Clarke Was Here, a 100 fanfic

Trespass

Clarke has a thing about nice study spaces. They're her weakness, always have been, ever since her father built her a small, child's-size, pale blue desk and set it underneath the window of her bedroom in their old home. The window looked out over their big, green backyard, the rosebushes that formed the border between their place and the Jahas' next door, the birdfeeder that always brought blue jays and robins and cardinals flitting by; the light that shone in shifted over her desk in subtle, ever-changing patterns, through the leaves of the overgrown old oak outside.

Even she can see how sickly cliché her perfect, idyllic childhood was, but it left its impression nonetheless.

This carrel isn't exactly a pale blue Jake Griffin original, but it's as perfect as library carrels get. It's up on the third floor, next to the window looking out over the woods out back of the school, close to her locker and the bathrooms, but removed from the staircase and the intermittent echo of stomping, clacking, feet and chattering voices. Definitely prime real estate. She sets her torts book down and (metaphorically) cracks her knuckles to prepare for some extended reading.

She's halfway through her first case when a gruff bit of throat clearing breaks her out of her zone, and she looks up, equally shaken and annoyed. She worked hard for that zone.

The throat clearer is a pompous looking guy with a mop of purposefully-messy black hair, which half-curls across his forehead and over his ears. He's crossed his arms over his chest in a way that emphasizes both his arms (strong, tendons twisting in his forearms) and his chest (broad), but Clarke's not intimidated. She's not intimidated by the way he glares and she's even less affected by the way he jabs his forefinger in the general direction of her casebook and says, "This is my carrel."

Okaaaay. Well, guess who's sitting here now, asshole?

She leans back, crosses her arms to mimic or mock, she's not sure, and tilts up her chin because it's the best gesture she knows to tell a guy how little he impresses her. Lets the silence stretch as long as she can manage, like she's sizing him up. Then she plants both hands palm down on the shelf above the desk—in the spare space left next to a collection of casebooks, study guides, binders, and haphazard printouts that mark the carrel as claimed—and says, "This is your carrel, actually. I have just as much right to this"—moving her hands down with another satisfying slap to the desktop—"as anybody."

For a few moments, the guy seems to have nothing to say. Or he's just trying to use her building-tension-through-silence trick against her. The corner of his mouth twitches up in an expression that's entirely appraisal and not at all smile, an imitation of friendliness, and then he asks, "What's your name?"

Why, so you can turn me into the carrel police?

"Clarke." She sounds just the slightest bit reluctant. Her name shouldn't feel like a concession, but she's not sure where this is going.

"I'm Bellamy," the guy answers. "You a 1L?"

"Yeah." The Torts book probably should have clued him in to as much, but then it's not a real question, is it? "You an entitled 2L?"

That almost earns a real smile, but it turns into a put-upon sigh too quickly. Bellamy uncrosses his arms and instead curls one hand against the edge of the desk, arm straight, and bends down into her space—not close enough to be rude, just close enough to invite a sense of conspiratorial whispering. "Yeah," he says, "I am. And when you're an entitled 2L you can kick 1Ls out of your space, but until then, leave my space alone. I got up early for this carrel. I keep my stuff at this carrel. I'm writing my Note at this carrel. Okay?"

Not really. But she admires his insistence—and his taste in study spots. And maybe something else, which she can't name.

"I have class anyway," she lies, and collects her things efficiently, quickly. Bellamy's smiling like he can see right through her, which is more than a little annoying. But then, being annoying seems to be his thing.

Trespass to Chattels

It nags at her, later, that she gave up so easy—especially when she knew she was right. Replaying the encounter to herself, she sees it wasn't even an argument or a debate. It was just some random 2L turning his gorgeous brown eyes on her, not quite pouting, and getting his way.

That's how he'll win his cases in the future; he'll just pout and that will be it.

So of course she goes back. She chooses a Saturday this time, early, when not a lot of people want to be hauling their books, or themselves, to the library, and finds the third floor blissfully quiet. No one in her carrel or in any of the surrounding carrels. Perfect.

She takes out her books, her laptop, her notebook, her highlighters. She sets up her space. She finds her studying mindset.

Then she opens her Torts casebook and finds she really cannot think about Torts.

It's Bellamy again, not his face this time but his stuff: he's taken over the carrel shelf (fair enough, it's the only part that's actually his) and now she can't help staring at it, as if his books and his notes might give some sort of clue as to who this obnoxious, unreasonable 2L really is. As if it mattered who he really is.

It really doesn't matter.

He's taking Family Law, she notes, and Federal Courts. Impressive. He also has a Crim Pro E&E and a thin volume about redistricting, filed in next to a large, half-empty binder and, at the end of the row, a small stack of looseleaf papers, about as neatly arranged as a stack of looseleafs can ever be. She stands up slowly, feeling very surreptitious and resisting the urge to glance around her, as if she were doing something wrong and didn't want to get caught, and reads the top page. Nothing more interesting than a printout of Evenwel v. Abbott, but it's marked up in a surprisingly neat hand. All in pen, no highlighter.

Taped to the inside of the desk, below the shelf, and unobtrusive in the corner, is a calendar and a list of dates, color-coded, apparently, into hard and soft deadlines. Also impressive. He might be more organized than she is, and that stings.

Really, he's just infuriating all around; she can't exactly put her finger on why, but he just is. She's already been in law school long enough to know that handsome and confident men are trouble: they're arrogant, entitled, and they always, always think they're right. Bellamy gives off a little of that vibe.

Except—in another way—he doesn't. His handwriting is too neat, he has too many notes and lists, and the way he said 'I'm writing my Note in this carrel' had just the slightest tinge of panic in it, though it's not yet October, and early still. She can't help thinking that, yeah, he's got a good sense of himself, but he has something to prove too, to everyone else, to the world. Maybe this should be off-putting (she's never felt anything like it herself) but actually it's sort of endearing.

Or she should stop analyzing people she only talked to for three minutes.

She sighs, a low, vocal, sigh like a groan, and runs a hand over her face in frustration. This is so dumb. Then, in a sudden fit—she has no idea why she does it, this childish and stupid thing—she grabs a post-it note out of her bag, scrawls Clarke was here in large, looping letters on it, and sticks it on the inside of his family law casebook, where a makeshift index card bookmark saves his place, so she knows he'll see it. Then she gathers up her things again, and leaves.

Intrusion Upon Seclusion

Clarke doesn't return to the carrel for almost a week, and when she does, it's with a certain sense of nervous unease. Which is stupid. The desk part of the carrel is, of course, common property—common and valuable property, as far as she's concerned, because no other study spot she's tried in the last five days can beat it—and if her note was silly and a bit childish, it wasn't exactly harmful. She can use the space if she wants to, nothing's changed.

Still, she hopes he's not there.

She mostly hopes he's not there.

The library's a little more crowded on Thursday night than Saturday morning, but not exactly packed, most students heading home to start their weekend rather than holing themselves up for an evening of reading. A handful of people are scattered across the third floor, but the carrel by the window is empty. She sighs with something like relief when she sits down.

She takes out her Crim book—not lucky enough to have a three-day weekend, she has some last-minute reading to do—but first, she looks around, not quite sure what she's searching for but oddly curious nevertheless. Perhaps one downside to this particular carrel is that it's full of distracting little clues—

There is, for example, a new piece of paper taped to the inside of the carrel, this one a typed list of various journal articles, cases, books, and websites, all on topics like foster care, custody disputes, child abuse. A post-it note affixed to the edge of the carrel shelf reads Mtg w/ Kane Mon 3 and another, next to it, Call Octavia!

Octavia. Girlfriend?

Not that it matters.

Finally, she comes across the note. It's subtle: at first she thinks it's just a stray sheet of folded paper sticking out from between his casebooks. But Bellamy doesn't seem the stray-paper type. Also she can just make out a Cla written in a now-familiar hand on the front.

Obviously she has to pull it out and take a better look.

The outside reads Very mature, Clarke, which makes her roll her eyes. She could feel guilty, but she's pretty sure the tone of the note is one of faint amusement, not annoyance or scorn. She can almost picture him smiling as he writes, a half-smirk sort of smile that nevertheless reaches up to his eyes, maybe a shake of his head as he spells out her name. It's true that Clarke doesn't actually know Bellamy well enough to picture him doing anything. But it makes her smile nevertheless. Most people wouldn't have written back at all, she's pretty sure.

Inside, the note reads: I guess we're carrel buddies now.

And that makes her grin.

She adds I'm glad you've conceded defeat at the bottom of the paper and sticks it back between the casebooks, irrationally proud of herself in a goofy and lighthearted way.

Her answer was too baiting not to earn a response in turn, so she's pleased, but not surprised, when she finds another note between Hart and Wechsler's Federal Courts and The Realist's Guide to Redistricting.

I retain the right to kick you out at any time. You could always take the carrel next to this one, if you need a place to study when I'm here.

The first sentence makes her roll her eyes, but the second gives her pause. It sounds suspiciously like an invitation. It sounds suspiciously like what someone would say if he wanted to see her again, but didn't want to admit he wanted to see her again.

Or she's overthinking again.

Or you can work at the other carrel if I get here first because you don't own this desk.

If he names a day and time, she'll consider it a date—in the broad sense of the word 'date,' of course. A study date. An appointment to study in each other's presence.

But she must have misread the conversation, too confident perhaps, because his next message changes the topic.

Don't underestimate Wallace's Torts midterm. The readings are easy but his hypos are no joke. I barely finished last year.

Clarke's first reaction is an irrational disappointment. It's been almost two weeks now, since the first and only time they've met in person; September has edged into October and even Virginia is starting to cool. Light jacket weather at last, and the leaves on the trees outside the window are beginning to turn orange and yellow and red. This sort of weather makes her want to take long walks through blustery winds under skies seeping blue into gray, not make a new home at some desk and study for midterms, and yet. Here she is. She's not annoyed that Bellamy reminded her—her first law school exam, even if it is worth only 10% of her grade, is hard to forget. Rather, she's bothered that, though it's only been a few days, only a few notes passed between them, she's already started looking forward to stopping by the carrel, already become accustomed to finding a message there. It's something unusual and special in her day. And if she half fears she'll run into Bellamy himself, and half hopes she does, well that's nothing. It's just that the relationship, whatever sort of relationship it is, feels precarious and undefined, like it could be almost something, or almost nothing at all.

She leaves a note that says How do you know I'm in Wallace's class? and then forces herself to drop every single one of her ridiculous thoughts.

On Thursday she gets her reply: Your casebook. I used the same one last year.

It's funny that he even noticed it. He's only seen it once, during their brief conversation in September. Still it seems only fair he should know something of her, however small; she's become intimately acquainted with the random, out of context details of his life just by sitting at their carrel, reading his lists and post-it note reminders and the class notes he leaves out sometimes, between his books with the notes he leaves for her. (It isn't snooping, she tells herself, just... curiosity.)

She's learned that Bellamy's serious about his studies, organized and dedicated, but that he's critical too: his notes are filled with questions and commentary, and they reveal not just a curiosity but an honest desire to critique and improve. A part of her hopes they end up in a class together next year; she'd like to hear him say these things aloud, expound on his thoughts, develop and expand them.

She knows that he's very close to this Octavia woman, though she has no idea who Octavia is. No other social contacts appear in any of his notes or calendars or lists, though, so the mysterious Octavia is certainly someone special.

She's pretty sure, too, that this Note he's writing is consuming his life, based on the way his reminders, lists, timelines, and post-its seem to multiply every few days. A few books and journals have been added to the carrel shelf, green library bookmarks carefully marking his place in each one.

Maybe this is why she feels like she knows him, why she expects something more from him, from them, than any reasonable person would. But the street isn't two-way. To him, she must be a total mystery, no more than an occasional amusement, and she doubts she ever enters into his thoughts like he (annoyingly, incessantly) enters into hers.

Thanks for the advice. I'll probably spend all of October break studying. Are you doing anything special?

October break, a mere two extra free days tacked onto the end of a weekend, nevertheless taunts her like an oasis in a desert. Just a few more days, and it's calling to her. By the time she gets his response, it's Wednesday, she's learned her Friday class has been cancelled, and her five days of freedom are less than 24 hours away.

No, I'm staying in town and working. I wanted to fly out and see my sister, but I can't afford it. In any sense.

His sister. Interesting. Clarke's pretty sure Octavia and the mysterious sibling are one and the same, but her brief moment of irrational relief is quickly swallowed up by unexpected sadness. It's hard to know what to write in response. I'm sorry? That sucks? I've been stalking your life through your carrel and I know how much she means to you and I really wish you could see her if only for a few days? I don't really know anything about you but I feel like I do? I wish I could help?

It all sounds dumb, even in her head.

And that's how she knows she's in deep.

False Imprisonment

On Friday, Clarke sleeps in, waking up late at an indeterminate hour to an indeterminately colored gray cloudy sky. By the time she eats brunch, packs her bag, and heads out to her car, intermittent, random rain drops have started to fall. She catches a few on her windshield on the way to the library, but she wouldn't really say it's raining—more like the sky is trying to decide if it wants to rain or not. She'd like to curl up in her bed and marathon sappy romantic comedies (they're so bad, okay, but they're also so, so good) but Bellamy's gotten her scared about Wallace's test now, and she needs the quiet, studious atmosphere of the library, the companionship of the stacks, to get her into the outlining mood.

There's almost no one around, hardly a surprise, so she finds herself a spot at one of the big desks in the main floor reading room, powers on her laptop, gets to work. Without the sun, it's impossible to tell what time it is or how many hours have passed, but when her stomach rumbles at (her watch tells her) six, she rushes out for a quick dinner and sees that it has started to rain properly at last. She could go home, but eating gave her energy and she was rather on a roll—she heads back to the library, dodging between rain drops on her way inside. She has to swipe herself in with her ID card now that the library is officially closed, and when she does, she sees the it's even more a ghost town than she left it: dark rain-streaked evening sky through the windows and almost-too-bright fluorescent lights over empty chairs and tables, a suspicious, quiet calm in the air.

She finds her spot from the afternoon, but working is harder now than it was. The rain distracts her more and more, as it turns from steady drumming background noise to loud, echoing downpour, to the start of a storm. At the first roll of thunder, she snaps her laptop closed and then, instead of heading toward the door, she climbs the stairs. She's not sure why. Maybe she just wants to test her theory, assure herself she's not the only human being in this creepy, holiday-abandoned place.

And there he is. Of course, right where she knew he would be.

"Hey," she greets him, smiling as he startles and looks up. She leans against the side of the carrel like she's cool and nonchalant, because she is, of course; he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms and gives her an appraising look, which, oddly, she rather likes. "Happy October Break?"

He nods at the heavy bag she has slung over one shoulder. "Oh yeah, I can tell you've been celebrating."

"About as much as you," she answers, and gestures to the casebook he has opened, next to his laptop and pens and a stack of lined 4x6 index cards.

"Getting some reading done and not worrying about my Note is celebrating," he says, in a shows-how-much-you-know tone that, a moment later, seems to surprise even himself. He grimaces, like his own pathetic law student life depresses and shocks him both. So he changes the subject fast—"What are you doing up here? Trying to kick me out of my carrel?" His mouth quirks up on the side in a half-smirk. "Not gonna happen. I think we're the only two people in the building. You have your choice of literally everywhere else and by your own rules, I got here first today so it's mine."

Clarke just rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and sighs. You think so little of me. "No, I'm not here to fight you for your spot. You can disarm. I've been studying all day downstairs, I'm just here—"

"For a study break?"

She gets the distinct feeling he's trying not to laugh at her. And okay, she did sort of walk into it, into an embarrassing admission that she wanted to see him, that she went out of her way to see him. So she owns it. Puffs out her chest a little and tries to sound confident. "Yeah. You could probably use one—you're starting to look a little," she waves her hand in the general direction of his stupidly handsome face, "worn."

He doesn't look at all worn. He looks tired, perhaps, but no more tired than the face she sees in her own mirror every morning, and she's pretty sure the half-insult fell as flat to his ears as it did to hers. She expects he'll call her out on it, snap something quick and sharp right back, but he just smiles, and concedes—"I have been sitting here so long this chair and I have basically become one—" and she wonders if he's trying to be charming.

"So come on," she insists, layering the tiniest bit of wheedling into her tone, and holding out her hand. It's a bold move, she thinks, but something about his grin makes her feel confident. "Just a half hour. We both need to get out of here."

Bellamy's about to answer when a flash of lightning breaks across the sky outside the window, followed fast by a long crash of thunder. They look at each other. A beat passes, only the sound of the rain on the roof echoing, surrounding them.

"Okay," Bellamy says finally. "A break. But I'm not leaving this building until that storm passes. I didn't get over a third of the way through law school just to be hit by lightning."

They stash their bags in Clarke's locker, even though the chance of thieves at this hour seems small, and then start to wander the third floor, mostly silently, sometimes stopping to examine and comment on the art. "This one looks like the Death Star," Clarke declares, tilting her head as she stares at a particularly large, abstract piece next to the emergency exit. On the right, a large, black ball with a hollow middle, caving in at the center, sends out black tendrils across the canvas. It's not exactly her style, but it's interesting. Certainly strange.

"The Death Star?" Bellamy repeats, the loud incredulity in his voice startling her so she jumps.

"Yeah. You don't see it?"

He takes a step forward, squints—she's not sure if he's mocking her or not—then just shrugs. "I don't know. I can't really tell. I guess I'm just not a Star Wars nerd like you."

Her protest, that she is definitely not a Star Wars nerd, but she knows an artistic rendering of the Death Star when she sees one, hardly affects him. And okay, maybe she's seen the original trilogy a few times. But they're classics!

Bellamy just looks skeptical. "I don't know, I've never really gotten into them. I've never," he tilts his head all the way to the side, trying to approach the art from another angle, and looking terribly funny in the attempt, "I've never really seen the appeal of space."

Clarke doesn't entirely see how that's possible, but all she answers is, "All right. No space. Let me guess, you're a nerd for something like... Lord of the Rings, maybe?" and grins at him in a gently teasing did I get you there? way.

He rolls his eyes. But he doesn't tell her she's wrong.

Later, they find themselves in the stacks, and the way Bellamy reverently runs his fingertips over the book spines makes Clarke think that he should really be the last person calling anyone else a nerd. But she doesn't say so, because that would be rude. Also, the soft expression on his face stops her up short.

They end up making camp in the HFs, Bellamy's legs sprawled out in front of them, touching the opposite shelf, while Clarke brings her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on her arms. "There are some pretty cool books here," she admits. "I'd read them if I didn't get more than enough law in all my classes. I am law-ed out."

Bellamy is quiet for so long that Clarke starts to wonder if he's taken offense at her comment, somehow, but when she glances over at him, she sees that he wasn't even listening. He's staring up at the row of books in front of them. Then he points to one and says, "That one, on reforming the juvenile court system, might be useful."

"Useful for what?"

"My Note."

Right, obviously. She sighs, then swings to the right to bump her shoulder lightly against his. "Hey. Study break, remember? No talking about school."

"If you didn't want me to think about my Note, you shouldn't have let me sit down in this section," he counters, his voice a combination of sulky and defensive. And here she'd thought she was being nice letting him pick where they settled down.

"Do you actually want to talk about it, or are you just incapable of taking your mind off it?" she asks. "Because you can tell me all about it if you want, or I can distract you." She's not sure yet what that distraction will entail, but she'll think of something.

Bellamy hesitates, and then—and she really didn't think she'd ever hear him sound shy—he admits, quietly, "I want to talk it out."

She looks over at him, quick, catches him staring at her.

"All right. Talk to me about it."

He takes a deep breath like steeling himself, then lets it out and with it the words, "I want to write about the foster care system."

"I see," Clarke answers, slowly, in the pause that forms afterwards, where she expected more words to go. "I think you might want to narrow that down."

He shoots her a look, and grumbles, "I wasn't done." Then he hunches his shoulders up, looks for a moment like he's trying to crawl into himself, and adds, quieter, "I do need to, though. I—basically, I want to combine a legal and sociological/psychological perspective to discuss the long-term effects of the foster care experience on children who age out without being adopted—but I'm also interested in sibling relationships between foster kids—and of course I have suggestions, possible ways to improve the way the whole thing works, which is really the point of the Note." He's started to gesture by now, nothing overdone or dramatic, just a few pointed stabs of his hand through the air, and Clarke's eyes have widened somewhat because—

"Yeah. That sounds ambitious." There's no deadpan sarcasm left in her voice. She's actually, legitimately, impressed. Not surprised, given what she's learned from sharing their carrel these last weeks, but impressed just the same. "And you sound really passionate about it."

"Thanks," he mutters.

"I'm serious! Learn to take a compliment, okay?" She leans back, feels the books shifting back on the shelves behind her, and lets out a long sigh. Bellamy doesn't apologize, but he doesn't say anything else, either, which she takes as something like capitulation. Still, she's unwilling to accept another silence. "What made you want to write about foster kids?"

He shrugs, a gesture she doesn't believe. Then: "My mom died when I was in college. My sister was only thirteen and I—had this idea that I'd be able to get custody of her. Somehow. But I didn't, unsurprisingly, and she ended up bouncing around foster homes until she turned eighteen. She hated it, she had a really rough time. I just want the system to work better for the next Octavia."

Bellamy doesn't give her much chance to answer, which is annoying because she kind of needs some time to take that in; she's silent only two long beats before he's snorting and shaking his head and saying, "And I'm sure that's not the story you wanted to hear."

"Unless it was a lie, it was exactly what I wanted to hear," she answers, a thin layer of grumbling annoyance barely covering the genuine reassurance she wants to offer. "Is this just about your Note, or is this why you went to law school? For her?"

He's watching her like he doesn't believe her. Like he's waiting for the punch line, the twist.

"That's part of it," he says, at last. "And partly, I just... wanted to. I think I'll make a good lawyer."

He's obviously not someone who's spent a lot of time doing things he just wants to do, and though she does consider, for a moment, making some sort of smart remark about how, next time he indulges himself, he should choose something actually indulgent, and a bit less back-breakingly difficult and mind-alteringly challenging, ultimately all she says is, "Yeah. I think you'll be a good lawyer, too."

The comment makes him smile, a soft and almost bashful smile that really suits him, that she gets the feeling not a lot of people are privileged to see.

"Is she doing better now?" Clarke asks. "Your sister?"

"O? Yeah, she's a sophomore in college. I think she's... finally found a place where she feels like she belongs." He sounds a bit uncertain, as if he were only fully coming to this conclusion now, or testing out a half-formed thought with words for the first time. But then he gives a little nod and adds, "She's still rebellious and... free-spirited, I guess, but I don't worry about her as much."

"Just a little," Clarke adds, with a small, gently teasing smile. "You just worry about her a little."

"Yeah, well—that's what big brothers do." His grin, which she thinks is very proud-big-brother, falls away after a moment, though, as he sighs, and asks her, "What about you? Do you have any siblings?"

"Mmm, no," she shakes her head. "Just my mom. And my dad, until four years ago. He, um," she clears her throat, because this isn't something she usually likes to talk about, but he told her about the tragedies of his life, so it seems only fair. "He died in a car accident."

She hasn't told anyone else at the school about her dad, hasn't said or even thought the words he's dead in months, and even four years later it's harder than she thought it would be to face his absence, the dark hole in her life where he used to be. An unpleasant, sick feeling creeps up on her, worse than she thought it would be, and she startles when she feels a gentle touch on her sleeve. Bellamy, of course, watching her with sympathetic eyes. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"Thanks. I'm sorry about your mom."

"Thanks."

It's hard to tell, the library's so quiet and the ceilings so high, they're insulated in their little corner from everything except the shelves, the books, the fluorescent lights, and each other, but Clarke can't hear the rain anymore, and she wonders if it's finally stopped.

"Do you think you'll get any more studying done tonight?" she asks, glancing up as if the stacks themselves could answer her.

Bellamy snorts. The sound breaks any melancholy that might have been gathering up in the silence, and makes the corners of her mouth twitch up. "No, I don't think that's likely."

"Me neither. Want to get out of here? We can watch a movie or something."

He gets up to his feet with surprising grace, then holds out a hand to help her up, too. She grabs on to it, clambers to her feet—then won't let go. His palm is too warm against her palm. But he doesn't pull away either, and she wonders if it's her desire for contact or his that keeps them holding on so long.

"That sounds," Bellamy answers, "like an excellent idea."

Outrage

Outside, the rain has stopped and the clouds broken apart, the sky above them dark, but clear, and pinpointed with stars. Clarke takes a deep breath of chill autumn air. As it fills her lungs, it clears her head, and brings something like calm to her stressed, tired body and jumbled, busy thoughts. When she glances over, she sees Bellamy's watching her with some unreadable expression on his face. Maybe it's amusement, or maybe simple affection, but for just a moment it makes her breath catch.

She's not sure what to do, so she grins and says, "That Death Star painting kind of made me want to watch Star Wars. You up for A New Hope?"

Bellamy drops his gaze down to the ground. He looks almost bashful now, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other, only humming a little bit in response.

"Please tell me you at least know which one that is," she prods, tilting her head to the side to try to catch his eye again. "It's the first one? From 1977?"

"Yeah, I know," he grumbles, slight defensive irritation to his voice. "It's not that. Just—"

"Just that you haven't seen it, have you?"

"Not exactly. Parts of it, but not the whole thing. I told you—I'm not really a sci-fi sort of person. "

"That doesn't matter, it's Star Wars and you have no excuse," she decides. On impulse, she takes his hand again and this time, she doesn't let go. "Not having seen the original trilogy at least—Bellamy, that's…outrageous!"

A/N: This fic is set in an almost exact replica of my law school alma mater, right down to the carrel policy and the Death Star painting (although our Death Star is on the second floor and white, making the comparison a little less apt). Hart and Wechsler's Federal Courts and the Realist's Guide to Redistricting are real books, as is Criminal Procedure Examples and Explanations, and Evenwel v. Abbot is a real election law case. I studied all of these torts in my 1L tort class except for intrusion upon seclusion, which we covered in a privacy law class I took my 2L year. "Outrage" is another term for "intentional infliction of emotional distress."