#murphysquad

“You came,” Clarke says in way of greeting. They're holding up traffic on a cracked, busy sidewalk. Clarke is dressed extravagantly again, wearing an expensive walking suit where most of the city people around her are stricken by poverty. “I knew you would.”

Clarke is flanked by a girl with a stern face and equally inappropriate clothing as well as a boy with hair far too long for the 1890’s aristocrat he’s dressed up as. He regards Bellamy with a sour expression, as if he is the one being followed through history by an enigmatic blonde.

“I didn’t come,” Bellamy tells her.

Miller, glued to Bellamy’s left, shifts closer to him, while Murphy, at Bellamy’s right, tries to suppress his laughter.

“Dude,” Murphy says, leaning close to Bellamy’s ear. “This is the most dedicated stalker you’ve ever had. And you dealt with Roma.”

Bellamy jabs him in the ribs. The exchange does not go unnoticed by Clarke, who quirks an eyebrow but maintains a cordial demeanor. “If you didn’t come, then why are you here?” she asks.

Why is he there? Bellamy has no clue how to answer her, though the answer is simple:

Bellamy is there because his sister might be. Because Octavia wanted to follow in Indra Gona’s footsteps – literally. Because he lost her when he let her. Because traveling to the times and places on Indra’s log is the best bet Bellamy has of ever seeing her again. Because the next destination on the log is 1891, London, so that’s where he is if it means Octavia might be here too.

The real mystery, obviously, is why Clarke is here. Where Bellamy is. For the third time.

“I should be asking you the same thing.”

Clarke’s friend with the hair rolls his eyes. She doesn’t notice. “Jumping to the interrogation already?” she asks. “That’s fine. I’m not a fan of small talk either.”

Bellamy feels Miller reach for the pocketknife inside of his jacket.

“I didn’t follow the coordinates you gave me, Clarke, or the date,” Bellamy slowly explains. “I didn’t want to play your game in Rome, and I sure as hell am not playing it now. I don’t know how you figured out I came here but-”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down please.” It’s not Clarke speaking but the girl beside her, hands raised, eyes blazing. “You think we’re following you?” She pauses for an answer which doesn’t come. “This is where Clarke told you to meet her,” the girl continues. “This is when Clarke told you to meet her.”

Murphy guffaws. Miller’s hand visibly clenches inside his jacket.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Bellamy snaps. “The odds of us meeting again –by chance – are astronomical, alright? So cut the crap. You’re following us, and I want to know why.”

Clarke’s face is blank. She blinks. Then, “Can I speak to you privately?”

“Clarke-” The boy she’s with steps forward, blocking her from Bellamy’s view.

Clarke pushes him out of her way. “Just stick by Raven, Finn,” she instructs him. “Talk to – it’s Miller, right?”

Miller grunts his response.

And, though Clarke didn't ask, Murphy introduces himself too, bowing wobbly in the process.

Clarke jerks her head towards him. “Talk to Miller and Murphy.”

The girl, Raven, grumbles under her breath. Finn is on the verge of protesting when Clarke returns her attention to Bellamy.

“Bellamy,” she says. Her eyes are big and blue and pleading. “Just walk with me for a while.”

Bellamy looks to Miller who shakes his head gravely. He looks to Murphy, who is raking sleazy eyes over Clarke. Something twists in Bellamy’s gut, and his decision is made. “Fine.”

Bellamy and Clarke deposit their friends at a dingy pub, where Raven receives strange looks when she orders pints of something toxic for everyone.

They weave their way through the hustle and bustle of London, padding down cobblestone streets and dodging the occasional horse and carriage. They don’t speak until the crowds have thinned, the homeless have diminished, and Clarke stops to admire an ostentatious gown in a shop window.

“So?” Bellamy prompts. His anxiety has risen with every step they took away from their friends as well as his irritation. He hates to admit his curiosity has multiplied tenfold too. Clarke was right in Rome – he is itching to know her secrets, especially now.

“So,” Clarke parrots, eyes still set on the dress. “There’s clearly been a misunderstanding.”

“Or you’re just tricking me,” Bellamy counters. “Again.”

Clarke clucks her tongue. “I didn’t trick you in Rome,” she argues. “I gave you a choice.”

“And I chose not to see you again.”

“Yet, here we are.” She turns her body to face him, back pressed against the shop window. “Twice is a coincidence-”

“Three times is a pattern. Yeah. How did you find me?”

Clarke crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “Seriously?” She huffs. “Bellamy, I swear this is where I told you to meet me. Do you not remember the date, the coordinates I gave to you at The Colosseum?”

“No,” he answers honestly. “I forgot. Purposefully.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” says Clarke. “Maybe you remembered subconsciously? Listen, if you really didn’t want to meet up with me we can just forget this whole-”

“I didn’t remember subconsciously,” spits Bellamy. “I – ugh.” He halts. He chooses his next words carefully. “I planned on coming to this place, to this time before I ever even met you.”

Clarke looks genuinely surprised. “Oh?”

Bellamy digs his hands into his pockets. He shrugs.

“Well, I did too,” Clarke tells him.

The roll of his eyes is testament to how much he believes her.

“I did,” she insists. “That’s why I told you to come here. Because I was already coming here.”

“So this specific time and place is just convenient for you?” Bellamy gripes.

“Oh please. Like it isn’t convenient for you too.”

“Youdidn’t know it would be.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke chastises.

He mimics her stance, folding his arms in front of him. “Whatever,” he says. “Why should I trust you?”

Clarke quirks a brow. “Why should I trust you?” she asks.

“I haven’t given you a reason not to,” says Bellamy.

“And you haven’t given me a reason to trust you either.”

In the minute they stare each other down, Bellamy feels the walls he’s built to keep Clarke at a distance crumble, just the slightest. He doesn’t want to, but he believes her. And a part of him does want to trust her, too. But first he has to know –

“Are you a chrononaut?”

Bellamy is reminded of the first time they asked this of each other, with haughtiness, evasiveness, and surety they would never cross paths again.

Now Clarke looks cornered, uncomfortable. She purses her lips and ducks her head. Bellamy hears the toe of her boot tap against the pavement beneath her circle skirt. It feels like ages before she manages, “Chrononaut Trainee.”

Bellamy isn’t sure if that’s a good thing for him. If Clarke is a trainee, if she isn’t officially authorized to travel through time yet…

He sucks in a stream of cold air.

“Are you a chrononaut?” she asks. By the look on her face – resigned, expectant, just a bit too relaxed – Bellamy is sure she already knows the answer.

“No,” he admits.

Clarke expels a puff of air, creating a tiny cloud between them. She nods once. “I guess that makes us both renegades in a way, huh?”

Clarke, maybe. Bellamy isn’t sure he can be considered a renegade when, in his time, there’s no longer a system for him to revolt against. Nevertheless, he agrees and says, “Something like that.”

Pushing herself away from the shop window, Clarke jerks her head down the street, signaling for Bellamy to follow her. She seems far more relaxed now that their positions as travelers has been established. Bellamy can’t help but share the sentiment.

“So, if you’re not a chrononaut, how are you traveling?” Clarke asks him. “Assuming you don’t have access to any of the technology.”

“Ah. Well.” Bellamy tugs at his collar. “Miller’s dad was a chrononaut. He salvaged some spare parts from antique time machines and-”

“Salvaged,” Clarke interrupts. “Antique?” Her stupefied laugh tinkles around them. “Time traveling is a relatively new concept to me. You’re talking about it like it’s already out of style.”

Or, Bellamy is tempted to say, virtually eviscerated.

“Sorry.” He offers her a smile he hopes doesn’t look as uneasy as he feels. “It’s like space traveling. Kind of is out of style.”

Bellamy doesn’t miss her muttered, “Space traveling is still cool…”

“Anyway…”

And, before he can consider how foolish it is, Bellamy finds himself telling Clarke everything, the whole story. From his genius friend Wick creating a shanty time machine from spare parts to why they started traveling in the first place. He tells her about Octavia and her obsession with Indra Gona. He explains how they were following one of Indra's travel logs. He tells Clarke about the man, Lincoln, Octavia met in 1960’s Alabama and ran away from Bellamy (and the year) to be with. He explains to Clarke that’s why he’s there, with her, in Victorian London: to find his sister. To bring her home.

Clarke's response is not what he expected.

“Indra Gona,” she says, the name falling heavy from her lips. It’s not a question.

“Yeah. She’s from around your time, actually.” Bellamy glances at Clarke from the corner of his eye. “You heard of her?”

“No. Yes. I’ve heard of her.”

“Okay…”

She doesn’t elaborate. Bellamy slows their pace, eventually coming to a pause beside a parked horse and buggy. Clarke stops with him, though she doesn't seem to register. She’s lost in her thoughts. The corners of her lips pull up in a smile, then down in a frown, as if they’re unsure of how to react.

As if she can’t decide to be happy or not.

Bellamy can’t figure out why. And, instead of trying to, he mulls over the realization that he’s told her everything about him while she’s only offered a single, concerning bit of information about herself.

“Do you have the log on you?” Clarke blurts out. “Indra Gona’s? The one you’re following?”

Bellamy grips the paper in his pocket tighter. He lies, because it only seems fair. “No.”

Clarke’s jaw falls open. Her brows furrow and her eyes narrow. “Yes you do,” she responds.

Her eyes flutter to his pocket. Bellamy’s fingers twitch.

“No,” he says, “I don’t.”

Clarke’s nostrils flare. “You do. It's what you were holding at The Colosseum. I saw you with it! Why won’t you show it to me?”

“Because I don’t have it, Clarke!”

“Please show it to me, Bellamy.”

Her eyes are wide again, pleading. They’re the same eyes she used to lure him away from their friends and on this walk with her. They're one of many tricks Clarke Griffin seems to have up her sleeve.

Bellamy refuses to fall for them again. “No.”

He tries to ignore how hurt she looks, how confused. He focuses on the frustration clearly building behind her pitiful facade.

“Why are you traveling, Clarke? Huh? Why haven’t you told me anything about yourself other than you’re a self-proclaimed 'renegade' chrononaut?”

She closes her eyes, shakes her head. She makes one last weak effort to get what she wants. “Show me the log and I will.”

Bellamy's laugh tastes bitter in his mouth. “Right.”

Clarke glowers at him, long and hard. Bellamy meets her unwavering glare with one of his own.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” says Clarke. Her face shutters then, blank of all emotion. “Unfortunately.”

Bellamy feels a muscle jump in his jaw. He doesn’t say anything when she turns on her heel and marches back in the direction they came from. He watches her retreating figure until she blends into the sea of Londoners.

Then he rips out the paper.

Octavia and Bellamy have studied Indra Gona’s log so intensively for so long that by now, he can recite the exact dates and the exact coordinates without ever having to look at the paper itself. It’s second nature. It’s a part of him.

What Bellamy cannot tell you off the top of his head are the things printed before the log, the debriefing, the stats. He can’t tell you Indra Gona’s age when she traveled to all of these times and places. He can’t tell you her height or weight or any distinguishing features she had. He can’t tell you when she was born, where she’s from, who she traveled through history with.

Bellamy’s eyes snag on a name amidst her general information.

Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? he wonders. Why didn’t he pay better attention? How could he not fit such simple pieces together?

Indra Gona's companion, the person she embarked on this mission with, was a chrononaut far more famous than herself. He was a chrononaut even more well known than the astronaut Neil Armstrong. He was man who gave his life for his work and became a legacy:

Jake Griffin.

Griffin.

Hastily excusing herself from Jasper and Monty, Clarke pushes herself through the violent audience, enduring jabbing elbows and flecks of spit as she goes.

Once she is directly behind Bellamy, she stands on her tiptoes, whispers in his ear, watches with glee as his whole body shivers. “What's that you got there?”

He swivels around so fast, Clarke is sent stumbling into the people behind her. Bellamy grabs her elbow and pulls her to him before the angry mob can push her forward.

When he realizes who it is he's holding, he releases his grip, quickly stuffing the paper into his satchel. “Clarke?”

“Bellamy,” she greets, then points at the bag he is swinging behind him. “That didn't look like papyrus.”

The man Bellamy was talking to before she arrived quirks an eyebrow at them. He shifts uncomfortably when Clarke lifts a hand in acknowledgment. Bellamy leans toward him, and Clarke can barely hear him say “Miller, it's fine. She's just another traveler,” before returning his attention to her.

“It's not papyrus,” he admits. Then, “are you following me?”

Clarke is taken aback by his brashness. She huffs indignantly, folds her arms across her chest. “I could ask you the same question.”

“Relax, Princess, I'm not,” he snaps. “It's just the odds of us running into each other again are-”

“Low,” she finishes for him.

“Incredibly.”

An awkward silence hangs between them, broken only by the howls of bloodthirsty spectators. She uses the moment to fully appreciate his post first century aesthetic. Unlike Clarke with her porcelain skin and sun-bleached hair, Bellamy fits into the sea of Romans almost perfectly. His tan is golden, eyes hooded and dark, curls black and unruly and plastered to his forehead. His dirt-speckled toga even meshes in better than her bright aristocratic garb. His grizzly beard from the Ice Age is gone, and his attire gives Clarke a better impression of the curves of his body. She's grateful he's no longer buried beneath animal skins and hair, and she's surprised she ever managed to recognize him without them.

He's thoroughly eying her up and down too, and Clarke wonders what he thinks of how she looks out of her winter apparel; hair down and frizzed, face glistening with sweat, overdressed for the worst seats in the house. All at once, she's keen to divert his attention to something other than her appearance.

“So, what are you doing here?” she asks.

Bellamy looks amused she's questioning him at all. He glances over his shoulder to the battling gladiators, then looks back to Clarke with a smile. “Watching people kill each other.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I'm serious,” she huffs.

“So am I.”

“Right.” Clarke shifts her gaze to his satchel again. “What was on the paper?” she asks.

Bellamy is on guard once more, clutching his bag's strap tightly to his chest. “What is this, 20 Questions?” he spits, then nods his head to a spot behind her.

Clarke turns around to see Jasper and Monty jumping up and down, flailing their arms wildly to grab her attention. When she turns back to Bellamy, she notices Miller tapping his foot impatiently as well.

“Your flying monkeys want their witch back,” Bellamy tells her.

Clarke scoffs. “Your goon is tap dancing at a bloodbath.”

Miller stops moving his foot immediately.

“Look,” Clarke says, “I find it just as strange as you do that we crossed paths more than once. That's the only reason I'm putting you through the Spanish Inquisition.”

A muscle ticks near Bellamy's jaw, his nostrils flaring just the slightest. “You didn't answer my questions last time we met.” His voice is low, irritated, and Clarke gulps when he steps threateningly into her space. “Why should I answer your questions now? Bumping into you twice means I'm supposed to trust you? Coincidence is going to decide who I answer to?”

Bellamy doesn't back down. Clarke doesn't shy away. “Coincidence?”

Bellamy clicks his tongue. “Yes. Twice is a coincidence, three times is a-”

“Pattern,” she concludes. Bellamy nods stiffly. “So let's make a deal.”

“A deal?” he groans.

“A deal. If we run into each other for a third time, I will answer all of your questions,” says Clarke, “as long as you answer all of mine, too.”

Bellamy regards her skeptically, arms crossed, ignoring an indignant Miller to his left.

Clarke considers herself a realistic person. The odds of her and Bellamy ever meeting again are slim to none. She knows this. But she can't chalk their encounters up to chance, and she's itching to know his secrets. Since Bellamy seems to be taking her offer into consideration, Clarke thinks it's safe to assume he's itching to know hers too.

“I don't let destiny dictate what I do,” he reasons, “but fine. If it gets you out my way, then deal. I doubt we'll be so unlucky as to see each other again, anyway.”

Bellamy holds out his hand for Clarke to shake. She takes hold of it and tugs, pulling him down to her height. She's in his ear again, whispering coordinates, a date, a time. When she slips her hand from his limp hold, Clarke smiles at him innocently, like she hadn't just slithered through a loophole in their agreement.

“Meet me then, there,” she tells him. “You know, in case you want to dictate destiny.”

Clarke spins on her feet, fighting her way back to Jasper and Monty, leaving a dumbfounded Bellamy in her wake.

url:  idgi probably bc i’m dumb | nice nice nice | i’m jealous and i want  it | url game too fucking strong wtf dude

icon: not rly my thing | u did good man |  br UH tell me where u get these nice things  theme: hella rad| pretty pretty | ngl i kinda want to steal it | my aesthetic af  updates tab:  this is cool!! | like ice cream on a hot day |  i’m not a regular sidebar, i’m a cool sidebar  posts: not rly my style | omg y e s | ur dash is probably just as fab as u r |  u were probably a god in ur past life overall:  a+esthetic | amazing like ur face | that feel when the buzzfeed quiz gives u a good answser | we’re probably drift compatible |  following: not yet????? :( | hmu anytime babe u my squad now | no fucking shit dude |  i ship u with me sry 

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