all set here.”
As the firefighters move to board their truck again, she calls out to them impetuously: “Hey, guys? Free coffee for life!”
“Come by on my shift,” Harper adds, ever the flirt. Monty glares at her. His crush on Harper is the most ill-guarded secret on campus. Everyone knows about it, including Harper herself, and Clarke thinks that Harper enjoys making Monty a little jealous.
She also enjoys leaning into the little kitchen, making plans with him, hanging onto his every word.
They’ll be a great couple someday.
The wiring takes little time to replace and Grounders is open again two days later, everyone just a bit keyed-up, Clarke’s regulars excited and clamoring.
“I’m mad at you,” Octavia tells her facetiously. “Now Bellamy knows I’m dating Atom, and he will not shut up about it. He gave me a safe sex speech. I’m 21! I think I know about safe sex by now!”
The room has gone silent, just in time to hear her. She blushes. “Just saying,” she mumbles. “Be glad you don’t have an older brother.”
Clarke is an only child, and when she sees Octavia’s embarrassment she’s kind of grateful.
“Your brother seems nice. When he was worried you were in the building, he sort of ran off to make sure you were okay.”
“Yeah. Protective is kind of his schtick.” Octavia tips her cup at Clarke. “Thanks, Babe, Talk to you later.”
Jasper jumps up to sit on the counter while Clarke polishes the espresso machine. “Monty and I had a brilliant idea.”
“Bet you did,” Clarke mutters to herself. Monty and Jasper’s brilliant ideas have included among them selling marijuana edibles from the pastry shelves and not opening until 1:00pm on weekends.
We need our beauty sleep, they’d whined.
“No,” Jasper says, “this is really a good one, Clarke, just listen. What if we had game nights on Fridays?”
She considers as she wipes down the tables, and Jasper heaves the chairs up behind her so they can mop.
“I’d need your help with advertising. And if it’s okay with Diyoza, we could stay open an hour later. Are you willing to do that, on Fridays? How do you plan to convince Murphy and Monty to stay late, too?”
“Oh, they think it's a great idea. And Murphy brought up the fact that we got our liquor license like 6 months ago but never started serving. We could have beer!”
“Have to admit it, Jas. These are really great ideas. Let me talk to Diyoza about it, see what she says.”
So then she is standing at Target, digging through the board games, when someone warm and sweetly scented bumps into her. She staggers sideways a bit, strong arms grasping at her biceps. “Hey, sorry, God. I wasn’t looking–”
The voice is vaguely familiar, but Clarke can’t place it, she snaps her head up to find herself looking into the brown eyes of Bellamy the firefighter.
“Oh,” he looks as if he’s placing her. “Grounders Girl. Burned any buildings down recently?”
“Nibbled through the wires myself.”
Is that funny? She hopes it’s funny.
He grins, a slow smile that takes over his face. There’s a dimple in his cheek, freckles spattered across his nose. “You really will get fired, doing that.” He leans over to pick up the games she’s dropped. “You having a game night?”
She shrugs, feeling a little silly, admiring the spot where his dark hair curls over his golden neck. “At Grounders. Friday night. Trying to drum up a little weekend business, you know?”
“Sounds fun,” he bites his lip, carefully placing a Scrabble game into her cart. “Yeah, sounds really nice.”
“You should come,” she blurts, before she can talk herself out of it. “Free coffee, remember?”
She can see before he even opens his mouth that he’s going to try to let her down gently. “Wish I could. I’m on nights this weekend.”
“Okay. Um. Well.” A flush rises from her chest to her ears. “Nice to see you again.” She looks away, hoping he thinks she’s studiously examining the games.
“Wait. If we’re gonna keep bumping into each other, and I'm gonna get my free coffee, I need to know your name.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Bellamy Blake.”
“Clarke Griffin.”
“Oh,” he seems to be appraising her, “you’re Clarke from Grounders. Octavia’s talked about you.”
Clarke squirms under his gaze. “Really? All good, I hope.”
“Yeah. Definitely. She says you give great advice.”
“That’s very sweet of her. She’s my favorite customer. She calls me Babe, which I think is just adorable.”
“Always with the nicknames. She calls me Bell.”
“Well, then. Nice to meet you officially, Bell.”
He smiles at her again, a little bit lopsided. “Nice to meet you, too. I’ll be in for my coffee soon enough. Don’t set any fires in the meantime.”
The flirtation comes out of Clarke’s mouth before she can think about it too hard: “I’ll do what I have to do to see you again.”
It’s Bellamy’s turn to flush, and he does, heat rising up his neck, making his cheeks and ears go pink. “Okay,” he says, and turns on his heel. “Okay, then I’ll see you again either way.”
The next morning, Octavia leans over the counter with her eyes sparkling: “My brother thinks you’re cute,” she sing-songs.
Clarke stammers: “Wh-what?” as she pulls a shot of espresso. Her heart does a little flutter, a two-step.
“He asked me literally five jillion questions about you last night.”
Jasper glances at Octavia over Clarke’s head. “Do you know the meaning of the word literally?”
Octavia pelts him with a wadded-up napkin. “Do you know the meaning of a private conversation?”
“What did he…what did you say?”
“Oh, just that you were so cute. And he’s gonna come for his free coffee and could I tell him your regular shifts?”
Clarke is dismayed—she doesn’t really have regular shifts. She works when she’s needed, and says as much to Octavia.
“No worries, Babe, just tell me your shifts for the rest of the week.”
Clarke hastily scribbles them down on a napkin and hands it to Octavia. “If you’re teasing me about this, no caramel macchiatos for a year.”
Octavia gasps. “You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, I would.”
“We’ll, luckily for both of us, I’m not teasing.” Octavia waves the napkin loftily. “I’ll hand this over when I take dinner to the station tonight.”
The morning of the first game night dawns unexpectedly cold, with freezing rain driving down Clarke’s coat collar. Jasper is hopping from one foot to the other while he waits, trying to warm up.
“I know this was my idea, but why’d you have to put us on a swing shift? Couldn’t Harper have opened?”
Clarke is grumpy: “Turn the machines on and pull some espresso shots. We’ll both feel better with some caffeine in our systems. And for God’s sake, turn the heater up.”
She is leaning over a mug of espresso, half-and-half, and seven sugars when someone taps on the door.
“We’re closed!” She yells. “We don’t open for another fifteen minutes!”
“Oh, c’mon Clarke. Everything’s ready. Let’s unlock the doors. Anyone who’s up this early deserves coffee.”
She growls quietly, focusing on her mug, not registering what Jasper is saying to her early bird customer.
“…free coffee, absolutely, for the guy who kept Grounders from burning down…but damn, Dude, what are you doing up this early? It isn’t even 5:30 yet.”
Clarke stands up hurriedly, smoothing wild curls, tucking them behind her ears. She braided her hair this morning, but the rain made her efforts in vain. She looks a mess and she knows it. Still, though, she gives Bellamy a mega-watt smile.
“I just got off work. Found myself half asleep on the drive home…figured coffee might be for the best.” He sees Clarke, her mug between her hands. “Hey, Clarke. Thought I’d take you up on your offer, if it still stands.”
God, his eyes are chocolate brown, his freckles stand out against his skin in stark relief. He looks exhausted, and when he moves closer Clarke thinks she smells smoke.
That’s probably her imagination, though, because his hair is still wet from a shower.
“My offer definitely still stands. What’ll you have?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”
She carefully places her mug on the counter. “Are you planning on going to sleep when you make it home? Because this is five shots of espresso…”
Bellamy eyes the mug warily. “Christ, you’re going to be vibrating for the rest of the day. Uh, then can I just have two shots of espresso? And cream and sugar, please.” He slumps into one of the stools at the end of the bar. “Seems like that’s just enough for me to make it home.”
“For here, or to go?” Clarke asks this as if she isn’t praying it’s the former.
“For here, I think. But only if I can have that mug with the bunnies all over it.”
Grounders serves “for here” hot coffees in mismatched crockery, and when Diyoza wanted to change that out to plain white mugs, Clarke fought her. “It gives us character, kinda shabby chic–cozy, you know?”
And it is cozy, to make Bellamy’s coffee and serve it to him in the mug with little white bunnies hopping to and fro. For a lack of something better to say, she asks: “And how was firefightin’ last night?”
He blows on his coffee, lips pursing softly, wrapping his fingers around the drink like it’ll warm him down to his bones. “No one died,” he says, finally. “So that makes it a good night, I think.”
“That does sound like a good night, when everyone goes home safe.”
Clarke hasn’t turned the music on yet, Jasper has disappeared into the kitchen to scrounge up day-old pastries. In the quiet morning, Bellamy lifts a shoulder. “A house burned down, over on Third Street. Family got out, but the house was destroyed. It was just…sad. They didn’t have a home to go back to. I hate those kinds of calls. Especially the parents, you know? They’re just…so devastated.”
A moment of silence hangs between them. Clarke takes in a little breath. “That must be hard. You see people in their worst, most difficult moments. I don’t know if I could handle that, honestly.”
“Sometimes,” he is nearly whispering, “sometimes, it just breaks my heart.”
She reaches across the bar to touch his wrist. “I understand. But, also…you’ll feel better after you have breakfast and get some sleep.”
Bellamy rests his hand over Clarke’s. His eyes are red-rimmed, there is a line in the corner of his mouth. “I’m tired. And hungry. You’re right, I’ll feel better after breakfast and a nap.”
As if on cue, Jasper appears with an armful of plastic-wrapped muffins and bear claws. “Dudes! I found something to nosh on. You hungry, Elder Blake?”
Bellamy pulls his hand away from Clarke’s. She wishes he hadn’t, curses Jasper’s timing.
“I’m very hungry—what do you have?”
“Banana nut muffin–no walnuts, Clarke’s allergic. Uh, this one’s lemon poppyseed. And this one’s a savory muffin, bacon, green onions, cheddar cheese–Murphy’s recipe, it’s fucking delicious. And um, two kinds of bear claws. This one’s almond, this one has apples in it, which isn’t traditional but is my favorite–”
“Bacon. And apple bear claw.”
Clarke settles on lemon poppyseed, and Jasper sets in on the rest of his hoard. “I’m a growing boy!”
“You want me to warm those up? Toaster oven’s on.”
Bellamy nods. Clarke slides his plate away–
The bell over the door jingles.
Jasper turns the music on.
Whatever moment they’d had, just a few precious seconds ago, is over. Bellamy looks like he’ll fall asleep before finishing his breakfast, and he chugs the rest of his coffee like a man dying of thirst.
He eats every last crumb on his plate, eyes intent on Clarke, who stands behind the espresso machine, gossiping and dancing while she makes drinks.
Clarke has always found that the only way to survive the long days at Grounders is to drink too much coffee and lose her mind a little–dancing, singing, teasing her customers, greeting them cheerfully and remembering their names.
It’s not exactly who she really is in her free time–that version of Clarke is reserved, a little more quiet. But the Clarke she is at Grounders is a Clarke who is well-liked and invited to parties, and being that Clarke is sometimes easier than being any other type of Clarke.
Like the Clarke who misses her dad.
Or the Clarke who hasn’t spoken to her mother in 18 months.
Or the one who can’t seem to make a relationship work.
Or the one who feels insecure and awkward and doesn’t know how to flirt and has to pretend Bellamy isn’t even there so she can be Grounders Clarke.
He leans across the counter to tap her hand at just after 7, dragging up a wearied smile. “Hey, I’m gonna go crash. Thanks for the coffee. And breakfast. And…entertainment.”
“Anytime,” she says, for lack of anything better. “See you soon?”
“Definitely.”
Clarke watches him walk out, shrugging his coat on, taking one last look over his shoulder.
A bare half an hour later, Octavia comes rushing in, shaking out her umbrella in the doorway. “Babe!” She’s practically breathless, “Babe, my brother is so into you. Words were used. Compassionate! Endless blue eyes! Great coffee! Hell, he even thought you smelled good, though I don’t know how he figured that out, since it smells like coffee and baked goods in here at all times.”
Clarke doesn’t mention how close to him she was this morning, her hand over his, leaning half-across the bar.
“Anyway, he’s desperately into you, Babe, so what’re you gonna do about it?”
Clarke hands Octavia her caramel macchiato. “Not sure yet–have to get through game night before I make big plans to seduce anyone.”
Octavia wrinkles her nose: “Uh, don’t tell me anything about the seduction piece of the puzzle.” She picks at the label on her drink; her fingernails are painted with chipped purple nail polish. “Too bad he can’t come tonight. He’s gotta be out there, acting like a hero, trying to get himself killed.”
Her tone is a little dark, something twists across her face.
“Another time, I hope. If everything goes well, y’know?”
Clarke moves to make the next drink, but Octavia grabs her hand. “Thing of it is, Babe, that Bellamy needs someone just like you.”
Clarke’s inner voice is loud: Someone like me?
To Octavia she says, “What do you mean?”
“You’re sweet, Babe, and smart as a whip,” Octavia gestures towards Clarke’s pile of Art History textbooks. “You make everyone laugh, and you’re…there’s another side to you, Clarke, and you don’t like to show people but…you’re deep. Bellamy likes that kind of shit. And he’s already mentioned that he loves your smile.”
Clarke has always hated herself, just a little bit, a normal amount for a girl her age, that’s what she’s always tried to say on long nights when she finds herself frowning into the mirror.
“He has a great smile, too. And so do you.”
Something close to pain flashes across Octavia’s face. “I know we don’t really look much alike. Technically, he’s only my half brother…but that doesn’t mean anything,” she adds defensively. “I love him the same as ‘whole’ brothers and sisters do.”
“Oh, but you do look alike,” Clarke protests. “You have the most stubborn chins, and your shoulders are…set against the world. Both of you, even when you’re relaxed. And–” she touches Octavia’s chin gently. “You both have a dimple, just there. And your eyes are different colors but very similar. You read as siblings. Can’t believe I didn’t see it when he showed up about the fire alarm.”
Octavia ducks her head. “Just one thing, Clarke.”
“Anything for my favorite customer.”
“Bellamy’s been through a lot. Don’t break his heart.”
It feels like a promise she can’t possibly keep when she says, “of course I won’t.”
Clarke bought a trunk full of prizes for Game Night, as if bragging rights wouldn’t be enough. There are plastic crowns and glittery sashes, as well as straws shaped like glasses and party hats. She and Murphy are wearing tiaras while Jasper rocks a glittery sash that says “Miss Teen America.”
Harper has on two party hats worn like devil’s horns.
The night was supposed to have ended hours ago, but it’s 4AM before Clarke knows what’s hit her.
The sheer panic in her voice sends patrons scurrying in every direction, beer bottles clinking together in large black plastic bags, coffee mugs and tiny little snack plates clattering into the double kitchen sinks.
“Wait–wait–-wait—” Jasper shakes his head, trying to clear away the beer fuzzies. “Who’s opening? Clarke–holy shit, we open in an hour–”
“I’m opening,” she wails, scrubbing the tables with lemon-scented water. “I thought I’d have time to go home and take a nap! You clean the tables, take the trash out–I’ll clean the espresso machine and make us some coffee–”
She is so tired, half-drunk, and overwhelmed that she nearly bursts into tears when the first customer knocks on the door. She throws it open with the tiara still in her hair while Jasper hastily packs the rest of the Scrabble pieces.
She’s half shocked, half thrilled to see Bellamy on the other side. He touches the tip of her plastic crown, growling softly, “hey, Princess. Looks like your night was as long as mine.”
“I haven’t been to bed yet,” she says defensively.
“That’s apparent,” he replies, his tone teasing. He tucks a curl behind her ear. “You look like you were up all night fighting fires, instead of…”
“Playing Scrabble, and kicking everyone’s ass at Harry Potter trivia.” She steps back, holding the door open wide for him, even though it brings in a blast of icy air. “Wish you could have been here. Octavia was.”
“Next time, I hope.” He gives her a tight, tired smile. “Octavia says you make this…white chocolate cinnamon thing? Can I have one?”
“Cinnamon Dolce Mocha. Yeah, I’ll whip one up for you.”
Clarke knows she looks wrecked, tired and partied out, still just a little bit drunk. Bellamy’s not looking his best either, though, his hair falling across his forehead in wet curls, eyes bloodshot, shoulders slumping. When he walks ahead of her, she brushes her fingers across his back, a tiny bit of affection, one he might not even have felt.
Bellamy sheds his coat and helps Jasper finish cleaning—fishing the little silver shoe from underneath a table, carefully sorting the money and placing it into the box. “Monopoly doesn’t really seem like a wild and crazy kind of game.”
“When everyone’s drunk it is,” Jasper gives a little shrug, “and we were definitely very drunk.”
“Some of us are still drunk,” Clarke nods towards Harper, who is shakily pushing chairs into their rightful places, under the tables and the drinks bar. “Go home, Harps. We’ve got this.”
“Waiting for Monty,” Harper slurs. “Just like…five minutes.” She falls gracelessly into a chair.
“You wanna coffee?”
Harper brightens. “Same as what Bellamy’s having, please.”
Decaf, Clarke mouths at Bellamy.
She makes Bellamy’s first, because it looks as if he might fall asleep and topple from his stool. She winks at him, sliding the mug across the counter, and then turns to Harper: “just a second.”
She carefully measures out the decaf espresso, pulling the shots, adding milk and syrup, topping it off with cinnamon sugar.
And then, feeling very much like Octavia, she calls, “hey, Babe, here you go.”
Bellamy tries valiantly to cover a smile, looking down into his coffee, but Clarke catches it anyway.
When Monty comes to sweep Harper away, Jasper is in the kitchen with Murphy, trying to quickly rustle up something to eat. Saturdays generally have breakfast burritos and homemade salsa roja, in addition to the normal pastries, and bagels with lox or whitefish spread. Something for everyone, Murphy said, the first time they added the items to their menu.
However–they’ll have to do some prep in advance next week, because there’s barely a cookie left in the kitchen, and a very cranky Murphy is swearing at the top of his lungs as he pounds out cinnamon roll dough and Jasper mixes up the whitefish spread. Murphy leans into the main room, where Clarke and Bellamy are mostly just staring at each other, and snarls, “no burritos today and I don’t want to hear a fuckin word about it!”
Clarke holds up her hands in surrender. “Next week we’ll make them in advance. No worries. Everyone was here last night, they’ll know exactly why we don’t have any.”
“Fuckin…a hundred burritos, Clarke! You’re the planner, how did you not realize they’d eat them all!”
The smile has slipped from Bellamy’s face, he looks ready to brawl. “You don’t need to talk to her that way,” he says quietly. “Look at her, she’s just as exhausted as you are.”
“I’m sorry, who the fuck are you? Clarke and I have been friends since high school, your intercession isn’t needed here, White Knight.”
“Murphy, don’t be an ass. Bellamy was one of the firefighters who came the day of the fire. I told them they could have free coffee for life, remember? It doesn’t come with a side of attitude.”
Murphy is quiet for a quick half-second. “I’m not doing this next week, Blondie. You figure out how things can go more smoothly, AND how Game Night can end at a reasonable hour, because this no-sleep shit is not gonna work for me. Or Jasper. Or you. You look like some kind of demented storybook heroine.” He spins around to stalk back to the kitchen.
Bellamy is biting back a grin: “I think you look cute.”
“I haven’t had the nerve to look in the mirror,” she says, touching her crown self-consciously. “Customers will be here soon, though.”
Mock offended: “I’m not a customer?”
“Paying customers.”
He reaches for his wallet-- "I can pay!"
Clarke knows her smile is exhausted, she’s sure her eyes are red and her hair is a frizzy mess. But Bellamy is giving her A Look and she is fighting the blush that threatens to pink up her cheeks.
“You paid when you kept this building from burning down.”
He hangs his head, staring into his drink. “Lucky me.”
“Mmm, no. Lucky me. Lucky us.”
“Is it always so quiet on Saturday mornings?” He runs his finger around the rim of his mug.
Clarke shrugs. “Yeah. We don’t usually really get going until after eight. Maya will be here around then, and I can go home and get some sleep.” She dumps coffee into a cup of ice, follows it with cream, then simple syrup.
“Only two and a half hours, then.”
She gives a mock-sob. “Well, entertain me, Firefighter. How was last night?”
“Well, it was Miller’s turn to cook, which, he doesn’t, so we had pizza…and then it was call after call. Nothing serious. I’m just tired, and I haven’t had breakfast…”
“Oh, I can fix that—”
“Well, don’t upset the cook, he doesn’t seem too pleased with you. Or life, really.”
Clarke waves him off. “I knew Murphy when he was a pimple-covered lightweight. Eighth grade, I think? He doesn’t scare me.” She glances at the door. “If anyone comes in, just tell ‘em I’ll be back in two shakes.”
She disappears into the kitchen with determination in her step, and after a small shouting match she returns to the dining room, laden down with fresh cinnamon rolls and the bacon muffin Bellamy liked so much the last time he was there. She runs them through the convection oven and serves them to Bellamy with a flourish.
After several bites of the muffin, Bellamy says, “I think Octavia has a crush on my coworker. Lincoln. She came by earlier this week with lasagna and they—” he makes a face. “There was a distinct vibe.”
Clarke swallows a piece of cinnamon roll. “There’s definitely trouble in paradise between her and Atom. They used to study together every Tuesday and Thursday, but now she comes without him.”
Bellamy tears off little pieces of biscuit, crumbling them between his fingers. “She doesn’t really confide in me anymore.
“Well, you are her older brother,” Clarke touches his hand, stilling the nervous motion. “She might not want to talk to you about her romantic problems.”
Bellamy chews his biscuit thoughtfully. “Would you do me a favor, Princess?”
The new nickname makes her blush a little. It seems she’s always blushing around Bellamy Blake. “Anything.”
“Could you make sure she’s okay?”
Clarke flashes on the night before. Octavia was the life of the party, dancing and singing, vivacious, happy to be alive.
“I think she’s doing just fine, but I’ll ask her and report back. When will I see you again?”
Her heart thumps in her chest.
“Not sure, exactly, but sometime this week.” He leans his cheek on his chin, then drains his mug and carefully wraps his cinnamon roll in a napkin. “Thanks, Princess.”
“Is that my name, now?”
“I like it–don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer, she’s examining the shadow of his lashes on his cheeks. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive home?”
He pushes the empty mug and saucer at her. “Now that I’ve had your candy bar in a cup, I could do anything. But instead of climbing rocks or whatever, I’m going to go home, watch a little tv, and sleep.”
“Me too. Around 8AM.”
He stands, manages a weak smile. “Well, then, sweet dreams.”
“You too.”
Her heart squeezes painfully as he walks out the door, and she thinks to herself: “when am I going to spend more than an hour with him?”
It turns out that Octavia has the solution to that little problem.
“Babe, you and Bellamy are taking far too long to get going.”
It’s 7 on a Wednesday night, and there’s hardly a soul at Grounders.
“Lincoln wants to go camping, and I think you and Bellamy should come.”
“When?” Clarke pours the espresso into Octavia’s drink. “It’s supposed to be fucking freezing until like…next June.”
“It’s not tent camping. I scoped out a cabin that sleeps six. With a fireplace and everything.” Octavia is sitting on her knees on a stool, leaning over the counter eagerly. “Bell has vacation time coming, and so do you. So…let’s go for it, Babe. You’re always saying we’re going to hang out, but then you’re too busy. So. I already talked to Diyoza, she’ll give you the weekend off, two weeks from now? And Bell, well, that was a little bit harder, but when I mentioned you…he agreed to take the weekend off. So, say you’re coming, please please please.”
Clarke only hesitates a second. “Yeah,” she says, finally. “Yeah, I’ll go.”