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Word Count: 2618
Timeline: Modern AU
Notes: This is inspired by this, which you should look at before reading. Honestly it just made me happy. We need some Bellarke happy atm.
Warnings: N/A
“How you doing, Blake?” Miller asked as Bellamy strode in, two minutes early for his shift. As always.
“Good, good.” He muttered. “You?”
“Just wondering how you manage to say the word ‘good’ every damn morning and make it mean a different thing every damn time.” Miller smirked, wiping milk froth off of the coffee machine in front of him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” He said, raising an eyebrow, “when you tell me that you’re good, I can tell exactly how much Octavia is currently stressing you out, whether or not Echo stopped by, whether or not Echo’s ‘stop by’ resulted in sex, and how much work you did on your college paper last night.”
Bellamy grinned, looking down as he pulled his apron on and tied it in a quick bow in the front. “You pay this much attention to everyone you work with?”
“Nah.” He looked up at Bellamy from under his eyelashes. “But it’s fun to see you blush.”
Bellamy had to turn away then, not giving the other boy the satisfaction of seeing the heat rise in his cheeks, and concentrated on wiping down the table that had been left sticky from the day before.
The front of the coffee shop was several large windows, and he could see everyone walk past, some at a quick pace in their perfectly ironed clothes, their thumbs tapping away at their phones, some strolling arm in arm with another, chatting away happily, the sun shining down on their smiles, and then some who just seemed to be wandering, without a destination in mind.
His eyes drifted over the movement of the people to the wall of the building opposite the shop. The plain old brick wall of an abandoned hairdresser, the material so worn down that the mortar was now even with the bricks. Or at least, normally it was plain.
But today, it was a mass of beautiful colours arranged in a smudge that he thought represented the Earth. And then he took a step back, and from a different angle, it looked like the sun reflecting off an astronauts helmet.
“Hey, Nate?” He asked, stepping back behind the counter.
“Hm?”
“That wasn’t there yesterday, right?” He pointed to the painting on the wall.
“Nah.” Miller leaned down to grab something from the cupboard below the counter. “I think there’s a new street artist in this part of the city though. Everywhere, I keep seeing artworks kinda like that one, signed with the number 319. They’re pretty good, too.”
“As long as they don’t paint on our windows like that other dirt-bag, I don’t really care.” He muttered, moving to flip the closed sign on the door to ‘open’. Something in him begrudged the statement he’d just made, wishing he could take it back. He thought the artwork was amazing. But as he opened his mouth to tell that to Miller, the door opened and their first customer strutted in.
It was a fairly normal morning. Their regulars came in with smiles and standardised questions, new customers who frowned when Bellamy spelled their name wrong on their cup (which, he would shamelessly admit to actually enjoying) and the cute ones who sat in a corner with a book, ordering something new every half hour.
Everything was going smoothly, Bellamy and Miller in perfect sync with each other, until she walked in.
“Your turn.” Miller nodded towards the cash register as he pulled another carton of milk out of the fridge. Bellamy sighed and stepped up, putting his best customer service smile on.
Her hair was messy in that stylish way, but it didn’t look as if it was on purpose. It looked more like she had just woken up.
“Good morning.” He said brightly. “What can I get you today?”
“Triple venti, half-sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato, please.” She replied, looking down at her hands. Between his annoyed sigh and the roll of his eyes at the practised order, he noticed the smudge of blue paint on the back of her arm, which she was concentrating on rubbing off.
“And the name?” He asked, writing her order onto the cup.
“Clarke.” She said, before reaching into her large bag and pulling out a wallet that was unable to be zipped due to being stuffed full of receipts.
She handed him a twenty dollar note, he gave her the change and she moved to the side while the next customer ordered.
When Miller had made the drink, with no less than a smirk at the ingredients he had to throw in there, he turned the cup around, read the name, and giggled out loud. “Um…” He turned to Bellamy in question, who pretended not to notice and focused solely on his customer. “Princess?” Miller whispered. Clarke’s head whipped up and her eyes flicked to Bellamy, to Miller, and then back to Bellamy.
“Princess?” Miller asked a little louder, pushing the drink forward.
Clarke sighed and stepped forward, grabbed it, looked at the contents and brought it to her lips. She half-smiled at Miller, threw Bellamy a glare and stalked out of the shop.
In all honesty, he’d forgotten about the interaction by the end of the day. Miller, apparently, had not.
“Did you seriously have to write ‘Princess’ on her cup?” He asked, as they were finishing up.
“Huh?” Bellamy asked, pulling his apron off and throwing it in a corner. With a sigh, Miller trotted over to his discarded apron, picked it up off the floor and hung it on a hook around the back.
“The girl, the really pretty one.” He said. Together, they turned the lights off and locked the door, leaving the small shop in darkness, and walked towards the building Miller lived in, which was, conveniently, two minutes away from Bellamys. “You wrote Princess on her cup, even though she had done literally nothing rude. I mean, when you wrote ‘Cheese Nugget’ on that guy’s cup, Murphy or whatever, it was funny. And justified. But, come on man, why you gotta try and drive away our customers?”
“I wasn’t trying to – I mean – her order was just so obnoxious.” He said, a little taken aback. “I didn’t realise it would bother you that much.”
Miller grabbed his arm, stopping them both. “You were rude to her because of something that she liked.” He raised his eyebrows. “She can’t change what she likes because you don’t. And, also, it’s none of your business. It’s your job.”
“Okay.” Bellamy nodded, and they began walking again.
“If she ever comes back in, you’ve gotta apologise.”
“What?”
“You heard me. But that’s ‘if’.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“No.”
Surprisingly, she did come back in. At the exact same time, the very next day. She looked very much the same, still extremely tired, and he noticed, with more than a little curiosity, that there was again paint smudged on her arms and the tips of her fingers. This time, however, it was purple.
“Hi.” He said, trying to smile realistically this time, instead of the usual forced look he normally gave to customers. “What can I get you?”
“Triple venti, half-sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato, please.” She muttered, pulling her wallet out.
He scribbled the order on the cup. “It’s Clarke, right?” He asked.
Her head whipped up and she grinned, but in a vicious, annoyed sort of way. “Oh, I thought it was ‘Princess’.”
His mouth dropped open for a second. “About that – ”
“Here.” She shoved the money towards him and stepped to the side. “Keep the change.”
He pursed his lips, scribbled a name on the cup and shoved it in Miller’s direction before scowling at the next customer to come forward.
Five minutes later, he felt Miller staring into the side of his head, and again, Bellamy ignored it. “Princess?” Miller called, sounding aggravated.
And again, Clarke stepped forward, grabbed her drink and stalked out, this time without so much as glancing at Bellamy.
“Just tell me her real name so I don’t have to call her ‘princess’.” He pleaded that night. Bellamy remained silent in his annoyance.
It wasn’t until he spotted the newest painting on a wall near to his apartment that he spoke. “What do you think they’re trying to say?” He asked, touching the dry paint with a soft hand.
Miller shrugged. “I don’t know. But this 319 person, all their art seems to have an order, like a story or something.” He tilted his head to the side, watching as Bellamy traced the outline of the artwork. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Mm.” His fingers lingered over the number 319, before moving on, the image of the glowing blue butterfly permanently imprinted in his head.
Clarke’s appearance and brusque behaviour was consistent throughout the next week, as was the introduction of new artworks along the streets and her oddly specific coffee order.
After almost two weeks of her much appreciated business, he finally decided he’d had enough of her death stares.
When Miller called for ‘Clarke’ to come and retrieve their coffee, she almost didn’t react, but Bellamy saw as she bit back her smile, her teeth pulling down on her lip. When she stepped forward to grab the cup off of Miller, he smiled at her, then at Bellamy, evidently proud.
Bellamy looked down at the cash register, pretending, as usual, not to notice the attention he was being given. But when he’d served the last customer in the line, Clarke was still standing there, her drink clutched in her hand.
“Thank you… Bellamy.” She said, focusing on his name badge as she stepped up to the counter.
“You’re welcome, Clarke.” He smiled. “And, I’m sorry about the whole ‘Princess’ thing.”
“Sorry I was rude when you tried to apologise.” Her fingers rapped on the side of the cup and she gave him a quick nod before turning on her heel and leaving.
It was a subtle change, but after a while, his mornings became a lot more enjoyable. When Clarke came in, she was all smiles and winks, and he no longer has to ask for her coffee order. (He’d never admit why, but when their supplier cut their caramel flavouring supply short and they ran out after two weeks, he took a three hour train ride to a specialty shop that stocked the right product. Miller goaded him for days afterwards.)
Sometimes she came in with her hair down and he knew that she was doubly tired. He added an extra pump of caramel on those days.
On the day that she noticed Bellamy no longer wrote on her cups, he just handed one off to Miller, she asked Miller how he knew it was hers. He gave her a conspirators grin and showed her the stack of cups Bellamy hid below the counter with her order already marked out and her name carefully scrawled across the top. He refilled the stack once every two weeks, he informed her.
At this, she blushed furiously and ran out, almost leaving her drink behind.
One morning, he passed a fresh-smelling 319 painting on his walk to the shop, a haunting image of a young girl with two small braids and blood-soaked hands. He touched the image and a smudge of red came off on his skin.
When she came in that morning, her smile looked weighted down. When she handed him the money for the drink, red paint stained the back of her hands. When he looked at it for long enough, he knew it matched that on his fingers.
It was another week before he built up the courage to ask. “Hey Clarke?” He asked as she stood waiting for her drink.
“Hm?” She leaned against the counter.
“Y’know the street artist 319?”
Miller turned to watch, his practised hands not needing the guidance of his eyes as he made her drink. An amused smile lit up his face.
She licked her lips. “Maybe. Why?”
He nodded towards the window, and she looked through it at the first artwork of 319 that he’d ever seen. “I was just wondering. Because I think they’re amazing, and I wanted to know if maybe you would like to, I don’t know, go on a sightseeing walk date kind of thing.”
“You’re asking me to go on a date where we walk around looking at my own paintings?” She asked, a hint of humour in her tone.
“Called it!” He threw his arms in the arm, grinning. Customers sitting in the shop turned to look, some smiled to themselves, others shook their heads and continued in their own conversations. Miller laughed, turning back to his work. “I knew it, I knew you were 319!”
She smiled softly. “So, you just wanted to know if I was the one painting on walls?”
Miller coughed in a not so subtle way and pushed her drink towards her. She leaned forward and grabbed it, her eyes not leaving Bellamy.
“Uh,” He swallowed thickly. “No? I mean, I seriously wanted to know if you were 319, which I kinda guessed a week back, when you had that red paint on your hands, and you kind of always have paint on your hands – you should really figure out a way to get that off, you know – but if you really do want to go on a date, obviously I’ll figure out something better than just walking around looking at your stuff, which really is amazing, by the way, then – ”
“I’ll pick you up from here at – what time do you finish up?”
He turned to Miller, who shrugged. “Seven?”
She smiled. “Seven.” With a flick of her ponytail, she walked out of the shop. He watched her go, his heart squeezing with happiness.
His day couldn’t go fast enough, and a lot of his regulars made casual comments about his unusually happy mood, which he accepted with the gift of a free muffin.
She was outside the café at exactly seven o’clock, looking as beautiful as ever. Miller flicked Bellamy with a cloth and told him to go have fun.
‘Fun’ was definitely a good way to describe what they did. They did end up walking around, looking at her art, and sometimes she would explain what they meant, and sometimes the explanations made her quiet. When her voice hitched for the first time, he reached down and took her hand. She held it tightly for the rest of the night.
Eventually, they decided they were hungry but neither of them felt like going to a restaurant. He made a note of telling her that his apartment was nearby. She happily skipped alongside him all the way there.
He realised that he had almost no food, as usual, but pasta was good enough for both of them. She watched and laughed as he spilt cream down his shirt while dancing with a spoon in his hand. He tried to wipe it off, which didn’t work, and proceeded to remove his shirt with a deft movement.
When he went to get another one, she told him not to bother.
Their pasta went cold that night.
And that morning, when he woke with Clarke wrapped around him, there was a text from Miller telling him not to bother coming in that morning. He’d earned himself a day off.
Gently, he pulled her closer to him, enjoying the warmth her body gave off, and watched through the window by his bed as the sun rose over the city skyline casting shadows and rays of light. When it was full in the sky above him, she murmured something like good morning into the skin on his chest.
Ci, I would most definitely tell you if I had a boyfriend and was in love with someone else okay that is such good goss, but don't worry my life is not that interesting
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
isabellelightword replied to your post “No Space Lies In Between and This Is As Easy As Lovers Go KILLED ME!!...”
no pressure but my life happiness pretty much depends on your fics
Apparently I have no idea how replies work anymore because it took me approximately 20 years to figure out how to reply but ANYWAY, no pressure ciara but my life’s happiness depends on your presence on my dashboard, SO
I haven’t even watched the episode yet but I am disgusted.
@cwthe100 has proven OVER and OVER again that the emotions of its fans are irrelevant, that we do not matter, that the actors we love and admire do not matter. Lexa mattered. Lexa matters. Lincoln mattered. Lincoln matters.
So many of us started watching the show before the second season because people were raving about the exceptional diversity, the LGBTQ+ representation, the women who were dynamic leaders with a wide range of emotion.
One POC was killed in the second episode. That should have been the first sign that something was wrong here. When the writers wanted to send the message that “anyone could be killed” / “no one is safe”, they didn’t just pick anyone, they picked a main cast POC. POC were tortured, are being tortured – Raven was smiling a little more, but was still being emotionally manipulated into helping the main antagonist (and her black assistant, once a fairly competent leader of the community). Anya, a POC leader of a largely-POC people, was killed off and subsequently replaced by a white woman, while each new Grounder introduced was played by a non-POC.
And then we fell in love with the white woman, because not only was she a young woman in a position of power, but she was a representative of the LGBTQ+ community, specifically the lesbian community, which sees very limited representation in media. She was important, and still is to many people. She was also killed in a ridiculously offhanded, divisive manner – not even assigned enough importance to be killed on purpose.
THE VERY NEXT EPISODE featured, apparently, many deaths, including the death of a MAIN CAST POC who was not only important in his own right, but also important to a MAIN RELATIONSHIP on the show, and who has been LOCKED AWAY for the majority of this season in order to explicitly prevent that character from having interactions with his fellow MAIN CAST members. Fans were forced to watch this death in its entirety, in its brutal entirety.
It’s not only awful treatment of characters, it’s also careless treatment of fans. We loved these characters, we identified with them, and they weren’t even significant enough, in the minds of the writers, to be afforded proper deaths and proper writing this season.
