A/N: I haven't written in a while, but I caught the Bellarke bug and it has made me trash. I am trash. Like seriously, watching this show has reignited a creative spark in me. This is short, and I will probably expand on this. But I needed to get it out there.

Thank you to Looking for a Silver Lining for your awesome Beta skills!

I own nothing.

She felt herself grimace as she swallowed the shot. The whiskey burned as it moved through her body, but each drink pushed the hurt further and further away. At least no one knew her here, two thousand miles away from home. Clarke toyed with the glass as she set it back onto the counter.

"Need another one?"

The bartender's gravely voice startled her out of her reverie. Clarke gave a small smile and a stiff nod before the man behind the bar slid the glass in front of him, giving a stiff pour of alcohol before slipping the glass back in front of her.

"You know, most people use their bartenders like therapists. You're new to our hole in the wall, but Landsdowne isn't that big a town. Whatever your drama – it'll get back to me," the man gave her a quick wink before turning back to some of the other patrons at the end of the bar.

Clarke gave a small sigh before picking up the glass, holding it to her lips for a moment before letting the liquid slide down her throat. Two months. It had only taken two months for her perfect life to completely fall apart. She had been happy in Phoenix – sure Arizona was stiflingly hot and her parents were rarely home, but the three of them had been happy. Her mother was respected doctor at a large hospital, and her dad was an environmental engineer for the city. She had Wells – her best friend, she wasn't popular at school, but people liked her. She was safe.

And then there was the accident at her mother's work, Abby had been exposed to a potentially HIV+ patient's blood, and she was required to get tests before she could be around her other patients – her father had rushed to her side as soon as he got the call. Jake had tried to rush to her side anyway. It was a late night, the roads were dark and in his hurry to get to his wife, Jake hadn't paid as close attention to the road as he should have. And he'd been T-boned – died instantly on impact. Abby found out as soon as they brought him into the E.R. She watched as they had pronounced him dead on arrival. She didn't cry, but she did wonder how on Earth she was going to tell Clarke.

The funeral had been small – everyone murmuring their respects and giving regrets. Clarke just felt numb and foggy, like she was watching her life without actually being there. Her mother told her about the move after everyone had left. So here she was in this backwater Virginia town, at a hole in the wall bar. Thank God she and Wells had gotten fake I.D.'s their junior year.

So she drank, and no one questioned it.

Raising her hand to the bartender, she smiled as he sidled up to her. She heard his voice as he took the empty shot glass from in front of her, "Ready for another?"

"I think three shots of cheap whiskey in less than 10 minutes would probably down a heavier drinker than me." He chuckled at her bad joke before she continued, "So another shot is a no, but I would take a whiskey coke and a water?"

"Done pretty lady–"

"Clarke," she didn't know why – but she needed someone to know her name, even if she couldn't be herself.

"Alright Clarke, let me grab a glass and I'll get them right to you."

And so she drank. She'd down a strong glass of whiskey with a splash of coke, all while sipping on a glass of water every once in a while, flirt with the ever present bartender and whichever patron wanted to buy her next round all while trying to politely tell them there was no chance in hell she'd be going home with them tonight. Soon enough she was definitely not sober. And that was when she saw him walk into the bar.

He was tall – at least six inches taller than her – with dark, tousled waves of hair. Even across the bar she could see the smattering of freckles across his face and god damn did she want to trace them. Giving her head a quick shake, she turned back to her drink, only to come eye to eye with the blonde man behind the counter.

"So Cinderella finally found a Prince she won't turn away?" The grin on his face was more than a little obnoxious, "Prince Charming came alone. Let me see what I can do." And with a wink he walked away. Clarke groaned as she saw him approach the new face, and let her head fall into her arms, hiding herself from view. In this position she could pretend that she wasn't drunk, that a bartender wasn't hitting on a stranger for her, and that she doesn't see the shoes walk up and stop next to her. Clarke clenched her eyes and shook her head as she sat up only to come face to face with the stranger.

"Well hello there Princess." She wanted to smack the smug smile off of his face.

"Princess?" Clarke felt her eyebrow arch as she asked the question.

"Wick wouldn't tell me your name, said that would be too easy. That if I wanted to buy Cinderella a drink, I'd have to suck it up and do it myself," he laughed as he made eye contact with the man behind the bar. Clarke felt the wave of understanding wash over her. She'd been drinking for almost three straight hours and couldn't remember the bartenders name for the life of her. That's when she heard his voice again, "So what brings a pretty girl like you to this god-forsaken place?"

Clarke had heard this question so many times, from so many different men, and yet she felt herself smile, "Just moved here. All the way from sunny Arizona, and I needed a drink."

The man gave a laugh, "And that brought you to this Irish shit-hole?"

"I like places like this. I came from a big city – so places with character like this? When you can find them you keep them close." She took another sip from her glass, never one to let her buzz fade.

He cocked his head to the side and put his hand on the bar, "Bellamy Blake. Let me buy you another drink."

"Clarke. And if you're buying whiskey, I'd be more than willing to oblige."

And there it is. Reviews are most welcome.