There’s a beat as she seems to process this, biting at her lip almost nervously as she sizes him up. Then, she seems to relent, slumping against the door dramatically. “Sorry. I didn’t— I work over at the ER? So I tend to keep weird hours. And I don’t mean to be loud or anything, but this toaster situation has been driving me nuts for the past hour.”

Bellamy can practically feel his brows jerk up to his hairline. “Toaster?”

She worries her lip with her teeth, nodding. “The fucking toaster. I don’t know what’s wrong? I have it all plugged in, and it was working just fine yesterday morning, but—”

“Yeah, the wiring here is permanently on the fritz.” He tells her, shrugging. “You have to angle it, like, ninety degrees to the left? Then duct tape it—” he pauses, taking in her quivering lip, the shadows under her eyes, “— uh. Do you want some help?”

Her laugh is watery, the tension seeping out of her shoulders almost instantaneously. “Yes. Please.”

He can’t help but return her smile, just a little, before she’s leading him into her apartment; sidestepping a scattered pile of boxes and bubble wrap. She’s clearly nowhere close to being unpacked, and he suppresses a grunt of pain when he bumps up against a chair leg. “So, you just got here?”

“Two days back,” she replies, jerking her chin over to the dingy toaster resting on her counter. “I needed a place that was close to Ark Medical, and this was the cheapest option there was.”

Snorting, he uncoils the wire once more, turning over to shoot her a wry smile. “Well, I was wondering what a prestigious doctor like yourself was doing in a place like this.”

“Shut up,” she says, without heat whatsoever. “Besides, this place isn’t that much of a dump.”

“It’s a shit-hole,” he assures her, flicking at the switch and shifting the wire ever so slightly to the left. “I’m guessing no one warned you about the showers yet?”

“I’ve seen the rings around my toilet, so I think I have a vague idea.”

“Trust me, you don’t.” He startles a little when the toaster chimes in with a ding; two untoasted slices popping up. “There we go. Hand me the duct tape.”

“God,” she rasps, laughing as he pushes at the lever to lower them into the now-glowing toaster, “you’re a lifesaver.”

He shrugs, a flush working its way up his neck involuntarily. Having a really cute girl smile and thank him is a lot to take in at six in the morning. “Hey, take this as your official welcome to the building…?”

“Clarke.” She tells him, extending her hand out to shake. “Clarke Griffin.”

“Bellamy Blake,” he says, taking it. Her palm is small and soft in his, and he mostly tries not to think about how much he likes it. “And I really hope this is the last time you’ll be having a kitchen appliance related breakdown at an ungodly hour.”

(Fortunately, it isn’t.)

The next time he sees her is a week after, when he smells something burning wafting in the air.

He puts it down to Cage Wallace (dick) and his notorious tendency to burn his food until he hears a muffled fuck resonate through the walls, accompanied by a loud thump.

Hitting pause on the documentary blaring from his laptop, he reaches over to knock at the wall, twice. Then, raising his voice slightly, “Clarke?”

There’s a weighty pause- long enough for him to have wondered if he had imagined the whole thing- before she responds, her voice cracking ever-so-slightly, “Bellamy?”

“The one and only,” he manages. “Everything okay over there?”

“Uhm, yeah.” She sniffs, and he recognizes the catch in her voice when she continues, “Just— had a long day, I guess. I burned my food, as you can tell, and then proceeded to drop my frying pan on my foot after, so. Yeah. My day is not looking up.”

Oh. He shrugs, then remembering that she can’t see it, adds, “So I take it that you’re starving, and tired, and close to falling face-first in your sheets without dinner?”

“In that order.”

“Cool,” he says, rapping at the wall with his foot. “Well, I have leftovers if you want, so feel free to come on over if you like egg fried rice.”

Another pause, this time shorter than before. “Really?”

“I’ll even throw in some Jell-O if you have some beers.”

“Got it!” Clarke calls out, and he bites back a grin at how much better she sounds already.

They end up spending the entire time trading spoonfuls of whatever leftovers he could scrounge up from his fridge (she likes the cold pizza best, but he’s more inclined towards burritos) and watching Planet Earth. He finds out that she teaches art classes on the weekends; that her dad died six years back. She makes a sympathetic noise when he tells her about his mom, and the foster situation with Octavia, and missing out on college.

It’s nice, surprisingly. Companionable. It feels almost impossible not to fall into a friendship after that, easy and natural, spent sharing takeout and watching movies and griping about whatever grievances they had that particular week.

(And if he occasionally has less than platonic thoughts about her, well. Bellamy’s just— trying not to dwell on it too much.)

So he’s almost expecting it when she taps at the wall that night; a direct response to his groan before he drops onto the sofa with enough force for it to creak ominously under his weight.

Sighing, he reciprocates, rapping at it once with his knuckles.

A beat, then her voice coming in a little muffled through the walls, “That bad, huh?”

“The worst.” He agrees, slumping further into the pillows. “Think terrible day at work, and a humongous fight with Octavia.”

“I’m coming over.”

He barely manages to grunt out a noise of assent before he hears her at the door; sock-clad feet shuffling across the ground as she eases it shut. “Fuck. You’re a mess.”

“I’m aware,” he grouches, pulling himself up on his elbows. Clarke’s still leaning against the door, bearing a bottle of wine in one hand and what looks like a casserole dish in the other. He stills, brows rising. “Is that…?”

“Macaroni casserole.” She confirms, flopping down on the ground beneath him and offering him a fork. “Dig in.”

He takes it from her, spears a forkful into his mouth. “God. Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite?”

“Pretty much every time I break this out,” she deadpans, scraping at the edges with her nail.

“Yeah, well, you only break this out on special occasions.” Bellamy counters, flicking his thumb over at the wine bottle balanced precariously on her knee. The last time she made it was when her mother had come over for a visit, and it had ended in a unmitigated disaster. Frowning, he shifts his focus back on her, asks, “Wait. What’s the occasion?”

She keeps her gaze firmly averted from her, staring down at the dish. “What occasion?”

“You only break out the wine and the casserole if you have someone to impress.” He reminds her, resisting the urge to catch at her chin to keep her from looking away. For some strange, inexplicable reason, he feels his pulse pick up in his chest, as if they’re on the brink of something else entirely.

“It’s nothing.”

“Clarke.”

She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself. “It was, uh. For you, actually. It was going to be a big thing, you know? Wine, casserole. The works.”

He swallows, half-mesmerized by the slow flutter of her lashes, the swaying motion she makes when he dips his chin a little closer to her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She breathes, inhaling sharply when his lips brushes up against her cheek. “I had it all planned.”

“So,” he can’t help his laugh at that, soft and a little nervous, “what’s supposed to come after?”

And that’s when she kisses him, winding her fingers over his shoulders and pulling him down. He responds with equal enthusiasm, sinking his hands into her hair and laughing against her mouth; fucking delighted, tailing into a half-groan when his knees hit the ground.

“Can’t believe you were trying to wine and dine me into getting with you,” he tells her after they break apart, panting. “Trying to fucking seduce me—”

“You started it,” she grumbles, peppering his neck with kisses and bursting into laughter when he squirms away, ticklish, “with the whole helpful neighbour act, in those stupidly cute pyjama pants. Who wears pyjama pants?”

“Well, you like it.”

Clarke sighs, burrowing closer into his arms, as if she’s meant to be there all along. “It’s because I like you, you nerd.”

“Fair enough. I guess those would probably be the two big ones.”

“That and study aids.”

“Study aids?”

“Focus potions. I get a lot of stressed-out students who want something to help them with finals.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that was thing.”

“Witches: we’re useful.” He drums his fingers on the table. “So what is it? I know it’s not finals, and you don’t sound like you’re stuffed up, so–broken heart?”

“Yeah, but–that’s not what I’m looking for. A cure, I mean. The focus stuff actually sounds great. I’m not–I had a really rough breakup, and I’m going to get worried about it. But I haven’t been sleeping well. And I’m having trouble studying. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get sick soon. I finally fell asleep at, like, seven this morning, and I slept through my alarm and my class and I just–I need to stop thinking so much. So something to help me sleep and something to help me stop worrying about how she fucked me over would be great.”

“I definitely have stuff for sleep. The other one is–more complicated.”

“Yeah?”

He drums his fingers on the counter. “So, if you want to study for a test, focus is good. But it’s also–” He huffs. “That works because what you’re avoiding thinking about is the studying, and the focus brings that to the forefront. But you’re trying to think about something else.”

“So I want a distraction potion,” she says. “Is that a thing?”

“It can be.” He considers. “It’ll work best if you tell me about it. So I can make you something that’s, uh–tailored to your situation. It’s easier if I have more details.”

“Is that standard?” she asks.

“Depends on the situation. A lot of the time, a generic spell is fine, but–most people don’t really need that much. It’s really just a magical band-aid.”

“What’s the heartbreak band-aid?” she asks.

“We’ve got a couple. There’s on that numbs feelings for a while, one that makes you remember the worst things about your ex–”

She laughs at that. “Really?”

“It works for some people. But you have the sleeping and the distraction, so it’s easier if you let me make you a custom brew.”

“I’m kind of curious how it works,” she says. “Can I watch?”

And that’s how it starts. She tells him about herself as he makes the potion, about not just this breakup, with a girl who turned out to be a bad match, but her last one, with a guy who already had another girlfriend, and how her dad died recently, and she’s just–

She’s got a lot she’s not thinking about. Bellamy can’t blame her for needing some help.

He talks her through what he’s putting in the potion, explains what turns the mind away from bad memories, what soothes the anxiety that keeps her from sleeping, what will focus her on the good things.

She thanks him, and he’s not necessarily expecting her to come back, but he’s kind of hoping for it, so when she’s back in the next week, he’s (mostly) delighted.

“If you went through that whole potion already, you were seriously overdosing,” he says. “I’m not giving you another one.”

She laughs. “Yeah, no. It’s fine. I just–it was interesting? Learning about this stuff. I was wondering if I could just–” She ducks her head. “Are you hiring? Like, a helper or whatever. Someone to run the register. Or just a weird college student to hang out and ask you annoying questions about what you’re doing. I’m not picky.”

“I couldn’t really pay you. But if you just want to hang around, yeah, that’s fine. I don’t mind company.”

It’s not usually true–plenty of people get on his nerves, and a lot of people ask too many stupid questions–but Clarke is good. She pays attention and likes to figure things out herself, so he doesn’t need to worry about amusing her. When she asks questions, they’re smart and interesting, and sometimes he doesn’t even know the answer, so it’s good to think through and figure it out. Like most people, she doesn’t have any inherent magical skills, but she’s decent at chopping and pounding herbs, and she’s pre-med, so she has interesting opinions on how doctors get help from witches and vice versa.

It’s a profound relief when she graduates and decides she doesn’t actually want to go to med school yet, or possibly ever, and gets a job at an art gallery in town. She’s around the store less, but that just means they have to spend time together outside of work. They watch Netflix and bicker about where to get takeout, and he only spends like seventy-five percent of his time wondering what would happen if he kissed her.

Which is why it’s such a fucking disaster when she drinks the love potion he has in his fridge.

It is a massive, colossal fuck-up. Love potions are one of those things that he’s usually very, very careful with, because they’re illegal to sell and not a great idea to keep around, but they’re used as components in a lot of spells and other potions. He’s fully licensed to make and possess love potions, and he’s never had any problems with it before.

Granted, he’s never run out of bottles before, so it takes him a minute to put it together when Clarke yells, “Your soda is flat!” from the kitchen.

“I don’t have soda!” he yells back.

Clarke comes in, shaking the mostly-full Coke bottle at him. “Soda. In your fridge. No wonder it’s flat, you forgot you had it.”

Bellamy feels all the blood drain from his face. He’s surprised all the blood doesn’t drain from his entire body. He’s going to die of shame. “Fuck,” he says.“

The teasing smile falls off her face. “What?”

“You drank that?”

“Yeah. What is it?”

“Uh, potion.” He wets his lips. “How do you feel?”

“Normal. How am I supposed to feel?”

“It varies from person to person.” He doesn’t actually know how long it takes to go into effect. He was going to use it for a batch of heartbreak chocolates, which are a new thing he’s trying, and it was supposed to be really powerful. But he’s never made it before, so–maybe he fucked it up. “There’s nothing fatal in there,” he says.

“Oh good. Seriously, you’re freaking me out.”

“You’re freaking me out,” he shoots back. “You don’t feel weird?”

“Nope. Totally normal.”

“And, uh, when you look at me?” he asks. It should make her fall deeply in love with the first person she sees. It’s supposed to be–well, it’s supposed to be epic. She should want to tear his clothes off and move into his bed. Which he’d be fine with, but–yeah. Not like this. Never like this.

“I see you,” she says. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Me.” He sighs. “Feel anything different?”

“Nope.”

It hurts, for no good reason at all. He doesn’t want it to have worked on her. He doesn’t want her to be in love with him because of a potion. “Maybe I made it wrong.”

“It would help if you told me what should be happening,” she points out, not unreasonably. “Then I’ll know if it is.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s, uh–it’s a love potion?” he admits. “I should have warned you, I usually put those a different bottle, but I was in a hurry today. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I must have fucked it up, so that’s good to know. Would have been pretty bad to use it for the chocolates I was making tomorrow.” He groans. “Fuck, now I can’t make them. It takes like a week to set, and I don’t even have all the ingredients for a new batch.”

Clarke is watching him. “So–I should feel like I’m in love?”

“Yeah.”

“With you.”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of love? Like–”

“It’s not a BFFs-for-life potion,” he snaps, even though it’s a fair question. Clarke knows there are as many varieties of love potion as there are varieties of love, and this one just happened to be the works: affection, adoration, desire, lust. Fuck. “If you don’t want to fuck me, it didn’t work. You’re in the clear.”

“Is there a way you can test it?” she asks. “To see if you made it right?”

“You just did,” he says, slow. “You drank it, you’re not in love with me, so–I messed it up.”

To his surprise, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then nods once. She opens her eyes again, and says, very steady, “What does it do if I was already in love with you?”

His brain stops working for a second. “What?”

“I wanted to fuck you before I drank the potion, Bellamy. When I saw you–yeah, it was the same as every time I see you. But I’m already in love with you, so I don’t know what it was supposed to do.”

“Oh. Uh. Shit. I don’t know either.” He wets his lips. “You’re–really?”

“For a while, yeah.” She ducks her head. “I was trying to figure out how to tell you. Sorry, I–”

He’s halfway to kissing her when he stops. “I, uh–I love you too,” he says. “But I really need to figure out what–I need to make sure this isn’t making you do anything you don’t want to. Before I drag you off somewhere to make out.”

Her face breaks open on a laugh. “So is this the part of the night where you do research on love potions and I resist the urge to jump you? I do that every night.”

“Just give me ten minutes, okay?”

She is acting completely normal, apart from saying she was in love with him, so she flops down on the couch and watches Netflix while he calls Anya to tell her what potion he made and ask her what would happen if someone drank it and was already in love.

“They’d still fall in love with the first person they saw,” she says.

“But what if they were already in love with the first person they saw?” he persists.

There’s a pause, and then she says, “You should probably just tell me what happened.”

“I had an Inamorate potion in a soda bottle in the fridge and my best friend drank it. She says it didn’t do anything because she was already in love with me. So is that right, or did I just fuck up the recipe?”

“Put a drop of it in rubbing alcohol, and it if turns blue, you made it correctly.” She pauses, like she’s looking something up, and then adds, “Love potions have no effect if the drinker already has the feelings they are supposed to create,” she says. “If she didn’t notice a change, then you made it wrong, or she already loved you. Make sure this never happens again.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Clarke stands way too close as he puts a drop of the liquid into a teaspoon of rubbing alcohol, and they both watch as it turns blue.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Seriously, no change?”

“No change. I don’t see why this is so shocking.”

He bites his lip on a kind of stupidly sappy smile. “It’s a really strong love potion. Like, uh–really strong.”

She slides her arms around his neck. “Okay, so I love you a lot.”

“Apparently,” he says, and finally lets himself lean down to kiss her.

He still can’t help making an antidote three days later.

“What are you going to do if this makes me not love you anymore?”

“Apologize until I can’t talk anymore.”

She leans up to kiss him. “You really did your due diligence on this one. Also, that potion literally did nothing. I love you.” She drinks the antidote anyway, and his stomach drops when her face screws up in disgust.

“Fuck, Clarke, are you–”

“This is awful. The love potion was a lot better.” She hands him the flask. “You have to try it.”

“Still love me?” he has to ask.

“I still love you. Drink the gross antidote.”

He does, of course, because she asked him to, and it really does taste disgusting. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, laughing. “I had no idea it would taste that bad.”

“Falling out of love sucks, I guess,” she says, but she’s smiling, and she leans up to kiss him. “Let’s not do that.”

He laughs, tugs her close. “Yeah. I’d rather not.”