#prhalloweenbash2k17

It takes him a second to comprehend that they’re talking about him, really, and another second for him to wrap his head around the fact that Clarke Griffin wants to make out with him, holy fuck. It feels so far out of the realm of possibility that he has to resist the urge to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming, or anything.

“Bell?”

He startles, snapping out of his reverie. She’s looking up at him, now, concern furrowing at her brow, and a memory rises up within him unwittingly— watching The Shining with Clarke, years back; the way she hadn’t even flinched when Jack had starting hacking at the door with the axe, and the cool, almost analytical way she had observed the whole chase through the hedge maze. She’s the most levelheaded, logical person he knows, really. The thought of her being genuinely frightened by a movie with a clown as the source of all evil seems kind of laughable, in hindsight.

“Sorry,” he recovers, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from showing, because Clarke Griffin is literally jumping through hoops so she can make out with him, when all she had to do was ask. (Hell, the act of her asking alone would probably render him unconscious, but the fact that she’s scheming her way to it is so typical of her that he wants to burst into laughter right there.) “Got a little lost in my thoughts.”

She frowns up at him, chin resting against his chest. “About what?”

He makes a nonchalant noise, brushing his fingers down the length of her spine and making her shiver. “Just, you know. About horror movies in general.”

“… Okay?”

“And, just,” Bellamy pauses, struggling to compose herself. It’s getting really difficult to keep from giving the game up right about now, but there’s a kind of satisfaction from making her squirm, just a little. Gently, he brings his hand up, grazing it at the side of her neck instead. “Remember when Jasper went through that phase of getting us to watch all the supposed horror classics?”

She stiffens at that, but it could be because he’s playing with her hair now; thumb brushing at her cheek every few minutes. “No.”

“Yeah, he did,” he shrugs, nudging at her temple with his nose. “I freaked out over The Blair Witch Project, remember? Miller had to sit in when I took my shower.”

He can hear the slight hitch in her breath when he ghosts his lips over her forehead. “I guess,” she says, shaky. “So?”

“So it’s kind of weird that you could watch all of that straightfaced when you’re freaking out over a PG13 clown movie now,” he says, wry. “I mean, clowns, Clarke—”

“That’s— just— I could have a phobia of clowns,” she sputters, flushing, “and it’s really unreasonable for you to assume that—”

He reaches forward, cupping at her cheek with his palm. It silences her immediately, her eyes going wide as she takes him in, her mouth dropping open to gape. “You know you didn’t have to go through all that effort just to get to snuggle with me, right?” he teases, pressing their foreheads together. “You could have just said so. I,” he stops, struggling to tamp down the surge of hope rushing through him, “I would have said yes. Always.”

A beat before she finally speaks, looking distinctly sheepish. “I mean, I want to do more than snuggle with you,” she mumbles, looking away. Then, biting at her lip apprehensively, “Raven told you?”

“You left your phone out, Princess. What kind of piss poor management is that? I feel like I should be offended, but—”

She kisses him before he can finish, determined and thorough and everything he thought kissing Clarke Griffin would be like. He can’t help it, he laughs, winding his fingers through her hair and pulling her on top of him, feeling her settle into his arms as if she’s belonged there all along.

“So, do you want to keep criticizing my methods of seduction or do you want to make out with me more?” she breathes, twisting her fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s not like I broke into his house and grabbed her,” Madi points out, petulant. “She was just hanging around the alley by Lincoln’s, so. It’s not like I kidnapped her.”

There’s a part of her that’s tempted to mention the whole concept of intent, right about now, but the cat is currently making small, yowling noises of distress, and Clarke can barely think beyond it. “Let me guess,” she says, with exaggerated slowness. “You took her out trick or treating, because she matched your costume.”

She actually preens a little at that, until Clarke’s responding glare stops her short. “I got a lot of compliments,” she mumbles, before averting her gaze guiltily. Then, biting at her lip, “Besides, I fed her and gave her water and everything, okay? I was fully planning on returning her after the recital, but she just took off the second I got home.”

“Right,” she says, forcing a deep breath through her nose. In, and out. “Fine. Head over and return her now, and I’ll keep the grounding to a week. Deal?”

“I can’t, Anya’s mom is coming over right now to drive us to the recital, remember?” A honk sounds at that, right on cue, and Clarke can’t help her grimace at it. The look Madi shoots her is distinctly pleading. “Can’t I do it when I get home?”

The cat is currently winding around her legs now, wailing, and it takes everything in her power to keep from pulling away, really. She’s never been all that great with animals, and there’s something about her distress that sets her on edge. “Forget it,” she says, making up her mind. “I’ll do it. But you have to write him an apology letter when you get home, which you will deliver personally tomorrow. Okay?”

That gets a half-hearted nod out of her, but it’s an agreement all the same. “Okay.”

“Good,” she says, dropping to her knees and picking her up carefully, trying not to show her surprise when she immediately curls up against her, purring. Huh. “What’s her name?”

“Artemis,” Madi calls out, already half way down the stairs; the jingle of her keys echoing throughout the house. “I’m going!”

“Tell Anya I said hi,” she manages, descending the stairs just as Madi barrels out, waving behind her. “And be safe!”

That earns her some sort of mumbled response in return, followed by the slam of the car door as it peels out of the driveway, taillights fading into the distance.

Biting back a sigh, she drops her gaze back down to the bundle in her arms instead. “Time to get you home, I guess,” she says, easing the front door open with her foot. It’s a bit of a struggle, with her trying to keep her movements as minimal as possible (lest she wakes her) but she manages, somehow, jabbing at the doorbell with her thumb.

The thing is, it’s not like she knows Mr. Blake personally. They’ve been neighbours for all of two months, and they never really crossed paths, in that time. She’s caught glimpses of him, before— his profile as he ducked into his car, or the back of his head when he fetched his mail— but the most she’s gleaned about him is that he’s a History teacher over at the local high school, and that he was from the city. (It certainly fits into the whole middle-aged, experiencing a midlife crisis and moving to the suburbs sort of narrative she has going for him.)

So, yeah, she’s definitely more than a little surprised at the ridiculously attractive individual that gets the door.

“Oh,” she says stupidly, trying not to stare at the acres and acres of bronzed skin, the unruly mess of curls and freckles, of all things. “Mr. Blake?”

“Bellamy,” he corrects, frowning slightly; his expression quickly brightening when he spots Artemis. “Hey, you found her!”

“Uh,” she makes a helpless gesture with her shoulders, careful not to let the movement dislodge her from her perch, “kind of? It’s a long story, actually. It has to do with my daughter, Madi.”

The confusion in his eyes is clear, but he doesn’t interrupt, which she can’t help but feel grateful for. “Right, uh,” she clears at her throat, willing the flush rushing across her cheeks to abate, “so, Madi is about twelve. And you know, they’re doing the whole trick or treat spiel today, and she’s dressed as a witch, see? So she saw Artemis over at Lincoln’s, and she thought it would be a great idea to bring her along, and it’s just— so irresponsible. I always tell her that she needs to check if—”

“Madi,” he echoes, tilting at his chin. “Oh. Oh. She likes to wear braids in her hair, right?”

“Yeah,” she exhales, her breath escaping her in a rush. “I’m just— I’m so sorry on her behalf, Mr. Blake. She’s—”

“Bellamy,” he corrects, a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s only Mr. Blake when I’m at work.”

It’s highly possible that he’s just being friendly, but she still blushes anyway. “Bellamy,” she says, with a nervous laugh. “Right. Anyway, I’m really sorry for the scare we gave you. I can’t imagine how worried you must be.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, leaning up against the doorway. Then, shaking his head ruefully, “I’ve seen her playing with Artemis, the few times she wandered out to the garden. I should have figured.”

“Yeah, she’s been trying to persuade me that a cat would be a good addition to our little unit,” she says, groaning. “I told her I would think about it, but I didn’t think she would resort to cat burglary, if I’m being honest.”

The smile he shoots her is distinctly conspiratorial, warming her down to her toes. “Kids, right?”

“Kids,” she repeats, lifting her shoulder in a small shrug. She’s wracking her brain for the next thing to say when Artemis makes a small noise, then, uncurling herself to leap gracefully onto the ground, purring as she rubs up against Bellamy.

“Oh,” she says lamely, watching as he reaches over to pet her affectionately, her tail curling in the air as she strides past him and into the house, making small contented noises as she goes. “That’s my cue, I guess.”

“Or you could come in,” he adds hastily, straightening. “I mean, only if you want to. Artemis seems to, uh,” he pauses, rubbing at the back of his neck, “she seems to like you.”

She’s not sure if she’s imagining it, but the tips of his ears look a little red. Ducking at her chin, she bites at the inside of her cheek to keep a full-blown grin from showing. “I’d love to,” she says, extending a hand out. “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

He scowls, a impatient noise escaping as he shoulders past her with barely a backward glance. “Just keep your distance from me tonight, Princess.” He calls out, grabbing at his keys.

“I always do!” she yells to his retreating back; her breath coming short as she rushes to catch up, falling into step next to him.

+

She’s Catwoman, the next time, and he’s Batman.

There’s a moment where all she can bring herself to do is stare; mouth agape and stupid mask crooked against her face and obscuring half of her vision. Still, there’s no mistaking it, really— she’s going to her first college party in a matching costume with Bellamy Blake.

“I’m not changing,” she snaps, the second he opens his mouth. “So don’t even think about asking me to.”

He smirks over at her, ruffling at her hair and pulling her mask askew even further. “It’s crooked. Did anyone tell you that?”

+

So it only makes sense— after years and years of continuous, coincidental costume choices— that they capitalize on the situation, for once.

Flitting through the crowd, she stops in her tracks the second she spots a head of dark, unruly curls; his tie loose around his neck and glasses sliding precariously down his nose. Of course.

Shaking her head, she comes up behind him, poking him in the ribs. “So this is what the girl at the door meant when she asked if I came with my boyfriend,” she sighs, cocking her chin over at him. “Really, Bellamy? Did you overhear me telling Octavia about my costume idea?”

He rakes his gaze over her; a slow, amused slide. “You know this has been happening for the past like, five years, right?” he says, squinting over at her. “I’d say that’s a lot of effort required just to piss you off, Princess.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“True,” he grins, shrugging. “But not this year, okay? This was kind of a last minute decision, in case you couldn’t tell. And it’s not like I needed that much preparation for this little ensemble.”

Clarke rolls at her eyes at that, reaching over to straighten at his tie. “Yeah, yeah. Look, I’m not even mad, okay? I just thought we could use this situation to our advantage, for once.”

He arches a single brow over at her, the movement precise and measured (one that she’s never been able to master herself, really, and she has to tamp down the jolt of annoyance at the thought of it). “I’m listening.”

“The couples costume competition,” she says, matter-of-fact. “They pick the winners tonight, and the grand prize is three hundred dollars, which is pretty much easy money for us at this point, considering we’re the best dressed here.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bellamy says, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’d say Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake over there have a great chance too.”

“They’re supposed to be characters from Doctor Who.”

“... Oh.”

Resisting the urge to fidget, she crosses her arms over her chest instead; doing everything in her power to keep from doing something stupid, like reaching over to tangle her fingers in his hair, messing it up further. “So? In or out, Blake?”

He studies her, expression still frustratingly unreadable. “Fine,” he says finally, as if he’s doing her some sort of great favor. “But you have to use part of your share to take me out for pancakes.”

(It’s one of the their Halloween traditions, from when they were kids— trick or treating, a scary movie, and pancakes at iHop after. She’s more surprised that he remembers, if she’s being entirely honest.)

“Yes, Bellamy,” she says, working to keep her voice saccharine sweet. “You can get your sugar-laden, food-coma inducing pancakes after.”

“Good,” he says, before winding an arm around her; the sudden warmth of his palm against her shoulder making her shiver, leaning closer instinctively. “And hey, don’t forget: you’re supposed to like me.”

“Like it’s going to be that hard,” she manages, beaming with false cheer. Then, before he can react, she reaches up on her toes, planting a kiss on his cheek. “See?” (The dumbstruck expression on his face is priceless, really.)

Still, the first time he introduces her as his girlfriend, she has to stifle a laugh by biting at the inside of his cheek. It’s not hard work, at any rate— though she’ll admit that Bellamy is a lot better at it than she thought he would be. It’s pure adoration in his eyes every time he looks over at her, his hands flitting from the small of her back to her waist to her arm, as if he can’t stop touching her now that he can.

It’s… nice. And also deeply, deeply distracting.

“Want a drink?” he asks, once they’ve made several obligatory rounds around the room. “It’s going to be a little while more before they announce the winners anyway.”

She blinks up at him, her momentary confusion giving way to realization when she remembers the whole reason they’re doing this. “Right,” she says, licking at her lips. Somehow, she’s never noticed the small, crescent shaped moon by Bellamy’s mouth, and it won’t stop distracting her. “In a bit? Once the bar clears out.”

“Sure,” he says, his lips twisting into a frown as he looks down at her. “You okay?”

“Huh?”

“You’re just,” he pauses, making a confusing gesture, “staring at me weird.”

She flushes, her gaze dropping back instinctively to that stupid scar by his lip. He’s close enough now that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the rise of his chest against hers. “I’m not staring.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

“I’m not,” she tells him primly, and she’s not sure what possesses her, really, but then she’s kissing him, fingers twisting in his shirt to pull him closer, the edge of his glasses bumping up against her temple.

They’re both breathing hard when she pulls away, his eyes wide behind the smudged lens of his glasses and her wig lopsided. Distantly, she thinks she hears someone whoop, James and Lily! though she can’t bring herself to focus on it, right now.

“Sorry,” she blurts out, cheeks flaming. “I thought— uh, there was a judge watching, and I wanted to sell it.”  

The muscle in his jaw seems to flutter at that, his jaw clenching slightly as he regards her. “Oh,” he rasps out, hands still in her hair. Then, darting a glance over to the side, “You mean the guy at the bar, right?”

“Uh,” she braces herself, peeking out from the corner of her eye. There’s no one she can tell that’s even glancing their way, but she’ll take what she can get. “Yes?”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. Then, almost a little too casually, “He’s still looking at us, you know.”

She can feel her traitorous pulse spiking at his words, a smile working its way up her lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing. Bellamy’s never been much of an open book, but she thinks she can read him just fine, in the moment. Hope and joy and apprehension, all at once, mirroring hers. “You want to sell it a little more?”

It’s not as if she’s never noticed that her best friend is stupidly handsome, but it’s different when he’s holding a wriggling, squirming mass of fur in his arms, cooing and kissing at her nose constantly. Or when he comes home, all sweaty and dishevelled with his shirt sticking obscenely to his skin and leash in hand. One time, they’re watching TV when Peanut starts getting a little restless, so he literally scoops her up with one hand and starts lifting her, much to her delight, until she tires out and falls asleep on him, which is just… a lot for Clarke to handle, honestly.

The fact that she has feelings for him isn’t exactly a novel discovery on her part, but seeing him being so good with Peanut is distinctly not helping things. Prior to this, her plan had mostly involved suffering in silence over what surely must be unrequited feelings for him, but raising a dog together had sort of thrown a wrench into those plans. It’s almost entirely impossible to ignore how good they work as a team— or as a couple, and it’s getting harder with each passing day not to convince him of it, too.

In the end, it all comes to a head during one of their regular walks to the park.

They’re sitting at the bench, trying to teach Peanut to keep from jerking on her leash (with Bellamy providing unhelpful commentary like, “Maybe she would stop doing it if you stopped steering her into trees so much.”) when a woman comes up to them, fawning over Peanut as she runs giddy, excited circles around them.

“You can pet her, if you want.” Clarke offers, patting at her rump until Peanut flops down onto the ground, panting. “She’s friendly.”

“And a real cutie,” the woman says, grinning. “How long have you guys had her?”

“A few months?” Bellamy shrugs, leaning over to secure Peanut’s harness. “I’d say close to a year.”

“Ten months,” she reminds him, kicking lightly at his shin. “We got her in January, remember? You started baby-proofing the apartment then.”

“Only because you leave the blender out constantly. Have you seen how sharp those blades are?”

“You’re telling me that Peanut is somehow going to be able to scale our dining room table and stick her face into the blender?”

That pulls a impatient noise out of him, which she generally takes to mean as a sign of victory. “Sorry,” he says pleasantly, directing his attention back to the woman. “It’s just one of those things we can never agree on.”

“I know the feeling,” she says, shooting him a sympathetic look. “I get like this with my husband, too.” Then, with one last pat to Peanut’s head, “You have a beautiful family.”

She can practically feel her cheeks flooding with color at that; Bellamy sputtering in response as the woman strides away, Peanut tugging at her leash until Clarke gets her to settle back down.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says quickly, at the ensuing silence. “I mean— it’s just— it’s stupid how society doesn’t think that guys and girls can’t just be like, friends, and platonically raising a dog together without automatically assuming they are a couple, but—”

“Would it be so bad?” he interrupts, worrying at his lip. “I mean, if we were. A couple, I mean.”

For a minute, all she can do is stare, her mouth dropping open instinctively to gape over at him. “What?”

“Never mind,” he says hastily, looking away. “I just meant, like— not a couple couple, but uh, more like a—”

She kisses him then, sliding her hands into his hair like how she’s wanted to for years now, nipping at his bottom lip until he catches on and kisses her back, deep and warm and everything she imagined kissing Bellamy Blake would be like.

“How long have you wanted to ask me that?” she asks when they pull apart, breathless and mouths red and swollen. (It’s a good look on him.)

“Uh,” he laughs, dropping his head so it’s resting against the side of his neck, nuzzling at the skin there, “for the longest time? But if we’re talking specifics, I would say about a year ago. Way before we got Peanut, that’s for sure.”

“And you didn’t think about just asking me?”

“I was working up to it,” he grumbles, nosing at her jaw until she gets the message and presses a quick kiss against his lips, another on his eyelid. “I just— these things are delicate, Clarke Griffin.”

“Sure,” she agrees, biting back a smile. “You nerd.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, running his fingers absently over her knuckles before tangling his hand with hers. “So that’s a yes, right?”

“Let me guess,” she continues, working to keep her face impassive as she spins on her heel, marching towards his classroom. “You went with Dead Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“There’s no such thing and you know it,” Bellamy huffs, stomping after her, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him against her back, his fingers brushing against her hip at each step. “It’s Treasure Island, Clarke.”

“Please,” she sniffs, a squeak escaping when he rounds ahead of her, sending her half-lurching into him before he catches at her arms, holding her upright. Like this, she can make out the freckles in his irises; the dark fan of his lashes. It’s… distracting to say the least. Swallowing, she steadies herself, holding her chin up high. “Pirates are passe.”

He leans closer, then, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “Passe?” he says, his breath tickling at her ear and making her shiver. Damn him. “Did you seriously just call my decorations passe, Princess?”

“If the shoe fits,” she says primly, wriggling her arm out of his hold so she can flick at his forehead, making him wince. “Honestly, I know you’re all up for historical accuracy, but there’s nothing spooky about a bunch of dead pirates with scurvy.”

“Oh like yours is any better,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “What’s your theme? Pottery barn?”

“It’s Frightening Fall Bonanza, and it’s going to blow yours right out of the water,” she retorts, the rest of her response dying in her throat when he reaches over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear— his fingers lingering against the line of her jaw and curling at her chin, her eyes closing reflexively in response. Exhaling shakily, she grits at her teeth, bites out, “I know what you’re trying to do, Bellamy Blake.”

He gives a soft laugh at that, the sound and proximity of it sending a lightning bolt of heat arching through her. “You do?”

It’s an effort to muster up a glare when he’s looking at her like that; all warm fondness and easy familiarity and intense gaze. God, she’s a weak woman. “Seduction isn’t going to work this time, Blake,” she tells him, stern, biting at the inside of her cheek to hide her smile.

“Worked for you back in the day,” he pouts, the rest of it delving into a yelp instead when she smacks at his shoulder. “Okay, jeez. Easy, Princess. Who’s going to carve up all those jack o’ lanterns for you if your boyfriend is out of commission?”

“I could always hire someone. A professional, for one.”

“You wound me,” he sighs, pitching forward to press a soft kiss against her nose. It’s enough for her to lose her resolve, a giggle escaping when he kisses at the edge of her brow, too; the jut of her cheek. “Jokes aside: everything okay on your end, Princess?”

“Everything’s great,” she beams, looping her arms around his neck. “And you better damn well like Pottery Barn, because I got the matching cutlery set for our apartment.”

He makes a agreeable noise at that, dropping another quick kiss against her forehead. “I can live with that.”

“You’re going to have to.”

“Fine,” he tells her, grinning— that heart-melting, blinding smile that made her fall for him in the first place, all those years back when they had first started teaching; when he had been nothing but the brash, bad-tempered social studies teacher and she was the fresh grad teaching art— the rest of his body moving and pinning her hips back against the wall, hands going to her hair and making her tense in anticipation. “Fair fight, alright? May the best man win.”

“May the best man win,” she echoes, already breathless, eyes fluttering shut as she leans forward instinctively—

Only for her to meet nothing but cool air, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.

Blinking, she looks up, registering the figure high-tailing it in the distance—

“Oh my god, I hate you!” she yells, breaking into a brisk jog to catch up, his laughter echoing down the corridors and making her swear ungainly under her breath.

“Solid plan.” He nods, before casting a surreptitious glance around the room. The rest of the tour seems to have moved on, thankfully, and there’s no harm in hanging back to comfort a obviously distressed customer, right? Carefully, he eases down onto the ground next to her, letting his head thump back against the wall. “Except, you know. The part where you sort of disrupt me from doing my job entirely.”

That pulls a helpless groan out of her. “Shit,” she mutters, pulling her hands away from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m not, like— I’m not trying to be difficult, or anything,” she continues, eyes wide and beseeching. “I just— look, I knew this was a bad idea from the start.”

“And yet…?”

“It was a dare,” she huffs, with the tilt of a chin as if daring him to say more on it. (He decides to, wisely, keep his mouth shut.) “I just have to get through this house without chickening out, and Raven will shut up forever about the time I peed my pants in the fourth grade.”

A laugh slips out, though he sobers quickly enough when that earns him another one of her glares. “Like,” he says, struggling to maintain a straight face, “right there, in front of everybody?”

“I have a irritable bladder!” she protests, dropping her face into her hands when he snickers. “Great,” she grumbles, looking downright miserable. “Can’t believe I just told a cute guy about my bladder. This day can’t get any worse.”

He can’t help the slight flutter in his chest at that (she thinks he’s cute). “Look, uh…?”

“Clarke,” she supplies, resting her chin against her knees.

“Clarke,” he repeats, tapping an idle beat out against his knee. “Technically, your day could get a lot worse, considering how much of a field day Raven is going to have when you emerge from here about six hours later.”

“Thanks.”

“Or,” he pauses, mostly because he’s dramatic and he enjoys a inspirational speech more than anyone he knows, “you could walk out of this house with me, head held high and dignity intact. Your choice.”

The look she shoots him is distinctly disgruntled, though he can’t help but notice the spark of interest in her eyes at that. “So,” she says, biting at her lip, “you’re telling me that you’ll walk with me through the entire house?”

“Yeah,” he tells her, stretching his hand out for her to take. “Promise. Oh and I’m Bellamy, by the way. Bellamy Blake.”

“Bellamy,” she says, and he thinks he could get used to the way she says his name, really; her lips twitching slightly at the corners. Then, teasing, almost, “You better not leave me stranded alone anywhere in this house, Bellamy Blake.”

“Oh,” she breathes, backing up instinctively as the guy in question stomps out, glasses askew and hair rumpled. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

The rational, logical part of her is begging her to run, but she finds that she can’t look away, really, watching as he takes in the wreck before him. He looks downright livid, which she can’t blame him for, considering how it’s already starting to smell, and—

“Are those deviled eggs?” he demands, swiping a finger through the mess on his mailbox. Then, spotting the tupperware in her hand, he swears, throwing his hands up. “Seriously? Why would you egg someone’s house with that?”

“I don’t know,” she flounders, dropping the rolls gracelessly in her haste. “I have never egged a house before, okay? Raven said, bring eggs, and I thought any eggs would do, and my mom had a PTA meeting over at the house yesterday, so.” She stops, breathing hard. The guy is regarding her with a raised brow now, arms crossed over his chest to reveal very hard, well-defined biceps. Licking at her lips, she forces herself to look away. “Sorry?” she offers.

“So,” he pauses, brows scrunching together. “This wasn’t meant for me?”

“Ah, uh, no.” She says feebly, drumming her fingers idly against the tupperware lid. “I don’t even know you. It’s just, Raven said this was where Kyle Wick—”

“Dick,” he interrupts, nodding sagely. “The guy lives two doors down.”

“… Oh.”

“Yeah,” he continues, clearly unfazed. “Whatever it is, he probably deserves it.”

“Trust me, he does.” She mutters, rubbing at her forearms to ward off the sudden chill in the air. It dawns on her, then, just as the clouds clear slightly, that she does know him. Bellamy Blake is impossible to miss, even in the half-dark, his notoriety spanning several years above and below him. It’s a inevitability, considering his reputation as the town’s resident black sheep, but it’s not like ever she’s talked to him personally, prior to this. “Bellamy, right?” she tries, lacing her fingers together. “I’m Clarke? We’re in A.P English together?”

That pulls a smirk out of him, the expression distinctly amused. “I know who you are, Princess.” he says, turning on his heel. “I’d say it’s nice meeting you officially, but you did just egg my house.”

“I said I was sorry,” she grumbles, flushing as she leans down to grab at the toilet rolls scattered along the grass. “Look, I’ll just— let me help you clean up.”

“It’s fine,” he points out, shoulders lifting into another one of those full-bodied shrugs. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a sarcastic drawl, “I was planning on doing some spring cleaning in the morning anyway.”

She has to bite at the inside of her cheek to hide a smile. (He had been reading Girls at War and Other Stories under his desk, the other day. She’s not sure why she wants to ask him about it now, or why she had it remembered it in the first place, but she does.) “A bit early for spring cleaning, isn’t it?”

“You know how it is, with the early bird and the worm.”

“You could do that,” she blurts, her grip over the tupperware tightening convulsively, “or you could come egg Kyle Wick’s house with me.”

There’s a beat as he seems to consider that, his chin cocked and eyeing her contemplatively. (She’s not sure why, but she’s holding her breath.)

Then he’s easing the door shut behind him, instead, crossing past her to grab at one of the rolls of toilet paper still abandoned on the grass. “Well, Princess?” he asks, a grin lighting up his face and transforming it entirely. “You coming or what?”

“Which is why we’re having our picnic indoors,” she beams, popping the lid of the basket next to her cheerily. Then, briskly, “Now, apple pie or pecan?”

Bellamy raises a brow over at her, crossing his arms over his chest reflexively. Her insistence at a indoor picnic aside, Clarke has also packed every single one of his favorite foods, and put NPR on in the background— which are all clear indicators that she’s up to something, really. (He’s known her long enough to discern that, at least.)

“Both,” he says, watching as she sections off a slice with several neat, precise strokes. There isn’t a plate in sight, but he can always just eat with hands anyway, and he’s just about reaching forward just as she intercepts him, holding up a forkful of pie.

“What?” she asks, flushing as he regards her, contemplative. “You going to leave me hanging?”

It’s not something that they’ve done, despite the years of friendship between them. It’s a little odd, if he’s being entirely honest, but he’s definitely not opposed to any opportunity to be a little more affectionate with Clarke. “Nah,” he manages, leaning over to get his mouthful. Still, this just makes whatever she’s planning all the more intriguing, and it’s taking a considerable amount of effort for him to be nonchalant about it. “So,” he starts, drumming his fingers against his knee. “You wanna tell me what the occasion is?”

A beat, her brows furrowing together in clear confusion. “Huh?”

“I mean,” he pauses, gesticulating wildly from the basket to the mat to the forkful of pie, still hovering between her fingers, “like, is something going on? Our friendship anniversary? Uh, or did you accidentally kill off my plants when you were in here last week? Because I know you’d never listen to NPR willingly. Well, or not unless you’re trying to butter me up.”

The expression on her face seems to darken almost imperceptibly at that; the sudden change staggering. “You— you don’t remember me telling you about it, last Thursday?”

“Uh,” he scrambles through his muddled thoughts hastily, finally latching on to the right memory. “When I was grading, right? You said we should do something fun, and I said sure, and you said a picnic would be cool. A little different from what we usually do.”

She bites at her lip, looking away. “That’s all you got?”

He blinks over at her, confusion and worry warring as he takes her in. “… Yes? I don’t— Clarke, am I missing something here?”

The small noise she makes is half amused, half exasperated, but the genuine hurt in her eyes is what gets him. “This was supposed to be a date,” she says, giving a short, watery laugh. “I— I asked you if it was weird, me asking you out, and you said it was fine, and it sounded great, and I guess you didn’t hear me, or we got our wires crossed—”

“Oh,” he breathes, realization dawning; his stomach twisting at her disappointment, the way she turns away from him. “Shit, shit, shit, Clarke. I was— I was grading, and I wasn’t paying attention, and I’m so, so sorry. Jesus. This is all my fault.”

“No, no,” she says, with false brightness. “It’s no big deal, okay? We can just pretend it never happened, and I’ll just— turn off the NPR, and we can—”

“No,” he blurts, grabbing at her hand before she can march off, weaving their fingers together gently. It makes her relax, if anything, slumping back against her seat.

“Listen,” Bellamy says, steeling himself. “I didn’t know it was a date, okay? But I— I want it to be. If you’d let me. I may not deserve it, considering how much of an idiot I’ve been, but, yeah. I do want to go on a date with you.” He swallows hard, stroking a thumb over knuckles. “I just never had the balls to ask you out.”

This time, her laugh is a little more genuine. “You are an idiot,” she says, fond. “I can’t believe you didn’t realize. I refused to cancel, and I got all your favorite snacks, and NPR is on in the background, Bellamy. This is essentially one of your biggest fantasies, and you didn’t realize it was because I was trying to seduce you?”

It’s his turn to flush, slumping down and burying his face in her neck so she can’t spot it. “Shut up,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I just thought— I don’t know. You were trying to break some sort of big news or something.”

“Yeah,” she says drily, scratching at his scalp soothingly and making him sigh contently, “I was going to make this big banner that said, ‘I like you, romantic stylez’ but it seemed a little too subtle.”

He groans, turning to face her, noses brushing and her mouth inches away from his. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” he whispers, grinning.