#vrau

There were three things that Clarke loved about Bellamy Blake

His love of world history which allowed for enough overlap with her love art that he was actually someone she could talk to about post renaissance painters and have a fulfilling conversation with. 

He was literally the kindest human on the face of the earth.  

His arms. They were great.  

She remembered the third thing as he offered her his elbow to walk her into the little diner. Which, conclusion: Bellamy was without a doubt, the kindest human of all time.

They found a table toward the back, near the jukebox that only ever played one song. It had been that way for as long as Clarke could remember and would likely stay that way until it stopped working all together. Not that it mattered. It didn’t bother the regulars – mostly grumpy older men and industrial, blue collar workers – and it didn’t bother the employees either. The only people who ever complained was the rare newcomer who always thought it necessary to blame the waitress for their own piss poor taste in music.

Mary Jane’s Last Dance played when Clarke was young and her father would take her out to watch the sunrise in the Beacon parking lot at four something in the morning. It played when Clarke was sixteen and bussing tables and sneaking links of sausage because she had already been given two formal warnings about sneaking bacon and when she was sliding ice down Octavia’s shirt on late weekend nights to keep her awake for their three graveyard regulars. It didn’t matter what she was doing or who she was or who ahead wanted to be one day; Tom Petty was always there. For Hungover Clarke, however, she could really do without the residual emotions of her past right about now.

“Is it even possible to hate Tom Petty?” Bellamy mused with a nostalgic twinkle as he slid into a booth. She knew he meant well, he always meant well. But Clarke still had to bite her tongue and actively stop herself from being a certifiable grump towards one of the only people she could stand to be around.

She waved a hand with dismissive intent and peered across the diner. It was a small joint, cracked and aged in this timeless charm sort of way with a dozen booths, six on either side of the door, and a row of diner bar top seats that always had some industrial worker with sunken eyes hunched over endless coffee and a plate of grease drenched potatoes.

There were two waitresses. The first was and older woman who had been with diner since Clarke was young named Bea. The other was younger, even more than Clarke and unlike Bea who had something a rapport with the regulars, was having hard time knowing when to approach customers and when to leave them the fuck alone.  

“Charlotte. What the fuck? We got customers!” Murphy’s head peaked out from the window behind the counter, his expression wrinkled with frustration.  

“I got it,” Bea interjected. “She’s one of my girls.”

Murphy turned towards them, eyes lighting up when he realized the customers in question were her and Bellamy. “You,” he declared, reaching an arm out of the window to point his spatula at them. “Bout time.”

Bellamy smiled. “We’re here, now.”

Ever chivalrous Bellamy Blake, acting as if it were his fault Clarke hadn’t bothered to stop by. Of course, Bea knew better than to believe it.  

“Where the hell have you been?” she asked, pushing her weight onto one hip as she set down two mugs coffee.  

Clarke reached for the obviously larger of the two mugs. “Europe.”

“That was six months ago,” Bea said.  

“New York?”

“Try again, girlie.”

Clarke shrugged. She really didn’t have an answer; at least, she didn’t have one that she was willing to admit.  

“Well, you’re here now.” Bea put her hands on her hips and sighed. “That’s what matters. Just in time for the wedding, too. Oh,” she breathed. “I never did expect to say that about Octavia.”

“Yeah,” Clarke said, looking out the window. “Me either.”

The Beacon was a tiny building that built its success through its service to blue collar railway workers and, while the railroad workforce was nothing compared to what used to be as a in their small midwestern town, the trainyard still lingered across the window pane like a distance relic and – somehow – added to the charm. Now days, hardly anyone who worked on the railway came into the diner, but Clarke always wondered what the place looked like when it first opened. Train tales had to be better the complaints of long sleep-deprived truck drivers and stoned teenagers who poured chocolate milk on their hash browns.  

The bells over the door gave an off-key chime and Clarke could hear the trudging boots of new customers filing in through the door.  

“Charlotte,” Murphy’s voice boomed. “You’re up!”

Bellamy chuckled across the table and Clarke whipped her attention back to the diner as he said, “I haven't heard Murphy this frustrated since Clarke and Octavia first left.”

Bea looked over her shoulder to the table of new arrivals where the young waitress seemed to be stumbling through her job. “It’s her first job,” she said. “She’ll get better. You and O weren’t much better when you started either. Besides, that lot’s an easy ticket. She’ll be fine.”

The table consisted of four people, each as begrimed as the last. They were covered in something black and greasy, with stringy unwashed hair and dirt ridden, sweat soaked clothes. One of them was wiping their hands clean, leaving a pile of dirty napkins in the center of the table before collecting them all and trading the used napkins to the waitress for coffee.

“They’re filthy,” Bellamy noted.

“They’re harmless,” Bea said. “So, your orders still the same? Southwest Omelet and a Beacon Traditional?”

They both nodded and Bea sauntered away to shout the orders at Murphy through the kitchen window.

“Can you believe Murphy still works here?” Bellamy asked, leaning over the table. “Eight years at the same diner.”

Clarke frowned. “Bea’s been here longer.”

“Yeah, but that’s Bea. This place is nothing without her.”

Clarke shrugged. As much as she loved Bellamy, it was hard to keep a conversation with him. It was hard to keep a conversation with anyone these days.

They fell into a sort of uncomfortable silence as Bellamy sipped at his coffee and hummed the repeating tune of the Jukebox’s only song while Clarke stared absentmindedly across the diner towards the table of four. She watched the young waitress, Charlotte, bring out four piled plates of diner classics, refill coffee mugs on at least four separate occasions and chat idly with the group about things Clarke couldn’t quite make out.

“Fuckin’ frozen hell, Princess. You gonna say hi to me, or what?”

Clarke snapped back to the table. There were two steaming plates of food in front of them, Bellamy’s half consumed and Clarke’s completely untouched and her coffee had gone cold. She looked at the plate, frowning before looking up to Murphy who had stolen a seat next to Bellamy. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she began to pick at her food. “Long night.”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ bet,” Murphy said. He pushed back his hair and leaned one elbow on the table. “I heard you go real hard these days.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow as she shoved a fork full of food into her mouth.  

“Hey, man, I hear what I hear,” he said with an innocent shrug. “Not like we’ve talked since you got back to set the story straight.”

“There’s nothing to set straight,” Clarke said.  

Murphy gripped his chest with gasp. “A woman after my own heart. No fucks and an iron liver.”

“Murphy,” Bellamy interjected. “Enough.”

“I’ll take you on on that. If you can keep up.”

Murphy balked with laughter. “Come on, princess. You really think your debauchery can keep up with me? I’ve been running the garbage kid scene since you were still a star student.”