Author's Note: None of this belongs to me, so, Jason, eat your heart out. This is for Sennen and my soul.

Chapter One

"This Is PoliSci"

Or

"Great Boobs"

Raven leans over the kitchen bench, nodding in momentary silence. "So I'm going to ignore the fact that your potential bosses are essentially elitist assholes, and focus on the fact that you're going to need a really impressive plus-one."

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. "Oh? I figured I could take you."

She smirks, allowing that yes, she is impressive, and that yes, they know each other really well, especially since that time a couple of years back when they had sex, but no, she cannot accompany him to his Snotty Old Archaeologists' gala, or his Snotty Old Archaeologists' dinner – because she's just started seeing someone.

"What?" Bellamy asks, astonished, because Raven's vocal about everything from engine oil to that time somebody stole one of her tank tops, and she's never once mentioned a new boyfriend. "Who? Since when?"

"Patience, grasshopper." She's still smirking, but it's softer now. He doesn't feel quite like she could murder him and expect a thank you. "All in good time. Who are your other plus-one options?"

Bellamy shrugs. "Uh… Miller?"

Raven laughs. "I don't know how progressive these guys are gonna be. But on the plus side – his dad does work in the army…"

"O's doing a double major at Brown. I could ask her."

She shakes her head. "No way, it's too close to exams. Plus," she adds, considering it, "I think you need a girlfriend. It shows them you can be depended on."

Bellamy concedes, leaning back on his stool as Raven says, "Okay – what are we looking for here?"

"Smart," he says immediately, with his index finger pointed nowhere in particular.

"Stoic," Raven replies.

He's so confused that he sits bolt upright and stares at her. "What?"

Raven seems to be fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "You're the charismatic speaker, the man of the people, as it were; you need a level-headed, issues-minded individual. Preferably one with great boobs."

"Raven."

"Sorry," she replies, not sounding it. "You're a good-looking guy – your girlfriend should match."

Bellamy accepts the compliment and moves on in a business-like manner. "So we're looking for a smart, resilient, preferably well-off and good-looking girl who wants to date me? Good thing we've got so many of those on hand – four days is almost too long to find one!"

Raven ignores his sarcasm and says, "Actually, I've already found one."

"Oh?"

"Her mom's a doctor, and her dad used to work for a big company like ARK. She's into art and PoliSci and Law, but she's the first girl you'd want in your corner if you've split your lip. She's the smartest, most self-sacrificing, uptight intellectual I know. She's even got great boobs. And she owes me one."

"Why haven't you set us up before?" he asks, sceptical.

Raven doesn't look at him. "You've… met."

"Oh, God, what's the catch? There's a massive catch, isn't there?"

She abstains from making the obvious she's a massive catch joke, and instead bites her lip. "You two, uh… you really fucking hate each other."

Stunned silence breaks out between the two of them, and Bellamy feels like he's going to suffocate in it. He stares at Raven, disbelieving.

"…You want me to date the Princess? Fucking – Clarke Griffin?"

Raven looks at him. "How badly do you want this job?"

"She'll never do it," Bellamy insists, folding his arms and pursing his lips – but Raven has a sure expression on her face.

"Trust me when I say she owes me one, Bellamy."

He swears under his breath but doesn't argue with her.

"Let me talk to her," Raven continues. "I'll do it tonight. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?"

"Raven, you should know by now I'm not the kind of guy who 'does lunch'."

"Fine," she snaps, because now he just sounds exhausted. "Would you rather meet her for dinner, then?"

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Anything's better than lunch."

Bellamy's sure that there's no way in hell Clarke Griffin will agree to meet him for dinner, let alone help him out, but Raven has never failed him before. Lo and behold, a few minutes after he's arrived at the swanky restaurant on 18th and claimed a table, Clarke appears at the door, dressed less like a soccer mom and more like she actually might want to be here.

He makes a point to stand and pull her chair out for her, which comes as a surprise – to Clarke, at least.

"Relax, Princess," he mutters, sitting down opposite her. "I figured if we're going to pretend to be dating, we may as well have a trial run."

A waitress sweeps over to the table, introducing herself as Keenan, and pours them two glasses of water. She comes back a moment later with two menus, and Clarke leafs through hers before she responds to Bellamy.

"The first thing you should know," she says, when she finally does speak, "is that I am not one of those girls who's flattered when a guy chooses food for me on the first date."

Bellamy glances up from his own menu, noticing not just Clarke but also a guy at the bar who seems very interested in their table. "The only thing I'd want for you, Princess, is poison."

"Says my – quote – boyfriend, whose employment depends on this meal."

Keenan returns, and they both order. Bellamy barely takes the time to fumble over an entrée for them to share, Clarke beams more genuinely at the waitress than at her boyfriend, and there's no hope in hell of them ever pulling this off.

"You're not drinking?" Clarke notices as Keenan bounces away. "I'd have thought you'd need hard liquor to get through dinner with Clarke Griffin."

"I'd expect the same of you. No pretty spritzer?"

"I seem to recall the word 'poison'…"

"Funny," says Bellamy, no hint of a smile. "I didn't think you'd want me drunk if I'm driving you home."

"I don't want you in any capacity," Clarke replies disdainfully. "Now, let's get one thing straight – I'm here as a favour to Raven."

"Bless your heart," he tells her, sugary sweet, "Me too."

Keenan arrives with their drinks, which Bellamy and Clarke both accept with megawatt smiles and gracious words of thanks. When their attention returns to each other, however, Clarke has dropped the act.

"How are we saying we got here? I can't tell ARK Enterprises that my best friend called in a favour."

Bellamy sips at his water. "I was thinking a gallery."

Clarke is so intrigued she forgets to hate him. "What?"

"I was there for the history, you were there for the art," Bellamy explains. "Don't you like art?"

Clarke nods. "And – and maybe you were arguing with an attendant. About the date of some piece they had in for the month – an Oppenheim – "

" – wait, Oppenheimer? 'I am become Death'?"

" – no, no er – the Swiss surrealist – "

" – oh, figures – "

" – anyway – you were arguing about the Oppenheim – "

" – And you pitched in to say I was right?" Bellamy suggests.

Again, Clarke nods. "Yes, I think so. And then we got talking, about our lives, and the gallery, and…"

"And maybe you asked me if I'd seen the café on 47th, with all the reconstructions of traditional Roman statues?"

The façade drops for a moment, and Clarke's eyes light up. "Oh, my God – have you really?"

Bellamy smirks, because he discovered it one day after work and then had to take Raven, who most likely recommended it to Clarke. "Yeah – and then I said that even though I strictly, as a rule, never ever 'do lunch', I'd love to take you there when next you were free."

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "And I said yes and it was a date?"

"You and me? I think it was a catastrophic disaster, during which three plates were broken and a chemist cried."

She very nearly laughs, but Bellamy sees her stop herself. "Like Raven's New Year's party?"

"Exactly," he replies. "And we didn't speak again until three weeks later, when I was around at Raven's and it turned out her annoying friend from college was the stubborn blonde I tried to date and almost murdered."

Clarke smiles, overbearingly soppy. "And you thought it was a sign to ask me out again, so you begged me to give you another chance."

"Princess, I don't beg."

"Well, you did then. Like a small child."

When he doesn't agree, she leans closer. "You don't get me if you don't beg."

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Fine. You said yes and we got dinner and the rest was history. Literally. Because I need this job."

The smile on Clarke's face seems more genuine this time. "And how long ago was all this?"

Bellamy shrugs. "Six months?"

"Sure."

When their meals arrive, Bellamy notices that the observer at the bar is still doing just that. He waits until they've just about finished up before he points it out to Clarke.

"See up there, at the bar? He hasn't stopped staring over here all night – at you, I presume." Bellamy shrugs. "I don't blame him. I would, too, if I wasn't your boyfriend. It's got to be the massive stick up your ass."

Clarke turns back to face him and does not look impressed. "Hilarious, Bellamy. Maybe you should kiss me."

He almost spits out the last of his drink. "Princess."

"Well, if you were actually my boyfriend, would you be okay with that?"

Bellamy considers it. "I'd trust that you could take him." He glances at his own empty plate, then Clarke's. "Do you want to get out of here?"

She scans the table, then the menu Keenan dropped by earlier detailing the dessert selection. "I don't think I'll need chocolate cake, no."

When they've paid – which Bellamy insists on doing himself, even though he knows he'll potentially be spending a lot on Clarke if the dinner with ARK goes to plan – the two of them venture out into the night. Or, more specifically, down the stretch of road between the restaurant and where Bellamy parked his car.

"Do you want to go home?" he asks Clarke, who pulls a very weather-resistant jacket out of her small handbag and throws it on over her dress.

"I don't exactly cherish the time I spend with you, Bellamy."

"Fine," he replies, because he feels the same about her. Though tonight hasn't been so bad, really – and Raven was right: Clarke does have great boobs – "But we have to figure everything out before Friday."

Clarke shrugs. "We've figured out our origin story."

"You just made us sound like the Avengers."

"Or those terrible, unnecessary Wolverine movies."

Bellamy laughs. "There really were too many of those. What about Magneto, or the Maximoffs?"

"You're ridiculous," says Clarke. "Why am I pretending to be with you?"

"Because I'm desperate and our pretend sex life is great."

They reach the car, a well-kept, albeit weathered four wheel drive that Octavia won't let him sell. The streetlamps are being masked by buildings and the occasional tree, so half of the vehicle's thrown into shadow. Nevertheless, Bellamy opens Clarke's door for her and then circles around to his own.

"Not that I think pretending to date you will lead to a murder," says Bellamy, pushing the keys into the ignition, "but what if some bigwig asks us about detailed shit and our stories don't match up?"

Clarke thinks about it. "I think all good lies have a basis in truth."

"The only 'truth' about our current situation, Clarke, is that we hate each other almost as much as we're pretending to love each other."

She snorts as they begin off down the street. "I still need to know about your work, though. If I'm versed in whatever it is you spend your time doing, you'll seem all the more passionate about it."

"I am passionate about it!" Bellamy protests, but he agrees with her. "Maybe things should go both ways. What if someone asks me about the DA's office?"

Clarke works for the District Attorney, when she isn't painting every wall of her house and annoying the hell out of Bellamy. She's one of two people he's met from the DA's office, though the other one isn't much different from her. Lexa, or "The Commander" as everyone calls her – the explanation behind which requires going into detail about a party Raven held, way back in her freshman year of college – is smart, like Clarke, and she's terrifying, like Clarke, and she's calculating and strong and pragmatic, like Clarke, but there's a black and white aspect of Lexa's world view that Bellamy doubts Clarke shares. He's not sure why he thinks of Lexa as he drives Clarke home, but he can't help it.

He also can't help the fact that Clarke's voice breaks through his reverie, clear and pronounced.

"Then you tell them I've been working there since I left college – which they'll like, because it's not an easy thing to do. I was originally doing PreMed," Clarke adds, "but circumstances changed and leadership opportunities opened up and PoliSci was the way to go, the way to excel, the way to survive."

Bellamy can't stop himself smiling a bit at that. "Princess is a survivor?"

"Princess," Clarke says through her teeth, "is a lot more than you think. She also needs you to drop her off at Raven's."

"Skipping the part where I kiss you goodnight and going straight to the part where you tell all your friends about it, huh?"

Clarke rolls her eyes – and God, the girl must have a propensity for it, because as Bellamy changes lanes, he realises that's all she ever does when she's with him. She rolls her eyes, or chews her teeth, or groans or snaps or shouts at him. There's no way they're ever going to be able to pull this off.

"I tell you what," he proposes when an idea occurs to him, "why don't we catch up again before the gala, just to make sure we've got everything covered?"

"I thought you were more the type to shrug and wing it."

"I am," he admits, the sides of his mouth twitching upwards again. "But this is like PoliSci, Princess. This is survival."