Notes: This story was originally posted at AO3 under the same pen name. This version has been edited to remove mature content. Where to start? This is the Dancing with the Stars crossover nobody wanted but that I just couldn't stop writing. I'm forever in debt to the amazing dances of Meryl Davis and Maks Chmerkovskiy. All of the dances during the show portion of the story are based off of their real dancing on season 18 and I highly encourage you check them out: watch?v=5TorbtHJKkA.
I owe plenty of inspiration to bad boy Drew Curtis. My search for Bob Morley led me to Home and Away and some portions of Bellamy's story here are based on Drew's misadventures.
The name comes from Hamlet and all of the chapter names are Shakespeare quotes.
Chapter 1: "All the world's a stage" – As You Like It
"Absolutely not."
Clarke glared at her mother across the desk littered with manila folders. She could feel her face heating up. She tried not to grind her teeth as Abigail Griffin, last place mother of the year and United States Vice President, stared back. "Why the hell not?"
"I don't like exposing you like that," her mother insisted, frowning down at some document in front of her. Clarke wasn't sure how much her mother was paying attention. She'd been lucky to get a minute of her time before Air Force One departed for some official function several states away.
"Mom." Clarke leaned forward, bracing herself on the desk as she ducked her head to catch Abigail's eyes. Clarke sighed loudly. This was pointless. She hadn't been a minor in nearly a decade; she did not need her mother's permission to do anything. After all the tension that had built up over the last few years, this had been her version of an olive branch. Better for her mother to hear the news in person than on national TV. Her mother finally glanced up at her, brushing light brown hair out of her eyes.
"Clarke. Especially after your father's passing, this family does not need any extra media attention."
She felt a jolt run all the way down her spine, leaving a yawning pit of discomfort in its wake. Clarke counted to ten, trying to think of the ocean and clear the roaring that threatened to deafen her ears. She waited until she wasn't going to cry or scream.
"Don't you dare talk about him. And if you're so worried about media attention, you probably should have thought about that before you agreed to be a Senator and a VP," she replied, keeping her tone dangerously even.
Her mother flinched, eyes finally settling on Clarke's face. Staring into her daughter's eyes, she pursed her lips. "Are you ever going to talk to me about that?"
"No."
"Will you agree not to do the show?"
"No. I'm 26 years old. This was a courtesy visit. I'll remember that it's a waste next time," Clarke muttered, moving toward the exit.
"Clarke."
Abigail Griffin's desperate tone had Clarke turning back to her. Her mother was staring at her with dark eyes and a lost expression. Despite the sadness in her mother's eyes, Clarke felt no sympathy as she strode from the room. Her mother had chosen her path long ago. It was high time that Clarke stepped off that road and made her own decisions.
She pushed out the doors of the office and made her way down the corridor toward the exit. She had a flight to Los Angeles to catch.
Clarke smiled as her phone buzzed in her pocket. A glance out her apartment window showed Wells leaning against a Lincoln Town Car. While she hated being couriered around everywhere by the Secret Service, it was non-negotiable when going on outings with Wells. She took a last look around her small apartment, making sure all the lights were turned off and the electronics unplugged. Despite the trip to Los Angeles possibly lasting more than ten weeks, she was leaving her apartment empty. It was the first thing she had obtained on her own with no input, either monetarily or otherwise, from her mother. In any case, her survival on the show was not guaranteed and she could be home next week.
Satisfied, she slung her blue duffle bag over her shoulder and locked the front door. Time to go see what Hollywood was all about. Smiling to herself, she felt an extra bounce in her step as she bounded down the stairs. She was so caught up in the feeling of impending freedom that she nearly plowed over Wells when she reached the bottom. He laughed, a hearty sound that was her very definition of home.
"Excited?"
She grinned back at him. "Hell yes! A whole ten weeks away from DC and all this insanity. I can't imagine anything sounding better right now."
"Ten weeks?" he teased as he grabbed her bag from her. A Secret Service operative opened the rear door of the car for them. Wells slipped into the seat across from her, setting her bag beside him. "Isn't that a little presumptuous? I mean there are 11 other people in this thing, Clarke."
She shrugged, "I have dance experience."
His eyebrows shot up in amusement. "I'm not sure those ballet classes when we were six really count. Isn't that like a rite of passage for every girl?"
Clarke narrowed her eyes in mock anger. "I'll have you know I worked my ass off in those classes… and I may have taken a lot ballet and jazz in college."
"What? I never knew you were taking dance."
Clarke shifted in her seat, glancing at Wells out of the corner of her eye. College had been her exploration time. She'd finally gotten out of upscale New York City and into a small liberal arts school that was elite enough for her parents, but far enough off the beaten path that no one paid much attention to the fact that Senator Griffin's daughter was attending. They'd had a relaxed set of rules when it came to classes and she'd completed nearly a quarter of her class credit in dance.
At first it had been a bit of nostalgia, wishing she could go back to the days where her dad would drop her off at the local rec center for beginning ballet and then they'd stop at Dairy Queen on the way home for a cone with the real ice cream that her mother never let her order. After the first class, however, she'd been hooked. She'd even auditioned and been accepted to the college's reparatory dance troop. The time requirements of her Pre-Med degree had forced her to withdraw her junior year, but she had completed several solo performances before she left.
Of course, Wells knew nothing of these achievements since she'd decided to keep her passion for dance a secret. If Wells had known, he would have undoubtedly told her mother about one of her performances and the lectures never end. It's not that she didn't trust him, but sometimes he took on the role of older brother and tried to do the right thing for her without asking permission. Case in point being their middle school bake sale. Wells had admitted to her mother that she'd burned the chocolate chip cookies they'd made together. Instead of remaking them, her mother had gone to some uppity bakery and had 100 perfect chocolate chip cookies made and delivered. Nothing but the best for Senator Griffin's daughter.
Clarke resisted the urge to grind her teeth. She hated the aura of privilege that followed her around even before her mother became Vice President two years ago. She'd tried to talk to Wells about it in high school, back when her mother was a mere Senator and his father was Governor, but he'd brushed her off. He knew people called him America's prince, but he took it all in stride and didn't see why Clarke was bothered by the outside perception of them. Clarke suspected that had more to do with the bubble that their parents enforced on them than Wells truly not understanding. If he was never exposed to everyday Americans, how could he know?
She was eternally thankful for the respite that her college experience had afforded her. She'd had normal friends who didn't even know she was related to New York Senator Abigail Griffin. She'd danced and painted and taken a few extra classical history credits than she needed. If her mother had complained, Clarke hadn't heard about it. That had been the deal. College was hers, failures and successes, and they didn't get to interfere as long as she finished with a degree in science after four years. She'd finished all her coursework in three years, but had stayed the extra year building up her biology background and making sure she would be a top applicant at Georgetown's medical school. In retrospect, she probably should have spent that year continuing the art project that she'd dropped her junior year, which had been a fusion between visual and performing arts.
Wells clearing his throat brought her back to the present. She snuck a glance at him, he was looking at her, but no accusation shone through his eyes. He understood that sometimes Clarke was simply elsewhere these days.
"Yeah. I took a ton of dance classes," she admitted. "I was even in their auditions only dance troop."
Now his gaze turned accusatory. "And why the hell wasn't I invited to any of those performances. I was only down the Hudson in the city!"
"I didn't want her finding out."
"Clarke…" he began, pausing to find the right words. "You know I always have your back, right?"
She let out an agreeable noise, but didn't respond. Wells had her back, but she hadn't been ready to share. At least not back then when she'd just tasted her first breath of freedom.
"Fine." He held up his hands in surrender. "So do you know who your partner is going to be?"
Clarke couldn't help the sigh of relief that accompanied the loss of tension through her shoulders as Wells let the subject drop. Sweet, kind Wells sometimes just didn't know how the other half felt and she never enjoyed their arguments.
"Nope. No idea. They tell us who is available, in terms of the male pros, but we don't get to know who we're paired with until we meet them."
Wells nodded, looking out at the passing parkway. A teasing smile graced his features. "Anyone you want?"
Clarke's brow furrowed as she tried to recall the list of pros that had been sent to her after her acceptance. She hadn't followed the show very closely over the years, but after receiving the list she'd taken the time to watch a few of their previous dances on YouTube. Best to stay informed and all. Plus, some of these men were truly delicious to watch, dancing or otherwise. Not that she would ever admit that in public, let alone to Wells. "I think Nathan Miller is really good. I like his choreography; it's really innovative. Nyko Berger and Gustus Belikov seem okay too. I love Gustus' technique. Tristan DuPree seems like an asshole, at least from the pieces they show from rehearsal, but that might just be reality TV making a story out of nothing. John Murphy has a kind of creepy vibe, but his dancing is awesome."
Wells emitted a sound halfway between and chuckle and a snort. "I take it you've actually done a bit of research on this, haven't you Clarke?"
"Maybe."
"You left out one name."
"Since when do you watch Dancing with the Stars?" she returned. So what if she had left off one of the male pros. There was no way that Wells should even know that.
"My mother happens to be a super big fan," he explained, barely containing his glee at catching her unawares. "Her favorite dancer is Bellamy Blake."
Clarke let out a pitiful moan. Of course Mrs. Jaha, First Lady extraordinaire, would love Bellamy Blake. He was devastatingly handsome, even Clarke could admit that, and his dances were full of such passion that Clarke had stopped the YouTube video to grab a cold beer to try and contain the twisting feeling she got in the pit of her stomach as she watched. Just a flash of his dark eyes and the simple movement of his arms in a Viennese Waltz had paralyzed her through the computer screen. She was in no way prepared to dance with him. Not to mention he had a reputation of being an unrelenting hardass in practice, to the point of being a colossal asshole to both his partner and the show staff.
"You don't want to dance with Bellamy Blake?" Wells prodded, clearly incredulous.
She could feel the blood rush to her face and was sure she was imitating a tomato. "I don't know. He has a reputation of being an asshole."
Wells' smile turned wry. "But you admit that he's a great dancer."
"Yes, Wells, I admit that Bellamy Blake is every woman's dream dance partner. Is that what you want to hear?"
He nodded and beamed at her. "So you like him. You want him… you love him… Hey! Youch!"
Clarke glared as she shook out her stinging hand. "Would you just shut up? I have no idea who they'll be pairing me with, okay? It probably isn't Bellamy, they usually put him with one of the really skinny, super hot brunettes."
"Whatever you say," Wells replied, rolling his eyes.
She glanced out the window as the car rolled to stop. The passenger drop off lane at Dulles loomed in front of them. The driver opened the door and she and Wells stepped onto the curb. She smiled at him, pushing back the loose strands of her wavy blonde hair whipping in the crisp March breeze.
"So this is farewell, but not goodbye," she started.
"And may we meet again," he finished. It was a silly little tradition they had started in grade school when either of them had to accompany their respective parent on a business trip. It had endured through middle school and become a staple of their bigger goodbyes for the rest of their life. Clarke had no idea where the phrases had come from, but they felt like a reminder that home was always a phone call away in Wells. He gathered her in a tight hug before kissing her forehead.
"Go win a Mirror Ball Trophy for me, okay?"
She smiled and reached in to kiss his cheek, feeling the winter chill more distinctly as she pulled away. "I will, just for you."
S~*~S
She hitched her blue duffle over her shoulder and stepped away. As she reached the terminal door, she glanced back at him one last time. He was leaning on the Town Car, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black overcoat and his face buried in his navy wool scarf. Despite his face being covered, she could see the warm smile in his eyes. She raised a hand in farewell and then turned to enter the terminal. The noises and chaos of the airport quickly overwhelmed her senses and she made her way to the United check in. One seven hour plane flight and a night in a hotel stood between her and the next big adventure. She bounced on the balls of her feet in anticipation all the way to her seat in first class.
Clarke fidgeted with the hem of her neon blue, oversized t-shirt, which she wore over basic black leggings and a bright green sports bra. She hated dancing in anything but leggings and a sports bra, but she'd decided to cover up for the introduction to her partner. Maya, the "Star Coordinator," had assured her that the sports bra was fine, but Clarke wasn't sure about making her first impression on America, let alone her pro, half dressed. Hence the marled blue hi-low shirt.
She glanced around the studio again. Clarke had already memorized the place in the ten minutes she'd been inside. There was a standard wall with mirrors, a set of stairs leading to a slightly higher stage portion at one end and a window looking out over the smoggy Los Angeles landscape at the other end. Essentially, it was a every other dance studio in America. What stood out like a sore thumb were the six cameras positioned all around the room recording her from every possible angle. Clarke was used to being at least partially in the spotlight, but this seemed like overkill. Once again, Maya had assured her that it was all completely normal. The lead cameraman had introduced himself as Kyle Wick. "Just call me Wick," he'd told her with an easy smile. While his laid back attitude had quieted her nerves, she still felt like a goldfish in a very tiny bowl. On the plus side, none of the crew had really reacted to her in terms of her "celebrity" status. Of course, they were used to dealing with guests on the show with far more star power than the daughter of the Vice President could ever hope to acquire. Not that Clarke was looking for star power. Quite the opposite really. So black hole power? Clarke snorted to herself. Yes, she was definitely seeking black hole power.
The door to the studio banged open and Clarke swung around, nearly tripping over her own feet. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw it was only Maya.
"He's on his way," Maya smiled at her.
"Oh god," Clarke breathed, adrenaline shooting though her. Her fingers started to tingle as she reminded herself that this was only some dancing TV show and her life was not about to change fundamentally in any way.
Maya moved to stand beside Clarke. "Just breathe, you'll be fine. I have to run on to the next couple… don't want me ruining your first meeting footage."
Clarke closed her eyes and tried to recall the sound of the ocean. Hell she'd even go for remembering what color the ocean was at this point. Despite her nerves, she managed to reply to Maya, "Yeah, okay. I'll survive."
She heard the door bang closed again and let out a breath of relief. She took another deep breath and tried to remember how to be a human being.
"You doing okay there, Princess?"
Her eyes snapped open to find themselves lost in dark chocolate brown. For a few seconds, she forgot how to breathe. He moved a step closer, flooding her with a woody scent that reminded her of her father's cabin in the Adirondacks traced with a hint of sweat and sandalwood. Then he was carefully touching her arm and she was jumping backward as if hit by lightning, which she might have been considering the jolt that had run down her spine at his touch.
Thankfully, the touch had also lurched her back to reality and she offered a small smile, but avoided meeting his eyes again. "Sorry, I'm just a little nervous."
He chuckled, a deep masculine sound that vibrated her core. "Don't worry, I understand, Princess."
Now that her brain had caught up with the situation, Clarke immediately focused on the term of endearment he was using. She frowned, looking around the room and feeling a new level of mortification as she realized their entire interaction was being recorded from six very unflattering angles. She managed to ask, "why princess?"
"Are you kidding?" He stared at her like she had just told him she couldn't remember her ABCs.
Now she was starting to get upset. This was horrifying enough without him adding insult to injury. "No, I have absolutely no effing clue what you are on about."
He must have realized she truly didn't because he ran a hand awkwardly through his messy black curls before explaining. "Everyone calls you America's Princess. Hence Princess."
Clarke was stunned. "America doesn't have a monarchy."
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, Princess, I am aware of that."
"I have a name, you know," she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Hey guys." They both turned to stare at Wick as he stepped out from behind his camera. "As much as reality TV loves drama, usually the introduction is pretty much just a 'hey, so awesome to meet you' kind of thing. Maybe we just want to redo this one?"
They both stared at him for a beat before her partner to be nodded sharply and motioned toward the door. "I'll just come in again?"
"That'd be great," Wick replied. "And Bellamy? Try to keep it civil this time?"
Once Bellamy Blake, and oh yes it was definitely Bellamy Blake, left the studio, Clarke moved to sit on the stairs. She hoped that her slumped position would hide the tremors still running through her body. Damn it. Why did he have this effect on her? Because he was stunningly attractive and a phenomenal dancer. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. He was coming back any second and she was not going to let this experience be ruined just because Bellamy Blake made her nervous as hell. Clarke Griffin was stronger than that. Nodding to herself, Clarke made a mental promise not to let Bellamy Blake mess with her head.
The door opened again and she looked up to see him striding into the room, an overly bright smile in place as he headed straight for her. She pushed herself to her feet as he neared her and tried to return the smile.
"Bellamy Blake," he told her as he reached out a hand.
She let her hand be engulfed in his strong grip while managing to clearly enunciate, "Clarke Griffin. Pleased to meet you."
"Pleasure is all mine, Princess."
His dark eyes flashed with something indecipherable as she glared into them. Clarke was sure they had agreed to forget the princess thing. His gaze seemed almost mocking as he raised her hand and branded it with his lips. Clarke was frozen somewhere between mortification and absolute fury, which hitherto had only been a place experienced during extreme confrontations with her mother and never on national television. She ground her teeth and moved closer. He wasn't that much taller than her, maybe half a head and she could easily place her lips near his ear, away from the prying camera and all of America sitting at home on their sofas.
"Do. Not. Fucking. Call. Me. That," she hissed. Her movement had made their position somewhat awkward, with her leaning into his space for seemingly no reason. He seemed to realize this since he brought his arms around her in a pathetic imitation of a hug. She supposed it would seem real enough to the viewers, but she could feel he was resisting pulling away each second of the embrace.
His hot breath tickled her ear. "I'm just calling it like I see it, Princess."
She growled deep in her throat, but managed not to appear combative.
Wick cleared his throat. "I think that's plenty for now. Maya will be back in with your first dance and music."
They sprung apart, but kept eyes locked. In her peripheral vision Clarke was relieved to see the six cameras being shut down and their operators carrying them out of the room. Maya had explained that usually there was always a few cameras present during rehearsal, but that they gave them a few hours in the beginning with their pro to get to know them and the dances before they were splashed all over the TV. As the door clicked shut behind the last cameraman, she turned to Bellamy. With no audience to hold her back, he was going to get what was coming to him.
"Where the hell do you get off calling me that?"
His smirk was cruel, not playful as he replied, "I don't fucking get off anywhere. It's just the God Damn truth. I can't name a single more privileged girl in the good old US of A. The title fits, your royal highness."
"Ugh!" she met his cold glare head on. "I am not defined by my mother!"
At this, his gaze shuttered for a moment before resuming its icy veneer. "I hate to break it to you, but the only reason you're even here is because of who your mother is. You haven't done a damn thing to deserve to be here."
She felt like she was ten again and she'd just found out Wells had asked Jimmy Stevens instead of her to the movies. It was as if Bellamy had thrown a perfectly executed punch deep into her gut. He was right; She hadn't done a damn thing to deserve this. This was supposed to be her chance to be her own person, to prove to the world and herself that Clarke Griffin was not just Abigail Griffin's daughter. Bellamy's cold expression remained unchanged and she tried her best not to outwardly flinch. She'd be damned if she let him know how deeply his words cut.
Summoning her courage, she crossed her arms and glared at him. "Clearly we are not going to get along any time soon. That's fine, I can act. I assume you can act since the entire world is apparently unaware of how much of an asshole you are and you seem to still have a job. This means we're both here to do one thing and that's to dance. So just teach me the damn dances, Bellamy fucking Blake."
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed heavily before nodding curtly. His dark eyes burned with cold fury as he replied, "Fine."
S~*~S
Clarke groaned as she tried to listen to the show hosts, Tom Bergeron and Erin Andrews, standing before the group of "stars" and pros. The last week had been hell. There was no way to sugar coat the experience of working with someone so incredibly stubborn and vindictive. Bellamy had taken great joy in working her until she was on the brink of exhaustion every rehearsal session. He still called her princess when the cameras were on, perhaps because he knew she couldn't fight back. In the rare case they were alone, his tone became gruff and his eyes hardened into orbs of steel. Every time he touched her, Clarke felt like he was resisting flinching away in disgust. Other than a few quick phone calls to Wells to lament her situation, the first week of rehearsals had been horrible.
She'd met a few of the other cast members and pros, most notable being a tall NFL player named Lincoln Blackwell. Despite his profession and size, Clarke had felt immediately comfortable in his presence. They had grabbed lunch together in the studio kitchen a few days and she had to admit she was relieved that someone here might end up being a friend to her.
She'd also seen Lexa Brenner, the US Congresswoman from New York, but she'd already known Lexa from the time her mother held the US Senate seat in New York. While they hadn't been close growing up, the summer after college her mother had recruited Clarke to work on Lexa's campaign. Clarke wasn't starting at Georgetown's medical school until the fall, so she'd agreed out of an interest in some extra cash of her own. Despite initially finding Lexa to be callous, they had grown closer and even attempted a few dates by the late summer. While there were plenty of sparks between them, Clarke had realized she did not want politics to be the center of her life. If she stayed with Lexa, that's exactly what would have happened, so she'd kissed her goodbye and gotten on a train at Penn Station and never looked back.
Now she was confronted with Lexa's cool stare as she glanced down the line of competitors. Clarke had successfully avoided her until dress rehearsal earlier in the day, but Lexa had cornered her and coolly asked how med school was treating her, as if their summer fling had been a thing of imagination. Knowing Lexa, she had probably compartmentalized it away. Clarke met her gaze now, trying to appear unruffled, which was difficult since Bellamy's arm was burning a line across her bare back.
Her skimpy cha-cha-cha costume was blue ombre transitioning from a sparkling pale blue bodice to poufy layers of deepening blue chiffon. She felt like Elsa from Frozen crossed with an emu. Bellamy tugged at her hand as Tom and Erin finished.
"Come on, Princess." He nodded toward the stage where Wick was directing several of the crew to change the set. She followed him up the stairs to the balcony overhanging the performance space. Bellamy slid his eyes to her face, his gaze lacking its usual bite. "You ready for this?"
She refused to meet his stare, opting to drill holes in the dusting of freckles that traced the bridge of his nose and cheeks, making him look both younger and more innocent. Clarke resisted rolling her eyes. She knew better. Bellamy Blake was a controlling asshole, plain and simple.
"I'm not going to fuck this up for you, Blake. Don't worry about it."
He stared out over the crowd. "Good."
The ballroom plunged into darkness a moment later. Then the spotlights began to weave through the crowd before landing at the bottom of both staircases.
Tom Bergeron's amplified voice boomed through the room, "Welcome to the 18th season of Dancing with the Stars! I'm your host, Tom Bergeron, and this is Erin Andrews!"
Erin stepped forward next to Tom, elegant as always in a floor length white halter dress. "We're happy to introduce our returning Judges for this season… Ms. Carrie Ann Inaba, Mr. Len Goodman, and Mr. Bruno Tonioli!"
Clarke watched each of the judges approach the judging podium. They didn't come to the dress rehearsals, so this was the first time she'd seen them in person. Carrie Ann was shorter than she'd imagined, but Len and Bruno appeared no different than when she'd watched episodes on YouTube. A hand ghosted over her back and she realized Bellamy had returned his arm to its original position. She sighed, but didn't comment. They were supposed to be a happy dancing couple right now.
"And now to introduce our stars," Tom cut into the fading applause.
"Gavin Sterling, three time Wimbledon champion, and pro Amy Monroe." A slender man with shaggy brown hair and a women with severe braids artfully worked into her hair made their way down the stairs before moving to stand at the rear of the stage. Clarke had never seen Gavin play tennis, but he had a natural ease of movement across the floor.
"Myles Starrman, TV and movie actor and writer, and pro Natalie Fox!" Erin continued the introductions. Myles was young, Clarke noted as he danced down the stairs with the slender brunette. Concentrating on what she could see of his face, she recognized him from several movies over a decade ago.
"Dax Marshall, MMA star, with pro Costia Williams." A tall blonde man accompanied by a petite red head made their way down the stairs. Clarke hadn't heard of Dax, but she'd seen Costia dancing on the show and knew that despite her size, she had an enormous presence on stage. The only pro that demanded more attention from center stage was Bellamy. Clarke smiled as Dax gave a small shimmy at center stage, clearly at ease at the center of a crowd. Bellamy's fingers tightened at her side. She could feel the heat of each of his fingers boring into her stomach. She shifted forward and gave him a confused glance.
Bellamy leaned further into her, hovering next to her ear. "Don't fall for it."
Clarke turned her face up to his. At this distance his freckles stood out starkly against his olive skin. His dark lashes shuttered his eyes as he peered down at her. "Huh?"
He jerked his chin towards the stage below them. "Don't fall for his charm. He has nearly a dozen assault and battery charges against him. None ever proven, of course."
"Why would the producers let him on the show?" she murmured back.
Bellamy's eyes hardened and his lips twisted into a scowl making him look older and world-weary. "Money, Princess. It's always about the money."
As Clarke glanced back down she realized they'd missed the introduction of the next couple. A tall man with short-cropped hair stood next to a slender exotic woman. She recognized the pro as Tristan DuPree, but had no idea who the woman was.
Tom Bergeron continued, "Charlotte Grace, Olympic gold medalist in ladies figure skating, and Nyko Berger!"
Charlotte was the youngest of the competitors at 16, but she moved like liquid grace and Clarke knew that Charlotte was going to be one of her primary competitors. Even her long hair swung gracefully as Nyko pirouetted her around before leading her to their spot on stage.
"Lexa Brenner, New York congresswoman, and Gustus Belikov!" Clarke leaned further over the balcony to get a better look at Lexa. Her slim frame and long legs were accentuated by the criminally short latin dance costume that hugged her every curve. Clarke couldn't help a pang of regret at never being able to fully explore those inviting curves. The soft murmur of Bellamy's voice against her ear reminded her that he'd never backed off after warning her about Dax, "See something you like, Princess?"
He had pitched his voice in a deliberately sensual tone and Clarke used all her will power not to react to him. "It's none of your business, Blake."
He simply raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying her bluster. "Whatever makes you happy, Princess."
Clarke sighed. He was going to find out anyway so he might as well hear the truth from her. "I used to work with her. I helped in one of her campaigns."
Bellamy's eyes widened. He had clearly not expected her answer to be so simple. His eyes darkened as he slowly glanced between Clarke and Lexa, as if unsatisfied with her explanation, but he didn't push the subject.
"Finn Collins, movie actor and model, and pro Julia Harper!" Erin Andrews' voice brought Clarke back to reality. She'd seen Finn's face on plenty of billboards over the years, but it was surprising to see how carefree he appeared in person. His long shaggy hair swung around his face and his eyes twinkled as he hammed it up for the audience before he and Julia moved back into the growing line of couples on stage.
"Lincoln Blackwell, Denver Broncos kicker, and pro Roma Winston!" Clarke enthusiastically clapped for her friend, ignoring Bellamy's curious side-glance. While Lincoln was a giant, Roma was also fairly tall, easily complementing his height. Clarke could see why they had been placed together. Roma's slender but curvy in all the right places physique paired well with his wall of muscle. Roma was a Grecian Goddess Clarke observed, trying to stem the swell of jealousy. She had long ago accepted that she had more curves than was socially acceptable these days and that her body type, while effective at drawing the stares of both sexes, was never going to be the elegant willowy frame she'd dreamt of having in her youth.
"Raven Reyes, CEO of ARC Industries, and pro Nathan Miller." Raven was all hard angles and fire as she walked down the stairs with Miller, their dark skin glowing under the spotlights. Clarke hadn't met her yet, but had taken the time to research ARC Industries. As far as she could tell, Raven was a genius. Everything her company had created was innovative and environmentally conscious.
"Emori Oliva, Olympic silver medalist in distance running, and pro John Murphy." Emori had been in the spotlight during the last summer Olympics. Despite missing her left hand, lost in a childhood accident, she had qualified for the traditional cross country length races at the Olympics through the usual path. Clarke remembered tearing up as she watched her cross the finish line in the 5 K.
"Atom Saunders, X-games Champion, and pro Octavia Blake." Clarke glanced at Bellamy. His eyes were narrowed at Atom and a frown was tugging at his lips. She knew that Octavia was his sister; the fact was mentioned in nearly every media article covering the show. Despite Bellamy being the older of the two, Octavia had led two partners to the Mirror Ball trophy while her older brother still was winless in their seven years with the show. Clarke was beginning to understand why Bellamy had never made it to the top of the pack. His skills as a dancer and choreographer were unparalleled, but his uncompromising expectations and generally unpleasant demeanor around people, at least in her experience, made him impossible to work with.
Bellamy's arm slipped from around her, giving her hand a sharp tug. They were to be announced next. Clarke moved to the top of the stairs and plastered on a smile that she hoped looked more than 70 percent believable.
"And last, but certainly not least, Clark Griffin, daughter of Vice President Abigail Griffin, and pro Bellamy Blake!"
Clarke's feet moved through the choreography down the stairs and into the center of the stage with no input from her brain. Bellamy's sure grip guided her through a semi-complicated series of turns and shimmies before they stepped into their place in the line.
Tom Bergeron stepped out in front of the swaying couples to address the crowd. "And now, introduced last, but dancing first, Clarke and Bellamy!"
The ordering on show night was somewhat random, but Bellamy had warned her there was a strong possibility of them dancing first. Clarke took a deep breath as Bellamy led her to center stage. She stared into his eyes, letting their dark, endless depths calm her nerves. She may not like him, but she trusted him in this arena.
The first notes of Icona Pop's "All Night" filled the ballroom and Clarke let muscle memory take over. Bellamy's strong hands guided her arms, shoulders and hips through the motions. Her breath caught as they came to one of the dips, falling with abandon into his arms. Then her fingers were caressing the flesh exposed by his deep-cut black shirt, flirting with the heat of his abs. Before the sensation had begun to dissipate, he was leading her through a series of pirouettes across the floor, the audience nothing but a blur of silent noise. His palms branded her hips as they gyrated across the floor together before stilling at the last notes of the music. Clarke let out a giddy breath and resisted the urge to jump up and down squealing. She had missed this. Had she truly forgotten how amazing she felt while performing?
Before she realized what was happening, Bellamy led her to stand in front of the judges with a satisfied smirk on his face. Tom gave her a pat on the back before turning to the judging table. "Bruno, you want to start us off?"
"My God! I need to go take a cold shower," the excitable judge gushed. Clarke's cheeks burned as she took in his words. "But really guys, that was a fantastic first dance. A few areas for improvement in terms of footing and extension, but you two have chemistry that could melt an entire planet made of ice."
"Sounding good," Tom told them before motioning to Carrie Ann.
"Wow. Just wow. I agree with Bruno that there are a few bits of technique that needs some work, but you two have such a strong connection. I have no doubt we'll be seeing a lot of you."
Clarke smiled at her in thanks, but quickly turned her attention to Len. Here was the judge that would make or break her. She knew she wanted Len's approval more than the others. She wanted to be a good dancer, right down the most pedantic bits of technique.
"Well, it was pretty good. I liked all the technical elements you included, Bellamy. I think with a bit of work on your footing and posture you could be truly exquisite, Clarke."
She nodded to Len while letting out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Len liked her. She followed the tug of Bellamy's hand as he led her up the stairs and to the observation deck where Erin Andrews was waiting for them.
"So Clarke, how does that feel?"
"Amazing! I love performing and Bellamy is so skilled at what he does. I'm just so lucky to be here and be his partner," she replied, trying to make her voice breathier.
Erin nodded, "He really is talented. So glad to see he finally has a partner to live up to his expectations. I fear I never even came close to your talent level, Clarke."
Clarke tried to hide her surprise. She hadn't realized that Erin had competed on the show, let alone with Bellamy. She felt the tension in Bellamy's shoulders increase where she leant against him and decided to let it go. She had her own set of issues with him and there was no point in dwelling on topics that made them all uncomfortable.
Erin covered the awkward pause admirably, turning to Bellamy instead. "So how is she as a partner, Bellamy?"
Now it was Clarke's turn to tense. She resisted the urge to look back at him or nervously shift. They had agreed to act like everything was fine on camera and she didn't see him throwing her under the bus. This was his job after all and it was best that America did not find out about his predilection to complete assholery.
Bellamy's chest vibrated against her back as he spoke, "She's very hard working and talented. I think we can really go places this season."
Erin grinned at both of them. "Ready for the Judges scores?"
Clarke tried to keep her face neutral as the scores were announced. They received 8's across the board. Clarke had no idea if that was good or bad. She had only watched a few episodes from later in the season where scores like 9s or 10s were given to the leaders.
"How does that feel?"
Erin's question hung in the air for a second before Bellamy realized that Clarke wasn't going to say anything. He placed an arm around her shoulders and smiled a little too brightly at Erin. "It feels great!"
Erin stepped away from them to start talking about the commercial break and Bellamy immediately gripped her forearm, yanking her into the backstage area. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Clarke stared at him in bewilderment. She opened her mouth to reply, thought better of it, and just frowned. He scowled at her, his freckles pulling down across his flushed cheeks and his eyes flashing dangerously.
"You were supposed to say something nice after the judges scores and then ask for the viewer votes. Do you have no idea what this show is about?"
She turned away from him and stomped further down the hallway. There were cameras everywhere and she had no desire for this interaction to be caught on film. Satisfied that they were far enough into the darkness that no one would see them, she rounded on him. "No! I have no idea what I'm doing. I've never even watched a complete episode of the show!"
"What?" He looked like she'd dumped a bucket of arctic water over his head. He ran a hand through his gelled curls causing them to unstick and fall into his eyes. Clarke absently noted that the hair and makeup team was not going to be pleased.
She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to not think about how absurd she looked in her Cha-Cha-Cha dress and spikey dance heels. "I'm here because I want to dance, Blake. I couldn't give less of a damn about the popularity contest aspect of it all."
He stared at her a beat longer, his dark eyes glowing in the low light of the corridor. "This wasn't your mother's idea of a way to help out the upcoming campaign?"
"What?" She felt her jaw hanging open and reminded herself that gaping at Bellamy Blake was probably not a good idea. "No. She hates that I'm here. We don't even talk since…"
Clarke abruptly cut herself off. Damn it. She was not talking about her father's death with Asshole Blake, no matter that he hadn't called her princess the entire time they had been back stage. It was a new record for him. She looked at him, trying to figure out if he realized why she had stopped. His teeth were worrying his lower lip and his eyes held an expression she'd never seen on him before. He took a half step closer such that now she could feel the heat of his body pervading her space.
"You obviously have dance experience," he murmured, eyes scanning across her face as if looking for the answer to particularly troublesome puzzle. "Why not just dance if that's what you want?"
Clarke tried to contain the choked laugh that bubbled up in her chest, but there was no stopping it. "I don't have a lot of say in my life. I'm pretty sure quitting med school and joining a dance company would get me disowned and then put under house arrest."
"But you can do the show?"
She shrugged. "It's just a show. It'll be over in a few months and everything will go back to normal. Maybe you're right and she doesn't actually mind the publicity. Or maybe she's positive that I won't make it past the first round of eliminations. Probably the latter. So can we just keep dancing, Blake?"
He paused a moment before a small smile that might have been the first genuine expression of happiness she'd ever seen on him appeared. "Yeah. We can do that, Griffin."
"Clarke, please. I don't want to sound like my mother."
His eyes sparkled with mirth as he replied, "don't be too picky, Princess."
For once the word didn't make her immediately want to claw out his eyes. She was still annoyed, but for now she could let it go. After all, she was here to dance, not make nice with Bellamy Blake.