There was a time when Clarke craved the beauty of Earth. She'd spent hours in her daydreams recreating the pictures found in their ark issued history books with the charcoal between her forefinger and thumb, imaging what fresh air would taste like, the smell of the ocean, the feel of sandy water sliding between her toes.
But here, staring back at her reflection behind the bar, eyes gleaming with blues and purples under the flashing lights flickering across the ceiling, smiling faces filing the room, sweet laughter and music drowning out their words into muddled, joyous noise—she can't imagine anything more beautiful than right now. That spark of warmth taking root in her chest, something she's been missing since she lost her dad.
Happiness.
"What can I get you?" The woman repeats, leaning closer so Clarke can hear.
Clarke quickly glances around at the jarred liquids and glasses lining the shelves. Her nose scrunches. "Not vodka," she decides, remembering how much she disliked the taste all those years ago. "Or moonshine," she adds, quickly. Not only would it feel like it would a betrayal to Monty and Jasper, but the last thing she needs is to wind up a drunk, blubbering mess, spilling all her secrets to strangers passing in the night.
The girl giggles, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. There's something erringly familiar about her, sunny hair and ocean eyes. It's a bit like looking through a mirror into another life.
"Okay, then—how do you feel about Champagne?"
She shrugs. "I've never had it."
The girl beams at that. "Well, you're in for a treat," she decides with a wink. It's enough to leave Clarke completely flustered, rubbing her sweaty palms on the sides of her gown, unsure if this is actual flirting or just typical Sanctum friendless.
It's been so long since she's experienced either.
She jolts when the bottle tab pops off, ready to duck under the table, gripping her thigh, where she's kept her knife strapped and hidden.
The girl grimaces a bit, sheepishly adding, "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
It takes Clarke I moment to realize the dagger is digging into her, breaking skin. She releases a long held breath, shaking her head, "it's all right," she mutters. "It's not your fault I don't do well with loud noises."
She smirks pulling out two flutes from beneath the countertop. "You might be in the wrong place then."
Clarke forces a laugh. "Oh, I just need one glass," she corrects.
"This isn't really a drink you're meant to have alone," the girl explains. "It's a celebratory thing."
She snorts. "I'm sure I don't have anyone to celebrate with."
"I thought you could bring the other half to your friend."
Clarke's brow furrows. "My friend?"
"The one who hasn't taken he eyes off you since you walked down that staircase." She grins, nodding over her shoulder.
Clarke swallows, glancing at the mirror, heart stuttering at the vision Bellamy Blake looming in the back corner wearing dark dress pants, and a deep violet button up.
He's wearing a tie.
It's a lot to register before her eyes make their way up to his face. He doesn't blink, hardly moves, just continues staring at her like he's seeing her for the first time. It's the same look he had when came to her in that cell where she was being held by Eligius.
Heavy, dripping with an emotion she won't dare soak up, or put a name too. She's learned her lesson, less foolish than she was; to ever think they could pick up where they left off before he left her to die, before she was cruel enough to return the favor.
Her gaze drops, wringing her hands together. "He's not a friend," she says so soft it's a surprise when her voice is actually heard.
"Something more then?" the girl quips, filling the second glass.
"Just . . . something," she decides, clearing her throat. "Not more."
"But you want him to be."
"What? No, I—" Clarke argues, cutting herself off when the girl throws her head back and laughs at her. She huffs, petulant. "I came here for a drink, not the third degree."
"Oh, well. You'll get so much more than that with me." She states, matter-of-factly grinning in spite of Clarke's scowl. "Speaking of, here comes your something right now."
Her stomach drops and twists, a frothing mixture of excitement and dread, toxic when combined with the promise of alcohol.
"Wait," she whispers harshly, so desperate not be left alone with him, she'd gladly accept the company of a gorgeous, nameless woman to ease the tension.
"No can do, more orders to fill and smiles to spread. Enjoy your night, love!" And then to Clarke utter shock, she leans over the bar and plants a delicate kiss to her cheek.
Before she even has enough time to realize what the hell just happened, Bellamy is by her side looking much less sure of himself than had when she caught sight of his reflection.
"Sorry," he mutters, running his hand over the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't," Clarke corrects, swiftly, flushing beneath his questioning gaze and quirked brow. "She just, I mean, I didn't—the people here are so—" She tries explaining the rest with an awkward, flailing hand gesture that conveys absolutely nothing and only succeeds in furthering his amusement.
"Articulate," he deadpans, quirking his lips at her in a way that tempts her to forget their last few months on Earth and the hundred and thirty years in between then and now.
It can't be that simple. And yet she can't help the hesitant smile threatening to split her heart in two.
Maybe they could pretend, if only for a few minutes.
She grabs the drinks before the moment passes, holding one out for him to take.
He cocks his head at her, chewing his bottom lip. "Expecting someone to join you?" He asks, reaching for the glass, fingertips brushing against hers.
She still feels their warmth when he pulls away. "Just you," she says without thinking of the implications. The warmth spreads and she ducks her head. "I mean, the bartender saw you . . . " she trails off.
Staring.
"Making my way over?" he supplies.
"Yeah," she allows. "Apparently, Champagne is meant to be shared with friends."
"Friends," he repeats, testing the word on his tongue.
She nods, shifting on her feet. "In the spirit of celebration—er, I guess."
He smirks at that. "Well, what are we celebrating, princess?"
She blinks up at him until his gaze becomes too much to hold, scanning their surroundings instead.
Echo is nowhere to be found.
She wants to say, new beginnings . . . forgiveness.
The words don't make it out.
"I'm not sure," she admits, hating how pathetic it sounds.
He steps closer, calling her attention back to him.
Their glasses touch. "To finally getting that drink," he says easy, like he didn't just send them both spiraling back through space.
He downs his glass and she follows his lead, only mildly disappointed that she didn't take the time to enjoy the sweetness.
Her mouth parts and she licks the leftover drop from her finger when some of the liquid dribbles down her chin.
His pupils dilate, eyes dropping to her lips shamelessly, not even trying to hide it.
Her breath quickens, the beat of her heart setting its pace. "Echo," she speaks, terrified she's misinterpreting what his body is trying to tell her.
He shakes his head in response, sighing when she looks back at him expectantly.
"That's over. It ended when . . ." He swallows.
"When?" she presses.
His brow furrows, studying her face. "It doesn't matter, Clarke."
Her vision blurs. "It does when you're looking at me like I didn't leave you to die in the fighting pits."
He doesn't take the bait, offering his own up instead. "That's because I'm too busy looking at you like you called me every day for six years before that."
She freezes, opening and closing her mouth, before finding her voice again. "You can't possibly know that," she hisses.
"Madi told me," he explains. Her eyes squeeze shut, willing the tears not to fall. He catches the first with his thumb brushing against her cheek. "I'm more disappointed that you didn't."
"How could I?" She whispers, blinking up at him. "You came back with your heart belonging to someone else."
"Clarke," he says, pained, cupping her face. "I couldn't give away what was never mine." Her hands start to shake; his touch slides down her arms to link their fingers together. "That piece of me was yours long before I thought I lost you."
"The heart and head," she breathes.
He leans his forehead against hers, nodding, tugging her back into their own little corner of the world where nothing else exist between them.
"I'm sorry," she chokes. "I wish I could tell you I regret choosing Madi, but I can't—I don't. Not that part."
"Princess," he sighs, pulling back a bit. "I don't want to have the rest of this conversation here." His eyes flicker towards the exit. "Come with me."
"We shouldn't." She shakes her head.
His lips press into a thin line. "Why not?"
"I'm not good for you," she murmurs.
He makes a face. "You know what I think? The only time either of us hasn't been any good for other is when we're apart."
"Bell—"
"Together," he pleads. "It's the only hope we have at fixing us."
She can't help but ask, "You still have hope?"
"Clarke," he smiles, sadly. "I never stopped."
Her throat clears. "I need forgiveness," she decides. "But I don't think I deserve that."
"It's yours," Bellamy says, sternly.
"It can't be that simple," she protests.
"Says who?" he counters.
She lets out a small huff, wiping the last few tears from her eyes. "Our past speaks for itself. Hell, I'm not even sure what you're doing speaking to me right now, let alone trying to get me to go home with you."
He rolls his eyes. "Same thing I've always done in the end," he presses. "Choosing you."
She glares at him. "And how's that worked out for you so far?"
He doesn't flinch, making a show of running his gaze over her figure, pausing where the neckline of her dress dips. "It doesn't seem like such a bad place to be from where I'm standing, princess."
"Bellamy," she scolds, ignoring the way her thighs clenched, despite it not going unnoticed by him. His palm grazes her hip and she holds it there to stop him from moving further down her side. "Don't try to distract me. This is serious. You can't just pretend—"
He cuts her off. "I'm not! If anything, I'm done pretending this isn't exactly where I want to be. I know what we've both done to get here, but if this is the end result, I won't regret it, same as you." He pauses to tilt her chin up. "Listen to me, Clarke—we've learned, we've grown, we'll do better. Sure, maybe it won't be as easy as I'm making it sound, but when has that ever stopped us before? The difference this time is that this isn't a life or death decision. This is just life. And I've already decided how I want to spend mine."
Her breath catches when his fingers scrape her jawline sliding back into her hair. "I'm scared this isn't real."
A short puff of air escapes his lips, caressing her cheek. "I know the feeling."
She lets out a soft whine when his other palm grazes over her backside, squeezing slightly.
"How do you get past the fear?" she whispers against his mouth.
"By doing what you're most afraid of," he says, easy.
She hesitates only a moment before nodding, pushing past the part of her that wants hide forever.
The corners of his lips curl up more, and he turns to lead her up the staircase.
She's afraid he won't be there to hold her in the morning, that she'll wake up and discover this was all a dream, lasting side effects of the psychosis they suffered only a few days prior, but there's only one way to find out.
She's tired of running.