Bellamy stares down at the file that Kane slid him across the conference room table, flipping through pages of partially blacked out text and a few colored photos. This is not how he expected to spend his Tuesday morning, which is usually dedicated to dealing with the mess on his desk that he's been avoiding since the Friday before.
"Got a runner for you. Not dangerous, so we want you to start now, and Reyes will catch up to you as soon as we can call her in from vacation."
Bellamy grimaces, knowing that Raven is going to be pissed at losing the second half of her week in the sun, and that he's likely to bear the brunt of her fury. The blonde woman in the photo underneath his thumb looks equally angry, and he looks up at his boss. "What's her story?"
"Corporate thief. Worked for some big pharmaceutical company. Most of the details are protected by patent law." Kane scowls, clearly unhappy with the typical corporate obfuscation bullshit, then shrugs. "She's smart, well educated, and has a lot of financial resources. But she's a lab coat - no criminal record, no violent tendencies. Shouldn't be too hard for you and Reyes; a nice break from killers and drug lords."
The woman, Dr. Griffin, is certainly nicer to look at than most of the assholes he and Raven go after. And it will be nice to not be facing bullets or blades for once. But he doesn't share Kane's confidence. The woman in these pictures has cold blue eyes and a stubborn, determined set to her jaw. She's smart, and well educated, and she clearly doesn't need money if these bank statements are accurate. Which means she'd stolen from her employer for a reason, and she doesn't look like the kind of person to make stupid mistakes or give up easily.
Bellamy's gut agrees with his brain: this is not going to be a simple track and grab.
"Whatever you say, boss. I'll get started on this list of coworkers," is all he says to Kane. No reason to share his pessimistic doubts with the man. They'll find out soon enough which one of them is right.
And his job is the same either way - find Clarke Griffin and bring her in, and he is very good at his job.
x
Clarke stares dully out the train window, her hair piled into a beanie and the thick oversized glasses Wells had helped her pick out in high school sliding down her nose. She's no Clark Kent, but the 'disguise' should be effective enough. It's not like there's a shortage of blonde hipster girls on the Amtrak, and the youthfulness that always frustrates her when she's trying to buy alcohol will definitely come in handy now. She looks like a grad student, an image helped by the messenger bag tucked into her side and the Chucks on her feet, not like a brilliant scientist turned fugitive who just had her thirtieth birthday.
Not that she's sure what those are supposed to look like. Maybe a blood-stained lab coat? A belt of test tubes filled with brightly colored toxic liquids?
Definitely not a girl with dark circles under her eyes wearing a tank top with a Captain America shield on it.
But then, fugitive wasn't exactly on her detailed list of life goals, or penciled into her five and ten year plans, so. No one could blame her for not being prepared in the costume department. Or the plan department, although she's making headway there.
Monty's expecting her, thanks to the old Neopets account she'd made with him during a particularly bad midterm week their Sophomore year of college. They'd both needed a break from pretending to be real adults, and getting overly involved in building a house for their fake animals had been a very effective distraction. She really doubts the FBI or whoever is going to A. track down the public library computer she used, or B. consider that the medical researcher they're tracking took time out of her busy day of corporate theft to play with some virtual pets.
More fool them.
Thankfully Monty never got out of the virtual pet habit, feeling entirely too guilty to allow them to starve, and so step one in her plan to go underground is secure. Which leaves steps two, three, four, ad infinitum. She doesn't even really know what going underground means. She's pretty sure it's going to suck though. And eventually involve crossing borders and leaving everyone she loves behind.
"I did the right thing," she says, out loud for emphasis, and then glares at the actual teenager in the seat across the aisle who's smirking at her like his barely post-pubescent face is something worth looking at. She looks away and pointedly puts her headphones in her ears, repeating her words, silently this time.
She did the right thing. She's doing the right thing, and there's no turning back now.
x
While normally a gloat-worthy experience, in this case Bellamy is not pleased to be proven right. Clarke Griffin is a nightmare to track, and he's no closer to understanding what she's thinking now than he was four days ago.
Raven's enduring grumpiness at losing her vacation over the situation isn't helping, nor is the fact that both of them are pissed off that they don't even know what the woman stole or why it matters. All they do know is that the woman is damn good at falling off the grid for someone who was raised as privileged and surrounded by technology as she was, and has got to have people helping her.
People they need to find.
"Well it's definitely not her mother," Raven declares, swinging into the motel room with a grimace and handing him one of the ridiculously sugared blended coffee drinks he loves more than is probably healthy. "That woman is ice cold and would definitely never harbor a fugitive."
Bellamy grunts, staring down at the file he's memorized by now. "And she's the only blood relative Griffin has." He's doing his best not to empathize with their fugitive, who lost her father when she was fifteen, the same year he lost his mom, before losing her best friend the year after, but isn't sure if he's succeeding because he's a professional or because he's pissed off that they haven't found her yet.
"The few friends she has at work sure aren't talking, but we also would have found her by now if one of them was hiding her," he continues, flipping the folder shut and rubbing at his eyes with one hand while reaching for the coffee with his other. "She's not big on socializing, but she's real good at inspiring loyalty."
"Not to mention disappearing into the woodwork," Raven grouses, collapsing into the chair across from him and staring down at her cup of what he knows is black coffee that more resembles industrial fuel than any substance humans should be consuming. "People with Senators for parents are not supposed to be good at staying out of sight."
"I imagine dodging the occasional paparazzi taught her a thing or two," he says noncommittally, then shrugs when Raven glares at him. "But you're right, socialites turned scientists do not usually have the kind of skills it takes to keep us off their trail. Not that we hunt a lot of those, but seriously, there are drug lords who fuck up more than she has."
Which is not at all, other than the original fuck up of turning into a criminal in the first place. Bellamy really wants to know why this clearly brilliant woman, who had everything going for her, would decide to throw her life away. He also really doubts he'll ever find out. Which is possibly more frustrating than the currently failing manhunt to find her.
"She has some college friends in Boston, and I know you miss Miller, you giant nerd, so let's head there next," Raven tells him, interrupting his thoughts and earning herself a middle finger.
She's not wrong, about missing Miller or him being a giant nerd, but it's the principle of the thing.
They catch a break in Boston. She's been there. As much as her friend Monty protests otherwise, he's not a very good liar and Miller's rare use of good cop flirting techniques seem to fluster him enough that he contradicts himself a number of times. He still doesn't tell them anything, and his confiscated computer makes Raven swear, a lot, before giving up and turning it over to the forensic department. But still. It's the first time they feel like they've gotten anywhere, and Bellamy stares at the picture of Clarke Griffin he has tucked into his visor with renewed determination.
"We're going to find you," he tells the image of the blonde woman, and doesn't even bother flipping Raven off when she laughs at him from the driver's seat.
It's shortly after this that it becomes clear just how deep a loyalty Clarke Griffin can inspire, and how many friends she has spread around the country who have shockingly useful skills when it comes to helping someone hide from the law.
Monty with his fake ID's was the first in a chain that leads to Lexa, an ex-girlfriend who used to be law enforcement herself and who clearly had no problem telling Clarke all the tricks about disposable cell-phones and public transportation and how to avoid attention without looking you were trying to avoid attention. She tells them this matter-of-factly, no fear of an aiding and abetting charge, and smirks when they finally leave. "If you catch her, you'll regret it," she says, and Bellamy's not sure if it's a threat or a warning.
Either way he's pretty sure they're screwed.
Then there's Monroe, bodyguard for an actress who uses her client's fame to avoid all conversation with them, and Harper, the lawyer who pulls out every bit of legalese in the books to protect her client, as she claims she's been Clarke's personal lawyer since the moment she took the bar exam, and tells them that if they ever do catch Clarke, they'll be facing Harper in court and she will rip them to shreds.
At this point Bellamy just wants to meet Clarke, find out what kind of person she is to have all these friends willing to jump on grenades for her, and he's pretty sure Raven feels the same.
That's when they meet Jasper and Maya. Jasper is a chemical engineer and Maya is an oncologist and Bellamy has a moment of genuinely fearing for his life when it becomes clear how many toxic chemicals Jasper enjoys playing with for fun. Combined with the hatred in his glare as he refuses to let Bellamy onto his porch, and Bellamy is wishing that Raven hadn't been delayed by a call from the forensic unit back in Boston. He could definitely use backup for this, especially when he catches a glimpse of nondescript brown hair out of the corner of his eyes and realizes that Clarke, no longer blonde, is slipping into the neighbor's backyard.
"Stop! Federal Marshals!" he cries out, hand instinctively going to the gun at his waist as he sprints around Jasper's house and ignores the vicious cursing the man is yelling in his direction. He doesn't actually pull out his gun - he doesn't think you should unless you're willing to use it and he does not think Dr. Griffin is the kind of threat that warrants violence.
He does think she's incredibly aggravating, and that his eagerness to catch her has lost some of its professional edge.
She's stymied by a tall fence and his hand wraps around her ankle as he yanks her, gently, to the ground. She takes a deep breath before turning to face him, and then those blue eyes are boring into him - angry, exhausted, and full of enough bitterness to drown that my little pony character Octavia insists on constantly sending him gifs of.
He doesn't feel like he won, like he usually does when he and Raven catch the kind of scum they typically hunt. He reads her her rights, and tries not to think about the softness of her skin when he's snapping the cuffs around her wrists. The job creates false intimacy with the people they chase. Shaking that off isn't usually a problem once they're behind bars, but Clarke Griffin is different.
She is silent as he escorts her back to the SUV, only offering a faint smile to Jasper who gives her a hug before Bellamy can stop him. "You're going down, fed," the man tells him, his phone glued to his ear, but doesn't say anything else after the tiny woman in between them gives him a seriously intimidating stare.
After that, it's back to a silent stone face in the backseat after Bellamy calls it in and then drives to the motel to meet up with Raven. They're escorting Clarke back to DC themselves - her employers are eager to speak with her about whatever was stolen, and are not interested in having her languishing in jail in the middle of the country.
Bellamy still doesn't like them, or trust them, but he's going to follow orders. And he's going to do his best to resist his curiosity about the blue-eyed woman now sitting cuffed to a rickety chair across the room, who is staring at him as if she can see every single thing he has ever thought.
She's staring at me.
Raven texts back six laughing emojis and Bellamy resists the urge to pout. He's got to at least try to maintain a professional demeanor.
That is the moment that Clarke Griffin decides to speak for the first time, and Bellamy almost falls off the bed in surprise. "Do you even know what I did?"
Her voice is calm, calmer than Bellamy feels, and she sounds genuinely curious. Bellamy steels himself against another wave of sympathy and answers her in an equally calm voice. "You stole from your employer."
She laughs, a bitter sound that makes his shoulders twitch. "I'm not stealing; I'm giving."
He doesn't understand, the words or the clear anger underlying them. "What do you mean?" She shakes her head and then turns her head to stare at the window, a gesture of clear dismissal given that the blinds are down. He doesn't get another word out of her until it's three hours later and someone is shooting at them.
Raven is still at the local police station, negotiating the size of the escort the department wants to send with them once it becomes clear they'll be getting none of the credit for the capture. Bellamy has packed up all of their stuff and loaded it in the vehicle and is playing quizup on his phone, determined to beat that fucker who recently gained the number one spot in the UK for history, when there is suddenly shattered glass all over the room and Clarke is on the ground swearing viciously with blood dripping from a cut on her arm that he really hopes is from the glass and not a bullet.
He rolls off the bed and she crawls toward him, her cold indifference faded into a kind of angry determination that he should not be finding so attractive, given the circumstances.
"What the fuck, Griffin?" he snaps out, checking her for injuries with one hand while pressing speed dial 1 on his phone with the other. "What did you do?"
She laughs, unexpectedly, and doesn't answer. Raven does, and hears the gunshots before he can find words. "Bellamy! What's going on?"
"Some assholes are shooting at us," he grinds out, "and this is not exactly a defensible position."
Clarke snorts as she tears a strip off the bottom of her tanktop and wraps it neatly around the slice on her arm. "I thought the Marshals were supposed to be the best," she mutters, and Bellamy glares at her.
"We found you, didn't we?" he asks, and enjoys the flash of anger in her eyes before directing his attention back to Raven, who's yelling at him.
"Bellamy! Try and hold out, I'm on my way, and there are some squad cars that should beat me there. Just try not to get either of you shot, or I'll never forgive you."
"Just hurry up," he tells her, and then turns on the speaker and sets the phone on the floor next to them. He stares at Clarke and her makeshift bandage for a moment before frowning. "How did you get uncuffed?"
She shrugs and grins, despite the blood still dripping down her arm. "Never let someone hug your suspect, fed. Come on, I'm only a casual slut for procedurals and even I know that."
There's a sharp bark of laughter through the phone. "Maybe I should be talking to her about the situation, Bellamy."
"Fuck off," he replies, not sure which of them he's talking to. He squints at her, wondering what else he missed in the past few hours. "Did your seriously scary friend slip you anything else? Like maybe a small explosive? Because we could actually use one of those right now."
She grimaces and shakes her head. "Sadly, no."
"Well damn," Bellamy says mildly, then flinches as plaster falls on their heads. "Fucking A, we need to get out of here."
"Are marshals supposed to swear this much?" Clarke asks him, her lips curving into a faint smile despite the fact that they're both pressed against the floor as bullets continue to fly overhead.
"Are scientists supposed to piss people off enough that they're willing to waste this much ammo in a highly public shoot-out?"
Her face tightens, smile gone. "Yeah, well, apparently I should have read my employment contract a little more thoroughly."
"Are you trying to tell me that your employers are behind this?" he asks, staring at her in disbelief. He's picturing the priggish man from her company that's heading up the internal investigation and the idea of him ordering a hit is ludicrous.
"Who did you think was shooting at us?"
"You don't work for the mob, Princess."
She lets out another one of those sharp edged, bitter laughs that set his teeth on edge. "You really have no idea how the corporate medical world works, do you? The mob wouldn't know what hit them if they tried to step up to pharmaceuticals instead of street drugs, and there's a hell of a lot less regulation on corporations than there is on the so-called actual criminals."
He stares at her, not sure what to do with the mix of weary cynicism and bitter self-recrimination in her voice. Not to mention hearing echoes of his own political views in the words of this privileged woman who's spent the last nearly thirty years benefiting from the status quo she's just so harshly criticized.
There's a lull in the gunshots, one that he hopes means they've abandoned the attempt thanks to the faint sound of sirens he can now hear and not because they're rushing the room.
Clarke takes a breath and looks at him, everything about her expression and body language showing exhaustion instead of anger. "I assume you dug through my life, trying to find me. Did you read about my best friend?"
Bellamy nods, not sure where she's going with this topic change, but willing to listen to anything she wants to say at this point. "Yeah, he died. When you were in high school. Something terminal, no cure."
Her answering smile is blinding, despite the tightness of her jaw. "There was no cure."
"You mean-" he stops, impressed despite himself at what he thinks she's saying.
"Yes," she says, blue eyes shining. "I mean I've spent the last decade of my life working on one and I am very good at my job. That's what I stole." She shakes her head, anger back in her voice. "Because they were going to bury it, turn it into long-term treatments, make it cost a fortune. I didn't make it to make them money. I made it to spare anyone else what Wells' parents went through. I made it so no one else had to watch their best friend hit the floor in the middle of homeroom and never get up again." Her voice is quiet, but rough with anger and her hands are digging into the carpet, knuckles white with tension. "And those fuckheads weren't going to let me release it. They had patents and gag orders and contracts and it was all bullshit. So I took it and I ran, and now they want me taken care of so no one knows what they're trying to do. So no one can stop them."
"Holy fucking shit." It's Raven and Bellamy realizes the phone is still on speaker. He has never agreed with his partner more and he has no fucking clue what they're supposed to do now.
x
Clarke starts laughing after Marshal Reyes' comment, and by the time the police officers have swarmed into the room to make sure they're still alive the laughter has turned into violent sobs. Those greedy fucking bastards had tried to kill her. For all her bitter bravado to Blake, she still can't quite believe that they'd go so far. Arrest her, sure. Maybe even arrange for a little accident while she's in jail. That wouldn't have surprised her.
But this? She hadn't expected this. Hadn't thought that her flight would endanger anyone but herself. She still doesn't know if she likes Blake, but she's damn sure he deserves better than to die because of her choices.
That was the whole point of her choices. To prevent death, not cause it. And now. Now here she is, sobbing in a shot-up motel room while Blake helps her into a chair and tries to get her to breathe.
"Back off," he snaps to the hovering officers. "And get me a damn EMT. She's hurt."
Clarke decides all in a rush that she does like him. "Sorry," she gasps out. "Sorry I almost got you killed."
He stares at her like she's speaking another language and then shakes his head, his mouth curving downwards and his dark eyes angry. "This is all on them, princess. Not you."
She chokes on something that's a little more laugh than sob and flips him off. "Stop calling me princess."
He grins, wide and bright despite the blood trickling down one cheek from flying glass and she can't help but smile back. Her entire life is shot to hell, pun not intended but entirely accurate, and she has no fucking clue what to do about the probable prison sentence and possible death consuming her near future. But she's alive, and so is he, and she's pretty sure he believes her, and that's a better outcome than she was expecting when she first heard the window shatter and realized someone was shooting at them.
She just needs to alter the plan a bit because those fuckers aren't getting away with it and goddamnit she wants her life back.
The EMT shows up and examines her arm with clinical efficiency while Blake refuses to leave her side. Clarke feels a bit steadier with him there and smiles when it's him that winces and not her as the uniformed woman pries glass out of Clarke's shoulder.
Maybe she'll ask him out for coffee. Unless she goes to prison. God, she really hopes she doesn't go to prison. She really likes Orange is the New Black (bisexual representation for the win!) but she has absolutely zero desire to actually go to prison.
Anyways. Plans. Absolutely destroy her former employers, don't go to prison, and ask the hot Federal Marshal out for coffee.
She can do this.