Growing up, the Polis was the kind of place Bellamy created stories of dragons and princesses about for Octavia. It wasn't such a huge stretch from the truth, because it was an old manor that a rich entrepreneur had bought over thirty years prior and turned into a hotel. It mostly hosted venues and conventions, foreign diplomats, and Ark's fanciest events - including the Jaha-Griffin wedding.

Bellamy's room was bigger than his whole apartment.

It didn't take him long to settle in; he always had a go-bag in his car, but Octavia would bring him his things later as she and Lincoln came around to help install their surveillance kit. It was a good thing that he had a room adjoined to Clarke's and that the princess bride would spend most of her days tasting cake or choosing flowers so they had plenty of time to put cameras in her room and snoop around.

He knocked politely at the passage door between their two rooms, and waited a minute before he heard her light steps nearing. Clarke appeared, having changed into a much fancier dress, her previously messy bun turned into an elaborated crown of braids with delicate curls framing her face. "Bellamy?" she spoke his name in surprise.

He gave her a sheepish smile. "I just wanted to let you know I'll be staying in this room, so if you need anything, or you're going somewhere, you know where to find me."

She let out a little breathy chuckle. "Well, I'm having dinner with my mother and step-father in the hotel restaurant, so I should be fine," Clarke said with a nod of her head, and the corner of her mouth twitched up in a kind smile. "You can have the night off. You kinda deserve it."

"That's really nice of you, miss -"

"I told you to call me Clarke," she interrupted him.

"Okay, Clarke," he repeated, tasting her name on his tongue, "that's really nice, but this isn't what I'm here for. I'll escort you to the restaurant, and then I'll walk you back to your room when you're done. Or wherever you want to go after that."

"Even the bathroom? I thought you drew the line there," she teased him.

Bellamy couldn't figure what game she was playing; just a couple of hours ago she'd tried to bribe him, then propositioned him for sex, and now she was all lovely and adorable. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Bellamy was usually very good at reading people, but he couldn't decide whether Clarke Griffin was naturally charming or if she was trying to play him to get rid of him again. The uncertainty he felt was both unfamiliar and confusing.

No matter how lovely she could be, it was too early to try and seduce her though, so Bellamy remained as professional as he could; just the right touch of charming and funny to draw a smile, but not enough to pass as flirty. "You're not planning on making this harder than it has to be now, are you?"

"Nuh-uh," she leaned her head and shoulder against the doorframe, and blinked her lashes innocently in that classic girl trick Octavia had used all throughout high school when he caught her trying to sneak out or something - Bellamy himself had fallen for it for years when he was younger.

"Good," Bellamy replied with a nod of his head. "And since we're talking about it, it might also be a good idea if we came up with some sort of signal."

Clarke's brow creased a little. "A signal?"

"Yes. Something you can scream or text me if you're in danger or something, so I know you need me."

One of her eyebrows arched in confusion. "Isn't your name a good enough signal?"

Bellamy curled the fingers of one hand into a fist; thinking of a hot girl screaming his name was not a good idea. "Look, signals work," he said confidently. He'd seen that in a movie once. "Just find one you'll remember easily."

"Okay, then," Clarke shrugged, and stepped back into her room to grab her shoes. Bellamy assumed it was okay to follow her, and grabbed his suit jacket as he did. He stood there, watching her as she finished getting ready. "Purse."

Bellamy looked around, trying to find it for her, and Clarke laughed. It took him a couple seconds too long to get it. "Purse? That's your signal?" he frowned.

"You said I had to pick one I'd remember easily," she grinned in the mirror, applying her lipstick, "how could I forget that one?"

"Fair enough," Bellamy conceded with a small smile.

It took Clarke another ten minutes to be ready, and Bellamy, despite being used to girls taking forever with a teenage Octavia who never left the bathroom under forty-five minutes in the morning, had to resist the urge to sigh heavily. Clarke was just having dinner with her family, after all; did rich people really have to look like movie stars for that? The Blake family tradition went more along the lines of homemade lasagna and ice-cream in front of a movie every Sunday; Bellamy washed the dishes, Lincoln dried them, and Octavia picked the movie and made them sit through the cheesiest rom-com ever. It didn't sound like much, but it was Bellamy's favorite time of the week.

Finally Clarke was ready, and they made their way to the restaurant two floors below in companionable silence. She kept glancing at his face though, guilt evident on her features, and Bellamy felt bad for making her worry when it had been nothing but a scheme - a stupid one, true, but he hadn't been able to come up with a better one at the time. "I'm fine, you know," he said, casual but soft. "I've got a little sister, I've seen worse."

"Your sister ever punched you in the face?"

Bellamy chuckled. "Yeah, no, not exactly. But a few punches were thrown around when she was fifteen or sixteen and boys talked to her the wrong way."

That made Clarke smile. "Ah, so you're that kind of guy, huh?" she asked softly.

He shrugged. "That's what brothers do."

"Yeah," she hummed absently, almost pensive, and fell silent again.

They had reached the restaurant anyway, and Bellamy could spot Clarke's mother with a man that had to be her step-father. He'd seen Marcus Kane on television, and though he didn't agree with his politics most of the time, the man wasn't half bad and didn't come from money, which was something Bellamy always appreciated about someone. His mother, Vera Kane, led the church Bellamy's mother used to take them to when they were kids, and lived in their neighborhood. Kane was probably the first person from there to become someone important.

Abigail opened her arms, and Bellamy saw hesitation flicker in Clarke's eyes for a second before she wrapped hers around her mother and hugged her; her annoyance at this whole bodyguard thing still lingered, but Bellamy doubted it was the only reason. After all, Abigail Griffin had told them she'd expressed her doubts about Clarke's relationship more than once; combined to that mysterious missing year Octavia and Lincoln were investigating about, Bellamy could feel there was something between the two women that ran more deeply.

Clarke then hugged her step-father, more affectionate, and then the three of them finally seemed to notice that Bellamy was there. "Oh, Marcus, dear," Abigail said, "this is Bellamy Blake, the young man I told you about. He's here to look after Clarke."

Marcus smiled at him and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, son," he said warmly, and his handshake was warmer than what Bellamy expected from a politician. "Do you mind if I ask you what happened to your face?" he asked kindly.

"It was a rough first day," Clarke answered for him, and Bellamy was thankful because he hadn't contacted her mother to let her know how their first meeting had progressed, and Bellamy didn't like to deal with wild cards. He'd never had to interact with his clients during a mission before, and it just added a ton of new unpredictable parameters.

Abigail reacted perfectly, however. She looked genuinely worried, and told him that although she wasn't happy he'd been hurt, of course, she still felt better knowing somebody was there to protect Clarke. Her husband agreed, and Clarke only narrowed her eyes at her mother for a second before smiling and telling him again that he deserved to lie down and get an icepack for his cheek.

It was as good a moment as it could ever get to call Octavia and Lincoln, and after another handshake, a round of thanks, and Kane offering to send dinner to his room, Bellamy left the Griffin-Kane with the promise to come back to escort miss Griffin later.

"Oh my God," Clarke sighed heavily, "you don't have to call me miss Griffin in front of my parents."

Her step-father smiled. "Come on, Clarke," he chided her softly, "you can't really blame the young man for being polite."

Clarke scowled, petulant, but probably much less than if her mother had been the one telling her, Bellamy reckoned. He watched as Kane cupped her shoulder and tilted his head a little, and Clarke's face softened.

Her mother caught his gaze, and with a final nod Bellamy left, once again feeling like there was something off about that family.


He shared his first impressions with Octavia while Lincoln installed their surveillance system. One of Octavia's childhood friends, Fox, worked at the hotel and had arranged for them to have a copy of Clarke's room key, and an easy access to the personnel's laundry in case they needed a maid outfit or something to blend in. Fox was one of the rare people who knew exactly what it was Bellamy and his family were doing - with Miller, Bellamy's best friend - and she was more than a little enthusiastic about helping.

"Abby didn't mention her husband knowing about you," Octavia replied after Bellamy told her about how unusually nice the man had seemed.

"Abby?" Bellamy echoed, surprised. "You call her Abby now?"

Octavia shrugged, like it was perfectly normal. "I called her earlier, to get more info about Clarke. You know, woman talk, mother to mother."

Bellamy wanted to point out that it was unwise to share private things like Octavia's pregnancy with a client, but even he could see the irony in saying that when he'd been the one using his real name with Clarke in the first place. And he'd told her about having a sister, something he never did either. In his line of business Bellamy had learned that the key to success was compartmentalizing. When he was with a woman, he wasn't Bellamy Blake, protective brother, history nerd; he was whatever they secretly wanted without ever admitting it out loud. But Clarke wasn't just any woman; unlike all the others he'd helped, she didn't seem to want to be helped. She was happy, and it threw Bellamy off his game. He'd have to try something else with her; be someone else. "So what did you learn?" he asked his sister. "Do you know why Abby's so adamant about not wanting this wedding?"

Octavia shook her head. "It doesn't really make sense to me, either," she confessed. "She's been friends with Thelonius Jaha forever. They grew up in the same social circle, frequented the same schools. Same with their kids. Clarke is Wells' one true love, for real, and his father seems genuinely happy for him. I don't get why Abby isn't. She's the first to say how Wells is an all around great guy."

Bellamy sat down, rubbing a hand over his face and wincing at his still sore cheek; the icepack was freezing his brain more than it was helping with the pain. "They're not close. Clarke and her mother. Something happened, it's pretty obvious, and I don't want to get caught in some family feud just because Abby wants to control her daughter's life, you know?"

Octavia chewed on her lip, looking hesitant. "I don't think it's about that, Bell. I feel like - like she's just looking out for her daughter. She seemed sincere when she said she felt like Clarke was bored in her relationship."

She paused then, and Bellamy thought about it. Wells Jaha seemed perfect on paper, and he probably was in real life too, nice and kind and generous; Bellamy didn't really see how any of that qualified as boring. And if Clarke really was bored, she seemed strong-headed enough to leave him. "What else do you have? Anything useful?"

"Not really," Lincoln said, as he reemerged from Clarke's room. "All's set in there," he informed them. "And we still don't know much about Clarke, except that she likes snobby, smelly French cheese with coffee for breakfast, Dirty Dancing, and Taylor Swift."

"I made you a playlist," Octavia added, handing him her iPod. "If you really want to get points, tell her you adore how 1989 is the reflection of Taylor embracing who she really is in a very empowering way, but that Speak Now will always leave you with that kind of powerful ache you only read about."

"Come again?"

Octavia slapped his thigh. "Ugh, you're hopeless, Bell," she groaned. "Just tell her your favorite song is Last Kiss. It's super melancholic and it'll make her want to hug you."

Bellamy exchanged a worried look with Lincoln, who just laughed. "You should know better than to question Octavia," he said wisely, earning a beaming smile from his wife.

Bellamy rolled his eyes, and Octavia punched him in the shoulder. "Hey, quit it with the violence. I'm your baby's uncle, remember?" he tried, holding his hands up in defense. "Fine, you're the woman whisperer and Taylor expert, and I'll bow to you."

"Good," Octavia acquiesced, grinning smugly. "We should probably get going, I'm famished."

Bellamy's eyes widened. "You ate my dinner!" he exclaimed, gesturing at the empty tray room-service had brought earlier.

Behind Octavia, Lincoln was making big hand gestures that screamed no you didn't, and when Octavia punched him again, Bellamy couldn't really say he hadn't had it coming.

It was another half hour before Clarke called him to tell him they were done with dinner. Bellamy was surprised she was playing along and taking this seriously; maybe this wouldn't be so hard, after all. When he reached the restaurant, it immediately became obvious that her sudden change of behavior had nothing to do with warming up to him, and everything to do with her mom pissing her off.

He caught her saying, "You don't get to criticize my life and then offer to pay for my honeymoon, I don't want your money," before she noticed him and stomped out towards him. He saw her mother try to stand and follow her, but her husband stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm and a quiet murmur. Clarke kept racing to the elevator, and Bellamy had to quicken his pace to catch up with her.

She entered the elevator without a word, her eyes focused on her fingers she kept twining and untangling, voluntarily avoiding his gaze, and Bellamy stood there, caught between wanting to comfort her and fearing to overstep their boundaries. He was her bodyguard, not her friend, and he'd barely just met her; he'd already made one stupid, hurtful comment about her wedding, it was probably best to shut up now. Given how upset she looked, her cheeks red and the corner of her eyes filling with tears no matter how hard she tried to hide it, it clearly meant and hurt a lot more coming from her mother than from a total stranger.

Bellamy cleared his throat. "I could, you know, keep your mother away from you until your wedding, if that's what you wanted," he offered. "Since I'm your bodyguard, and all."

Clarke's head snapped up, and for a second Bellamy was afraid he'd said the wrong thing and that she was going to cry in earnest this time. But then Clarke's eyes lit up, still watery but amused, and she let out a bubbly laugh. "Wouldn't that be some kind of conflict of interest?" she asked weakly, as she delicately wiped her tears, careful not to smear her make-up. "Since she's the one paying you."

Bellamy chuckled, and it made her smile. "I didn't think this through," he admitted with a shrug. "But I'll do it, if you ask me to."

He said it playfully, but Bellamy could see Clarke was touched by it. The elevator doors opened, and this time she didn't run; instead she walked very slowly, smile still on, until they reached her room. She gave him some painkillers, made him promise he would take them, wished him a goodnight and closed the door on his face before he could say anything.

Yeah, Clarke Griffin was something, all right.


When Bellamy woke up, he instantly realized something was wrong.

The sun that filtered through the curtains was too bright; he felt loopy and a little disoriented; and he had three missed calls from his sister. It was also past ten, and Bellamy had stopped sleeping in that late around the time Octavia was born. Sitting up, Bellamy ran a hand through his disheveled curls, and grabbed for the glass of water on his nightstand. His mouth felt awfully dry, and since Octavia was probably going to yell at him he'd need it to defend himself. It was only after he'd blinked his lashes a couple of times that it dawned on him exactly where he was, and what he was supposed to be doing.

Reaching out for his clothes, he hopped on over to the passage door between his and Clarke's rooms as he pulled up his pants. "Clarke?" he called out, knocking on the door once, twice, three times with no answer from her. The other room was completely silent. "Fuck, fuck it," he swore under his breath, and leaned his forehead against the wood.

His phone rang then, and Bellamy braced himself for Octavia's screaming; he let out a relieved breath when he realized it was his brother-in-law. "Hey, man, I'm glad it's you," Bellamy started. "I fucked up, she's -"

"She's down at the lake, I've got an eye on her," Lincoln interrupted him. "What happened to you?" he then asked, concerned. "We're lucky Fox saw her leaving without you, and called Octavia to warn her."

Bellamy sighed, and tilted his head to the side to hold his phone against his shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. "I don't know, I didn't hear my alarm, nor Octavia's calls, apparently. I'll be there in five."

Lincoln hung up, and Bellamy hurried up. He took the stairs and ran down to the reception, quickly thanked Fox and pressed a kiss to her cheek, before taking off to the hotel's huge backyard. It was more of a park than a garden, but everything was very neat; trees perfectly aligned, tons of flower bushes, a huge fountain in the middle of the alley that led to the lake. He could easily spot Lincoln among the clients taking their breakfast in the sun; he was dressed as a waiter, and serving drinks. "I owe you, man," Bellamy murmured as he passed him by.

It wasn't hard to find Clarke, either. She was sitting by the lake, her legs dangling in the water, and a sketchbook and a piece of charcoal on her lap. She had a serious, concentrated look on her face, and didn't hear him coming nearer until he was standing just a few feet away from her and said, "So there you are."

She lifted her head up, and her eyes widened in surprise; to see him there, or that he had found her, Bellamy didn't know. "Oh, Bellamy," she said softly, "I didn't -"

"Think I'd find you?" Bellamy finished her sentence for her, annoyed. He only had seven days left, and he couldn't afford wasting time chasing after her.

"Oh, no," Clarke shook her head, "it's just that I knocked on your door this morning and you didn't answer, so I thought you needed your sleep. Sometimes painkillers can -"

Bellamy held up his hand. "Wait, don't tell me you did what I think you did," he said lowly, biting on his lip to stop himself from speaking any louder. "Don't tell me you gave me painkillers, knowing perfectly well that they'd knock me out for a whole, so you could get away?"

To her credit, Clarke didn't even try to pretend anymore. "You needed them, and I needed five minutes to myself," she let out with a heavy sigh, as she put her sketchbook down. "Nobody murdered me, and your face isn't sore anymore, is it?" she asked, almost cheekily.

"No, but that's not -"

"That's exactly the point," Clarke cut him in. "I might have told you to take a couple when one would have been enough. What's the big deal? I'm fine, and you found me anyway. No one got hurt, we're fine. Loosen up a little, for God's sake."

Bellamy had to remind himself that he had to seduce her and be charming, because all he really wanted to do right now was scream in a pillow or something; Clarke's hot and cold little game was driving him crazy. Yelling at her wouldn't do any good, though, so with a sigh, Bellamy kicked his shoes off and bent down to roll the legs of his pants above his knees, and then dropped down to sit with her. Not right beside her, but with a reasonable distance between them.

Clarke eyed him suspiciously for a minute but Bellamy didn't say a word, until eventually she picked her sketchbook and started drawing again. Bellamy sent a quick text to Octavia, and leaned back on his hands, trying very hard not to stare at Clarke. It was a herculean effort; the way the morning light gleamed in her golden hair, the skin revealed by the way she'd hiked up her dress, how her fingers danced over the papers, made for a compelling show he couldn't keep his eyes off of.

"I used to love it here when I was a kid," she spoke after a moment, so soft, so quiet, that Bellamy wasn't sure if she was really talking to him or to herself. "Our parents were always in there, giving some speech or attending a ceremony, so Wells and I played out here. That drove our nannies crazy." She was still drawing, and her lips twitched up in a small smile. "I remember once, when we were seven or eight, we jumped in the lake. My mom was so mad. She'd dressed me in that little lacy white dress, and she'd spent forever doing my hair...God, she was so mad," Clarke finished, full grin gracing her lips now.

The visual of a tiny, wild and loud Clarke running around wasn't so difficult to conjure, considering how she drove him up the wall. It reminded him fondly of a young Octavia, who had only grown louder and wilder. "So you've known your fiancé since you were kids?" Bellamy asked, just as soft, trying not to break the spell.

Clarke nodded her head, but still didn't look up. She'd put her piece of charcoal down, and was working on her shadows by brushing her fingers on the paper. "We were inseparable, growing up. He's a month older than me, and he always said that gave him responsibility over me. He was like the big brother I never had."

"Must be nice, falling in love with your childhood best friend," Bellamy noted. But when Clarke didn't answer, and her fingers froze over her sketchbook, he realized he'd said the wrong thing. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't -"

"No, it's okay," Clarke reassured him, though never meeting his eye. She kept her head down, and after a moment she resumed drawing.

Bellamy unabashedly studied her now, but Clarke was good at ignoring it, or didn't care, because not once did she lift her head. She worried her lip between her teeth, sighed a lot, and brushed her hair away from her face, painting her skin with black streaks without giving a care in the world. She fascinated him - one moment she could be so open, and the next building walls so high around herself; sugar and spice and everything nice and all of a sudden crazy and wild. It was hard to reconcile the idea of Clarke Griffin, good girl with designer clothes and bright smile who was about to marry Mister Perfect, to the woman who'd whispered seductively in his ear that she wasn't wearing any underwear.

Which had been a lie, Bellamy knew it.

They sat there for a while, and the awkward silence progressively turned companionable again. Bellamy had never really been used to the quiet, not with Octavia being a firecracker, but it was nice; it was the same kind of silence he could share with Miller when they hang out, no words needed. It allowed Bellamy to reflect on what had happened; the evident stiffness when his comment had gotten more personal, how Clarke spoke of Wells more like a friend than a lover. She could be shy - Bellamy would never doubt Lincoln's love for Octavia, and yet Lincoln wasn't much of a talker - but he didn't feel that vibe from her. For a woman who was going to marry the love of her life in a week, Clarke didn't look particularly giddy or excited or enamored. He still didn't feel like what he was doing was right. Clarke seemed to be organizing this wedding on her own, supervising everything without the one person she was doing this for, and with the shadow of her mother and whatever had happened between the two of them - anybody would be stressed and less than overjoyed in a situation like this.

It wasn't until her phone rang, blasting Taylor Swift, that Clarke finally looked up, and swore loudly. "Fuck, I totally forgot -" she mumbled, before answering the call, "Monty, I'm so sorry, I lost track of time -"

She sprang out to her feet, narrowly dropping her sketchbook in the lake if it weren't for Bellamy's fast reflexes. She thanked him with a nod of her head and started for the hotel, forgetting her shoes behind her. "Clarke!" Bellamy called out, jogging after her, "wait, stop -"

She kept speaking in her phone. "I'll be right there, I'm so sorry," she said in a hurried voice, before turning to him, golden curls twirling around her face. "What?" she asked shortly, and then her eyes widened when she saw Bellamy clutching to her sketchbook, her sandals dangling from his fingers. "Oh God," she sighed. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Bellamy shrugged. "You're just a little tense, aren't you?" he added with a chuckle.

"You don't say," Clarke snorted, grabbing his bicep and leaning on him as she tied the straps of her sandals. "I'm having lunch with my friend Monty, and then we have the cake tasting, and it's already noon. When did that happen?"

Bellamy simply offered her another shrug, and Clarke rolled her eyes, good-natured this time. She tugged him behind her by his sleeve, telling him how she didn't want to make Monty wait any longer, and Bellamy grinned at the black streak on her temple all the way to the restaurant.

She ran to hug a kind-faced, smiling boy, who didn't seem to mind her dirty hands and face as he hugged her back just as fiercely. They sat down at a table, Clarke wiping her hands on a pristine white towel with a giggle, and Bellamy stood at the entrance, trying to look tough and intimidating. It wasn't of much use though because the restaurant was empty save for Clarke and her friend; Bellamy wondered if it'd been booked just for them, which wouldn't surprise him considering Clarke Griffin was the closest thing to royalty in town. The chef herself accompanied the waiter when they were served their food to talk to and shake hands with Clarke.

He watched her talk animatedly with her friend, who was mostly quiet but smiled at her all the time; not once did Bellamy hear her mention the wedding - she asked Monty about his new job, showed him her sketchbook, and they talked about everything but the event that was taking place a week later. Bellamy remembered when Octavia had first told him she and Lincoln were getting married; it'd been all she talked about for months. The Jaha-Griffin wedding seemed almost rushed: the groom wasn't even there to organize anything with his bride, and they'd left things like choosing the cake to the last minute despite being engaged for six months. The whole thing was just weird.

He might not know Clarke intimately, but she didn't strike him as the kind of woman who'd dreamed about getting married in some fancy hotel since she was a little girl. She was too free-spirited, too rebellious; was it the reason why her relationship with her mother seemed so strained? It made no sense to Bellamy, particularly now that it looked like Abby didn't want that kind of life for her daughter. He was usually good at reading people, but it was an almost impossible task with these two. There was a piece of the puzzle he was missing, and without it Bellamy didn't know how to breach these walls Clarke had built around her.

They finished their lunch and the table was cleared, and then covered by a dozen different cake slices, each even more cliché than the next: lilac topping, purple sugar flowers, rows of sugar pearls... Even Monty frowned, hesitantly forking a piece of a rich purple-looking cake in his mouth. "I - I'm not sure what this is," Bellamy heard him say, "but I don't ever want to taste it again."

Clarke reached for the little note card in the plate. "It's blackberry and bergamot, with tangerine topping," she read, sounding a little unconvinced. "Thelonius' first choice, apparently. It can't be that bad, though?" she tried, hopeful.

Monty grimaced. "Are you sure Wells' dad is not trying to poison you?"

Clarke sighed, and pushed the plate aside without even tasting it. "Bye bye, blackberry, then."

And after blackberry, it was mango, strawberry and butter cream that Clarke and Monty voted off, up to the point where they'd eliminated all of them and didn't pick any. The chef came back to ask if everything was all right, and Bellamy saw Clarke playing nervously with her fingers, unable to tell her she wasn't thrilled about them. "They're all very...special," Monty offered kindly.

"That's what we aimed for," the chef replied enthusiastically. "Mayor Jaha did tell us he wanted something very unique."

"That's what they are for sure," Clarke nodded, never meeting Monty's eyes that Bellamy could clearly see mouthing poison again. Clarke's cheeks were flushing nevertheless, and he saw her kicking Monty's leg under the table.

Bellamy didn't realize he'd started towards them until he was standing beside Clarke and she was looking up at him with that confused look on her face. Recovering quickly, he said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but you're going to be late for your appointment. You know, at the hair salon."

Clarke frowned, and opened her mouth - and that was when she understood, and nodded. "Oh, yeah, my appointment." She turned to Monty. "You know, my appointment. For my hair," she insisted, gesturing wildly at her blond curls. Monty just shrugged. She turned to the chef, this time, and gave her an apologetic smile. "Would you mind if I took a moment to think about the cakes, please?" she asked, ever polite and well-mannered. "It's just so hard to pick one."

"Not at all, miss Griffin," the other woman replied with a smile. "We'd be happy to make you try out new ones, if you'd like, too. Just let us know."

Clarke smiled back, and Bellamy suppressed a snicker at the face her friend made, half-disgust, half-horror. Clarke tried to glare at him, but started laughing as soon as the chef had gone back to the kitchen. "You traitor," she said affectionately to Monty, before turning to Bellamy. "Thank you. I owe you one."

Bellamy grinned. "You just looked like you could use some help."

"And some anti-poison," Monty added in a murmur, narrowly dodging a light punch Clarke aimed at his shoulder as the three of them walked out of the restaurant and into the hotel lobby. "Hey!" Monty whined. "I've lost all my taste buds because of you. Be nice."

"Don't remind me," Clarke let out with an aggravated sigh. "Where am I supposed to find another cook with some sense and taste, and who's not been brainwashed by Thelonius?"

Bellamy's face lit up at her words. "I think I might just know."


Bellamy was breaking every rule in his book, but helping Clarke out would get him in her good books - and seven days away from her wedding, Bellamy could really use it.

"I know this place," Clarke murmured as they neared Miller's coffee shop.

Bellamy's brow raised in surprise. He couldn't imagine Clarke Griffin hanging around here, or in a place like Trikru; but at the same time, he could totally imagine her hanging around here. His best friend's coffee shop was the kind of place where young hipsters would write their first novels on napkins, or something; of course Clarke Griffin, artist extraordinaire, would fit in there. "It's pretty cool, and Miller's got the best cupcakes in town," Bellamy bragged loudly as he pushed the front door open and the three of them came in.

Miller was at the counter, grinning at him. "Aw, you're gonna make me blush, man," he laughed, and the two hugged. He then turned to Clarke and Monty, an amused gleam in his eye. "So, who's the princess bride they tried to poison with ridiculously fancy but weird cake?" he asked.

Monty laughed, and Clarke rolled her eyes at him before raising her hand. "That would be me."

"Okay. You guys go sit wherever you want, and I'll bring you something to cheer you up," Miller said, charming and smooth. "You can call me Nate, by the way."

Bellamy snorted. "No one calls you Nate, dude."

"Everybody but you calls me Nate," Miller replied with an eye roll. "Shut up and help me."

Clarke giggled at that, and she and Monty went to sit down in a booth while Bellamy slipped behind the counter to help Miller. "I owe you, man," Bellamy thanked him.

"Yeah, you can thank me after she tastes one of my cupcakes and falls for you," Miller murmured back, teasing. "Who's the guy?"

"Just a friend," Bellamy replied. "Fiancé's out of town."

"Ouch. What kind of guy leaves his fiancée all alone a week before their wedding? It's nice of her friend to be there for her, though," he noted.

Bellamy cocked an eyebrow at his friend's tone. "Miller."

"Bell."

Bellamy sighed, and busied himself with preparing coffee. "You can make all the heart eyes you want after I'm done with this," he promised. "I'll get you his number if you want."

Miller scoffed. "As if I needed you to get a guy's number, Blake. You haven't gone out on a date in ages."

Bellamy opened his mouth to protest, but closed it almost as instantly, because, really, there was a lot of truth in his friend's words - not that he'd admit it, but still. He tugged at Miller's beanie, pulling it over his eyes, and dipped his finger in the chocolate topping he was making and brought it to his mouth. "Jesus," Bellamy swore. "You've got to tell me how you do this."

"You wish," Miller snorted. "When I die, my recipe book goes to Octavia. Now, make yourself useful and bring them their drinks."

Bellamy did as he was told, for once, and brought the coffee tray over to where Clarke and Monty had sat, Miller following him with the cupcakes. "Okay, so for you I have one coffee with three sugars," Miller said, putting a steaming mug in front of Clarke, "and jasmine tea with cream for you," he continued, handing Monty another cup.

Clarke and Monty stared at each other, then at Bellamy, and then at Miller. "How do you know that?" Monty asked, stunned.

Miller shrugged one shoulder, smug smile twitching his lips. "It's my job to know," he said simply.

Monty looked amazed, and Clarke kept glancing between Bellamy and Miller, as if trying to figure out something. "So, you own this place, Nate?" she asked, as she reached out for a cupcake. "I feel like I've been here before, but I can't seem to remember you."

"It used to be a restaurant. I worked here as a waiter when I was in high school, and when I heard Indra was selling, I bought it and turned it into a coffee shop."

"That's great," Monty commented in an admiring tone.

Clarke nodded in agreement. And then, as she was about to bite in her cupcake, her head snapped up. "Indra, you said?"

"Yeah," Miller answered. "This place used to be named -"

"Indra's," Clarke finished for him. "That's why it felt so familiar. I used to come here a lot with my dad when I was a kid."

A sort of silence fell after Clarke spoke, not exactly heavy but not comfortable either. Monty looked down at his mug; Miller gazed at Monty in concern. Bellamy looked at Clarke, feeling that sense of helplessness when it came to her again, and she just took a bite of her cupcake. She moaned appreciatively at the taste, her tongue darting out to chase the flavor on her lips, and Miller looked up at her with a smile on his face. "So I take it you like it?" he asked smugly.

Bellamy rolled his eyes, and slung an arm over Miller's shoulders. "Humility is really attractive on you, man."

"As much as that cheap suit on you, bro," his best friend deadpanned. "So what do you think, Clarke?" he asked, smiling and charming again.

She looked at him like his cupcake was some kind of religious experience. "I think I want a thousand of these. Do you think you could do that?"

Miller's eyes widened. "Are you for real?" he asked, and when Clarke just stared back at him, he laughed nervously. "Okay, wow, you are serious. Wow. A thousand? Like, one thousand as in nine hundred and ninety-nine plus one, or this is just a figure of speech?"

"Well, there will be over three hundred guests, so that sounds about right," Clarke shrugged like it made perfect sense. "I'll arrange for you to have as many commis chefs as you need. I'll talk with Keenan at the Polis, she's the head of the kitchen department. It shouldn't be a problem for you to use their kitchen and team for a day."

Miller was still looking at her like this was all a dream. "She's for real, Bell," he echoed, eyes still wide and bright.

Bellamy grinned, and his eyes locked with Clarke's. She was smiling, too, but then she gave him the slightest nod of her head; something that looked like approval and gratitude, and the tiniest bit of surprise. As if she didn't expect him to be of any help, he who was nothing but a nuisance imposed on her by her mother. She grabbed another cupcake, Monty following her lead, and Bellamy took his phone from his pocket and sent a text to his sister under the table.

She likes me. We can start Phase 2.


to be continued