Author's note: Back again very soon. This story's too much fun to write.
Chapter Two
"Caught By Surprise"
Or
"Bellamy Blake Likes Jazz"
Bellamy drops Clarke off at Raven's apartment, not bothering to make the trip up the elevator to say hello. Clarke says goodnight and ventures inside alone, where she barely reaches the threshold before Raven throws open the door.
"How was it?" she asks Clarke, a breathy smile on her face. "I see you're still alive."
"Barely," Clarke deadpans, clunking into the apartment. She sets her bag down on the couch. "No, it was actually alright."
"No plates thrown?"
Clarke shakes her head.
Raven looks impressed. "Wow. You're evolving."
"Yeah, maybe," says Clarke, though she doubts it.
Raven pads back to the kitchen area of the open floor plan, wearing an athletic-type tank top and shorts. She must have changed after work, though this is pretty much a uniform for Raven. Clarke follows her through the living room, taking a seat on one of the stools on the lounge side of the island in the middle of the kitchen. A thought occurs to her.
"Apart from the fact he's a massive ass, why would you say we hate each other?"
"You and Bellamy?" Raven clarifies, picking up an apple from the fruit bowl and biting into it as Clarke nods. "I don't know. I thought it was a shared stubbornness, and the leadership complex – plus, you know, the weird sexual tension."
Clarke stares at her. "There is not sexual tension."
Raven doesn't even swallow her bite of apple before she says, "Clarke, you are insane. You're like a forty-six-year-old soccer mom, except you probably drink more and a soccer mom would jump on the chance to fake-date Bellamy Blake."
"That whole argument made no sense."
Clarke feels something soft against her leg and glances down. There's a black coat folded haphazardly on the bar stool beside her. She picks it up and turns to Raven. "Is this new?"
"Oh, God, I forgot that was there!" Raven pulls out her phone – it was somewhere hidden away in the tininess of her shorts – and types a message to someone-or-other.
Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Who…?"
"My friend must've left it here when she went home after dinner," says Raven vaguely, and her phone buzzes twice.
The first message, Clarke notices, leaves a small, warm smile on Raven's face; the second makes her laugh.
"Who's that you're texting?" Clarke asks, beginning to identify with a forty-six-year-old soccer mom.
Raven bites her lip to keep from grinning. "Bellamy. He says I was right."
"About what?"
"Your great boobs," Raven tells her, chuckling. "And the fact you're the perfect girl for the job."
Choosing to ignore the first half of her friend's statement, Clarke replies, "Dating Bellamy is a chore, and you guilt-tripped me into it. You know that, I know that – "
"You're doing a good thing, though, Clarke… helping him out. You know that, right?"
Clarke raises an eyebrow at Raven's serious expression. "I do."
Raven nods, setting what's left of her apple down on the kitchen bench. "I'm serious, because this job would be perfect for Bellamy: it's international and it's classical history and it's good money and he can see O when he's back here, and… why are you looking at me like that, Clarke?"
Clarke's narrowed eyes skate over Raven's face. "Why do you say 'good money' like that?"
"Like what?" Raven asks, but Clarke can tell she knows. After a few moments and a heavy sigh, Raven says, "Just so you know, the real reason Bellamy has issues with you is the whole have/have-not thing. I know it's not your fault," she adds quickly, when Clarke begins to react, "but from what I've gathered, Bellamy didn't have the easiest time growing up."
"What, with his sister?"
"Octavia?" Raven smiles. "He practically raised her."
"What?" Clarke says again.
Raven shakes her head. "It's not my story to tell. But I will say that their dad – or dads, plural – wasn't around, and their mom worked a lot. She passed away when Bell was halfway through college, and he was going to leave to take care of O but she forced him to stay. She moved in with him and got her qualifications done and that paid off, because Bell graduated top of his class and O's at Brown. So any form of stability wouldn't go amiss in that family."
"Is that why he calls me 'Princess'? Because my life's been nothing but smooth sailing?"
Raven reaches a hand across the bench and takes Clarke's. "He doesn't know any better, Clarke. He doesn't know about your dad, or Wells, or…" she falters. They both do.
"You're right," says Clarke, filling the space in the air before it can consume her. She squeezes Raven's hand before letting it go and dusting off her already spotless dress. "Now that we've covered the tragedies of mine and Bellamy's existences, can we talk about something else?"
Raven nods. "Anything you like." Then her phone buzzes again. "Still Bellamy," she explains, faking a snore. "He's wondering if you and I have any free time tomorrow, so we can work on the cover story."
Clarke furrows her eyebrows. "We have our cover story."
"I suspect it needs ironing out and that's why he's suggesting we meet up."
Supposing that Raven is correct, Clarke mentally checks her schedule and replies, "I don't have any plans over lunchtime."
Raven snorts. "Bellamy hates the idea of 'doing lunch'. I'm pretty damn sure he mentioned that to you as well."
"He did," Clarke admits, smiling. "I could 'do dinner' then, instead."
Raven raises her eyebrows. "Dinner with Bell two nights in a row? You two really are dating."
"You're so funny. I'm cackling with laughter. My voice has never been less of a monotone. I'm not being sarcastic."
"Sure, Clarke."
Bellamy parks on the curb in front of Raven's apartment building, not even noticing the smartly dressed blonde walking down the street until they're in step together. Clarke's still in her work clothes, a white button-down shirt tucked into a pencil skirt, expensive yet practical high heels – as practical as high heels can be – on her feet. The height difference between she and Bellamy has significantly decreased, and when he points this out, all Clarke says is, "That's good. I don't have to look up your nose anymore."
They take the elevator up to Raven's but collide with her on the way into her apartment.
"You're eager to leave, Raven," Clarke notes. "Is everything okay?"
Pulling on her left shoe, Raven replies, "Yes, Clarke, everything is awesome – no Lego Movie references, Bellamy – "
" – I did not watch The Lego Movie – "
" – you totally did – you, me, and Miller – opening weekend." Raven turns to Clarke. "Your fake boyfriend's a total dweeb." She straightens up, runs a hand across the part of her hair sleeked back into a ponytail, and faces them both. "Something's come up and I can't hang out with you guys tonight but – don't look so crestfallen, Clarke – there are two tickets on my fridge to this indie gig at The Dropship. Take them, go on a date, figure out your shit, then call me tomorrow morning!"
With that and a punch to Bellamy's arm, Raven jumps into the elevator, leaving her two friends alone at the door of her apartment.
Clarke looks at Bellamy. "Do you feel like there's something she's not telling us?"
Bellamy raises an eyebrow. "Have you heard she's seeing someone?"
By the expression on her face, Bellamy guesses that no, Raven has not divulged this particular detail to Clarke.
"Yeah, that's how I felt, too," he says gruffly, pointing at Clarke so aggressively he almost pokes her in the face. His eyes flit into the apartment behind them. "Do you want to go to that thing at The Dropship, then?"
Clarke bites her lip, but very quickly says, "sure, yeah, why not?"
So that is the story of, how one hour later, Bellamy and Clarke find themselves standing in a small club-type venue fit for about a hundred people. There aren't nearly a hundred there, and the music twangs at a frequency Bellamy would eventually describe as 'an acquired taste'. After ten minutes and half of the band's third song, he leans over to Clarke and says, "Yeah, this is pretty crap."
She sighs heavily and nods. "I can't argue with you there."
"I know a cool jazz bar down by the museum," he tells her. "Do you want to check that out instead?"
Clarke looks confused. "Bellamy Blake likes jazz?"
"I'm full of surprises."
"Can you dance?" she asks, and he's thrown.
"Well enough for my sister, I guess. She used to dance a lot. Mostly I was just there to twirl her," he confesses. "But I can cook pretty well."
Clarke laughs. "Oh, jeez – I can't. I burn anything I come across, water included."
"And you were doing PreMed?"
She laughs again and shoves him. Without a verbal signal, they both begin to head towards the door.
"That's different," Clarke protests.
"How?"
"Treating a stab wound is easier than cooking spaghetti Bolognese, for one."
Bellamy blinks at her. "You're kidding."
She shakes her head almost proudly.
They venture back to Bellamy's car, and he repeats the act of opening Clarke's door for her, but once they're both seated and on their way, he can't let her confession go.
"That is ridiculous – you know that, right? What am I supposed to do two nights from now? 'Hello, Doctor Kane. This is my girlfriend, Clarke. She can treat any stab wound you like and nab the twelve-year-old who did it, but God forbid you need a decent meal.'"
Clarke giggles (for a moment, Bellamy is shocked she hasn't punched him). "'Yes, Doctor' – what is it? – 'Kane. You should definitely hire Bellamy. He knows as much about jazz as he does about history, and he moonlights as a member of the Blake Family Dance Crew. I am so in love with him.'"
Bellamy glances sidelong at her as they speed down the road. "You're so in love with me, huh?"
"I can't hate you all the time."
He finds himself smiling. "No, I'm too good a dancer."
The jazz bar is packed, and the band playing is rife with enthusiasm. Bellamy has always imagined Clarke as the type to favour either classical music or bubblegum pop, or both, because she absolutely could, but he notices her swaying like a pulse with the sweetest of smiles on her face and thinks maybe jazz is good, too.
"You know, they say jazz is less about listening and more about feeling," he says into her ear.
Her previously closed eyes open and find his. "'They'?"
"Alright, alright, I."
Clarke's smile grows. "That's…"
"Pretentious?" Bellamy offers, and he knows that it is, because everybody's said it.
Clarke doesn't. She shakes her head and replies in a soft voice. "No, I think it's honest."
He smiles, and it's not the first time, and when he realises this he's caught off-guard. Is he enjoying himself? With Clarke Griffin? To cover it up, he checks the time on his watch. "Getting sentimental, Princess? The clock hasn't even got to double digits yet."
She rolls her eyes at him. Back to normal.
"You've got to stop treating this like a dinner-and-a-taxi service, Princess."
Clarke undoes her seatbelt, because Bellamy has driven her home even after they ended up dancing at the jazz bar, and she learned that he really is a good dancer, and he learned that she is probably much less so, unless childhood ballet classes count. And now he's smiling at her – properly smiling – and Clarke doesn't think it's the couple of drinks they had between them, but she has actually enjoyed herself with Bellamy Blake. She pokes her tongue out at him.
"You've got to stop letting me."
Bellamy nods. "Yeah, sure, whatever."
Clarke opens the door of the passenger seat and has just about climbed out before she turns back to him.
"Thanks for tonight, Bellamy."
He catches the genuine nature of her tone and he nods again. "Same to you, Princess."
"I'll see you at the gala, then?"
"I'll pick you up beforehand," Bellamy offers. "It starts at seven, so I'll be here around half past six. Does that suit you?"
Clarke smiles. "Sounds wonderful. Oh, and just so you know," she adds, "I added my number to your Contacts when you were getting our drinks."
Bellamy looks at her. "Princess, that's kind of creepy."
"Well, at least now you can call me if plans change," says Clarke, stepping out of the vehicle, "or if they don't."
"Right." Bellamy purses his lips. "Six-thirty on Friday night – don't forget or try to cook something."
Clarke sighs, but somewhat fondly. "I'll leave that kind of stuff to you."
"See you Friday, Princess."
"See you Friday."
