The next morning came a little easier. Clarke woke in her own bed, with no hangover, and found that she felt almost rested. She crawled out of her sheets, wincing as the cold air hit her bare legs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. First things first, she needed coffee. As she rounded the corner into the kitchen Clarke realized she could actually smell it already. Frowning she walked over to find a full pot.

"Wh-" She shook her head, had she already made some and fallen back asleep? Just as she was reaching for a mug someone spoke behind her.

"Good morning."

Screaming, Clarke spun around, holding the mug in front of her like a weapon. Her spiking pulse calmed a little when she saw Bellamy standing there, the events of the past day slowly coming back.

"Oh." She said weakly, setting the mug down. "Good morning." She turned, trying to pretend she hadn't just had a small heart attack, but she could tell by the way he was smiling at her that he wasn't going to let it go.

"We should probably stop meeting like this." He was smirking, and it really shouldn't have been attractive, but it was. Clarke forced a smile.

"I guess I forgot you were here." The grin dropped off his face and she immediately felt bad. She hadn't meant to sound like she didn't want him here. "But hey, I could get used to this whole waking up to a full pot of coffee thing." She amended, pouring herself a cup. She saw him relax, and sighed internally. "What are you doing today?" He looked at her, in that intense way that seemed to pool heat low in her belly, and she momentarily found herself lost. Apparently that was going to happen often around Bellamy.

"I've got a few errands to run, then a meeting at one." He shrugged. Clarke found herself curious about his life. The more he held back, the more she wanted to know.

"What exactly do you do?" She poured him a mug to match her own and slid it over to him, hoping to coax out a little information. It worked.

"I'm a writer." It wasn't what she had expected. He seemed to catch onto that, cocking his head as he studied her reaction.

"What kind of writer?" Clarke asked, sipping at the hot coffee. Between her first hit of caffeine, and her early morning scare, she was wide awake.

"Nothing you'd have read." He told her, finishing his coffee. He dropped his mug in the sink, turning toward the guest room. Clarke frowned, clearly his wall was back up and she wouldn't get anything else out of him. She silently gave thanks that this was a temporary arrangement, because really who wanted such a surly stranger in their home all the time? Still, she watched him go, admiring the way his jeans fit him. Okay he was surly. But he was also very, very hot. She turned to the sink, placing her mug next to his, and wondered when the last time she'd woken up with a guy in her place was. She couldn't remember. It wasn't that she was a prude, but she had intimacy issues, she knew that, and she was more of a sneak out in the middle of the night type of girl these days. She'd been in a long term relationship for years, and when it ended she'd found herself with no desire to rush back into anything serious.

She showered, not bothering to get dressed in the bathroom, and surveyed her closet clad only in a towel. Bellamy was a guest here, and a relatively unobtrusive one from what she could tell, so she wasn't going to start changing her habits to make him more comfortable. She had made a habit of not getting dressed until the very last minute to avoid getting food or makeup on her clothes. Still, she wasn't an exhibitionist despite the way they'd met, so she threw on a nice pair of slacks and a blouse before venturing back out into the living room.

Clarke had furnished her apartment with a mixture of high-end contemporary pieces (courtesy of her mother) and antiques that were more true to her own taste. The result was an eclectic collection of mixed woods and colors, and that suited her just fine. She'd never thought much about how it looked to an outsider, but as she watched Bellamy wander around inspecting the place she felt a little self-conscious. He looked up as she approached, the sound of her heels on the hardwood a detriment to her stealth. He was hovering beside one of her paintings, a breathtaking rendering of the harbor at night.

"I like this." He pointed at the painting. Clarke smiled. Everyone appreciated art in their own way, and she would never understand why some people were so snobby about it. She could hold her own in a party full of art critics, but she, like Bellamy, knew what she liked. The rest didn't matter.

"Me too." She crossed the room, grabbed her coat off the rack, and was just untucking her hair from under its collar when she heard Bellamy directly behind her. She turned around, and found him frowning at her.

"That painting is really familiar. Who's it by?" He looked frustrated.

"Just a local artist." Clarke shrugged. "Octavia has one by the same artist in her bedroom, the one with the downtown skyline? That's probably why it's familiar." A light went on behind his eyes, and the recognition soothed whatever irritation the mystery had been causing.

"You heading out?" He asked, gesturing at her coat. She nodded.

"Yeah I have rounds today, I'll probably be back around eight." She glanced at the wall clock, it was just after seven and she was going to be late. "I left a key for you on the counter, and I'll let Marcus know you're staying with me."

"Marcus?"

"The doorman. I've gotta run, I'll see you later. Good luck with your meeting." She threw him a quick smile before rushing out the door.

The day was proving to be longer than expected, Clarke was still a little tired from the long weekend of partying, and her patients seemed to be more stubborn than usual.

"Maggie, you have to-"

"No!" The older woman pushed her hands away as Clarke tried to lift the bandages on her stomach.

"I need to change this, it's going to get infected-"

"It's a scam! I know what you're doing!" Maggie shouted, the hysteria apparent in her eyes. Clarke sighed, trying to calm her down.

"Maggie, it's not a scam, I'm trying to help. I just need to change your bandage, that's all." The older woman continued to struggle, but a couple units of phenobarbital later her dressings were fresh and Clarke was more than ready to go home.

When she'd first started med school she had loved it. With her mother's help she had become top of her class, and being proficient at something always seemed to make it more enjoyable. But the farther she got into her career, the more she began to doubt that it was what she truly wanted. She had a knack for it, that was obvious, and her patient care was second only to her surgical skills, but she just didn't enjoy it the same way she used to. She'd always loved art, had doodled in every notebook at school until her algebra notes were all but illegible. As a kid she'd dreamed of being an artist, but her parents were scientists and they looked down on the arts and Clarke had quickly learned to keep her mouth shut and charcoals hidden. Her father had been a little more indulgent than her mother, sneaking her art supplies, but he'd backed up her mother's enthusiasm that Clarke go to medical school, and there was a part of her that craved independence too much to take a gamble on her future. With her connections in the world of medicine and her natural ability Clarke was pretty much guaranteed a residency, and then a fellowship, at any hospital in Canada. That meant income, and income meant she could pay back her parents and leave their opinions behind with their money.

The painting Bellamy had admired was one of hers, Octavia had seen it a few months after they met and loved it enough that Clarke had painted one of Octavia's favourite view of downtown. Clarke didn't tell anyone about her painting, it was done just for her and the fear that art was a sure road to failure had been distinctly ingrained in her as a child. So she kept it private. Still, as her days at the hospital got longer and her temper with her patients got shorter she found the question of whether or not this was what she truly wanted popping up more often.

She changed out of her scrubs back into her clothes and looked in the mirror. She looked haggard, as she usually did coming off of a shift, but then again she didn't normally have to go home to a well-muscled but abrasive roommate. Sighing, she ran a brush through her hair and patted a little concealer on the dark circles that seemed to reside permanently under her eyes. She eyed her reflection with resignation. It would have to do. Deciding it really didn't matter how looked in front of Bellamy anyways, Clarke made her way to the parking lot. She was halfway home by the time her stomach started grumbling at her, and she debated whether or not she was too sick of fast food to grab a couple cartoons of veggie chow fun and some egg rolls. Eventually, her hunger won out, and she tapped the button on her steering wheel to activate voice dialing. She entered the command for her land line, hoping Bellamy would be comfortable enough to answer it. He picked up on the third ring.

"Princess Clarke's phone." He sounded completely at ease. She frowned.

"Really? That's how you answer my phone?"

He laughed.

"You have caller ID. I figured you were either calling to talk to me or to leave yourself a message, and no one really leaves themselves messages anymore. I took a risk." Clarke could practically hear his smirk over the phone.

"Right. I'm going to pick up some Chinese food on the way home, do you want anything? The egg rolls at this place are sinful." There was a pause on the other end, and Clarke tapped her finger on the steering wheel impatiently. She was starving, and wanted to get this order in as soon as possible. The Phoenix had the best Chinese food in town, and it was almost time for the dinner rush. If she didn't get her order in now it would be at least forty five minutes.

"I actually already ate." He finally answered. Clarke glanced at the clock and her dash and realized it was almost nine-thirty. She often forgot that other people had schedules that allowed them to eat dinner at a normal hour.

"Oh, right. Okay."

"I made spaghetti. There's enough for you, you know, if your heart isn't set on those egg rolls."

Clarke stared at the speaker in her car, caught off guard.

"You cooked?"

"Yeah, I mean, I hope that's okay. I figured it would be all cleaned up by the time you got home, so…"

"No. Spaghetti sounds perfect. I'll be home in ten." She tapped to end the call, spending the rest of the ride hoping Bellamy wasn't as bad a cook as her last boyfriend.

The smell hit her as she walked through the door, a delicious mixture of tomatoes, garlic and oregano.

"Wow." She walked into the kitchen, closing her eyes to soak in the aroma. She opened her eyes and spotted Bellamy at the sink, sleeves rolled up as he washed her saucepan. There was something intimately domestic about watching someone do the dishes in your own kitchen, and Clarke once again found herself distracted by him. She was starting to think that if she was going to make it through this weekend she would have to find someone to take care of her mounting sexual frustration. Sleeping with Bellamy would be too complicated, and she got the distinct sense he didn't like her much anyways. He looked good, and the kitchen smelled good, and the whole thing was making her confused and more than a little lusty.

"Hey." Bellamy turned just enough to give her a little nod. "The spaghetti's in the fridge. There's garlic bread in the oven too, I figured it's better hot." Clarke practically leaped toward the food, grabbing the container out of the fridge and throwing some in a bowl. Deciding it would take too long to wait for the microwave, she grabbed a piece of garlic bread while the microwave counted down. An indecent noise of approval slipped out as she swallowed the first bite, and her eyes drifted shut. She really had been starving, and the bread was the best she'd had in ages. She opened her eyes to find Bellamy smiling at her in amusement, the sound of a sink draining telling her he'd finished the dishes.

"Sorry. I'm really hungry." He just grinned. The microwave beeped behind her and Clarke pulled the bowl out with a hiss. It burned her fingers as she set it on the counter, and she stuck her thumb in her mouth, staring at the bowl reproachfully.

"You alright?" He didn't look too concerned, but then again Clarke was starting to get the sense that Bellamy was never overly concerned about anything. He had the kind of sullen nonchalance that most women loved and Clarke found infuriating. She'd always thought that being afraid to show your emotions was a sign of immaturity.

"I'm fine." She stirred the noodles with her other hand, mouth watering as the steam carried the scent up to her nose. "God this smells good." She popped the first forkful in her mouth and hummed happily as she chewed. Bellamy watched her, that same cocky grin on his face. She didn't care. She beamed back at him, the high of finally having a meal that didn't come out of a box making her giddy.

"You like it?"

Clarke wouldn't have taken Bellamy for the type to ask, but she also wouldn't have guessed he could, or would, cook like this either. She nodded, forcing the obscene amount of food in her mouth down her throat.

"It's delicious. I haven't had a home cooked meal in ages. That French toast was the only thing I've eaten in days that didn't come out of a carton." She walked back to her fridge, pulling out a beer. She held the blue bottle up, offering one to Bellamy. He nodded. She grabbed both, popping the tops off with the bottle opener on her fridge door, and slid one over to Bellamy. He inspected the bottle before taking a swig.

"This is nice beer." He looked surprised. Clarke considered being offended, but as she shoved another bite of pasta in her mouth she decided to forgive him.

"Mhmm." She nodded, continuing to eat. He was still watching her, but the look of amusement had changed to something looked suspiciously like judgment. "What?"

"I-nothing." Clarke narrowed her eyes.

"You're judging me."

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are." She waved her fork at him. "I have been on my feet since eight o clock this morning. I worked a twelve hour shift during which I assisted on two surgeries and had like eight really difficult patients. I didn't have time to eat. So I'm hungry." Bellamy frowned.

"You haven't eaten at all?"

"I'm eating now."

"You didn't even eat breakfast."

Clarke paused, her fork hovering over the almost empty bowl of pasta. There was something on his face, something like concern, and it didn't fit comfortably in the empty banter they'd established.

"I-No. But I had a power bar around one." It was a lie, she'd had a few bites of the power bar that her resident had shoved at her but it tasted like hot chocolate powder and kale mixed together and she'd thrown the rest in a trash can. Clarke was a firm believer that health food should taste like health food. A brick of mashed up greens was never going to taste like a mars bar, so why bother? Bellamy was still frowning at her. "It's not a big deal. I just don't usually have time. That's just what being an intern is like, you're the bottom of the totem pole, you work while the attendings take lunch breaks." She shrugged.

"Sounds like fun." Clarke studied his face, and decided there was definitely judgment in that comment.

"It's not supposed to be fun. It's supposed to train you for brain surgeries that last eighteen hours when you don't get to take a break because your patient will bleed out on the table." She snapped, not sure why she suddenly felt so defensive. He held his hands up in mock surrender. She groaned. "Sorry. I'm a little edgy."

"It's fine." He walked away, returning to the table with another slice of garlic bread. He held it out to her and she took it gratefully.

"You're a great cook." She gestured at him with the garlic bread. He gave her a smile, a genuine one, and she found herself returning it automatically.

"Well, I had to cook for Octavia. Our mom…" He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"It's okay." Clarke said gently. "Octavia already told me." Her friend had explained, in great detail and explicit language, that their mother had lost her job when Octavia was two, and had turned to the streets to pay the bills. From the stories Clarke had heard, Bellamy had come home to find his mother with a client more than once. Her proximity to drugs had eventually fostered a habit of her own, and she'd died of an overdose when Octavia was eleven. Clarke wasn't sure how old Bellamy was, but he couldn't have been older than eighteen when it happened. She doubted it was something he wanted to talk about with a stranger.

She fished around for a change of subject, and her eyes fell on a stack of books on her counter.

"How did your meeting go?" She asked, carrying her now empty bowl to the dishwasher. She couldn't see Bellamy's face, but she could hear the relief in his voice when he replied.

"Good. We got a lot done." He didn't elaborate.

"Okay. Any chance you're going to tell me what you're working on?"

"It's boring." He shrugged dismissively, a move Clarke recognized as one she used when anyone asked about her painting. It was a tell, and she knew it well.

"Try me." She grabbed the empty bottles of beer and dropped them in the recycling bin under her sink. Swiping two new ones from the fridge, she settled across from Bellamy at the table, waiting expectantly. He took the beer she handed him, picking at the label with his thumb.

"There's a guy down here who's a descendant of a historical figure I'm working on a kind of post-bio piece on. I was hoping to get in touch with him but no luck so far." Clarke frowned.

"I though you said you got a lot done?"

"We did. I have some other sources in the area, none who have access to the kind of documents he does, but I got some good notes." He said it with a smile, but Clarke could see through it. He was a perfectionist, and they were easily recognized by their own kind. She'd had days like that. She once had hiked for eight hours in the middle of the night to get the right vantage point and lighting for a painting. And that was just a hobby.

"Who are you writing about?" She wondered, still a little surprised that he was a history buff. It seemed like he was just full of surprises.

"His name is Archer Collins. He drew some designs in the 1800's that ended up being included in the first space shuttle. He was way ahead of his time, but because of that none of his work really got any attention when he was alive. Now his designs are being used but since he's dead the engineers using them are reluctant to hand over the credit." His eyes lit up a little as he spoke, and Clarke felt a spark of envy. This was what it looked like to truly love what you do. Then his words hit her. Her mouth dropped open.

"Archer Collins? The guy you're trying to get a hold of is Finn Collins?" He stared at her in surprise.

"You've heard of him?"

"I-yeah. I know him." Clarke answered, deciding that was all he needed to know. She did know Finn, in fact she had dated Finn. Well, actually, they had been engaged. But the engagement had lasted a whole three days before she found out he had been cheating on her with her mechanic, and Clarke had unceremoniously thrown him and all of his things out onto the street. For some reason, after the dust had settled they had maintained a cordial relationship, if only because they shared friends and it seemed that not even a week could pass without them running into each other. At first Clarke had ignored him, but she could only keep it up for so long before deciding that cold and polite worked a lot better than sprinting in the opposite direction every time she saw him.

"You know him, like you're in contact?" Bellamy was gaping at her like he'd just won the lottery. She sighed.

"Yeah. We… run into each other now and then. I can give him a call if you want." She didn't want to call Finn, really didn't want to call Finn, but Bellamy had come all the way out here for this story and she could tell it meant a lot to him. She wasn't sure why she cared, but she did. "He owes me a favour." He owed her a lot more than a favor, but Clarke didn't want anything from him. This, she was doing for Bellamy. Bellamy who was currently beaming at her as if she'd promised him her first born child.

"Yes. Please. I mean, if you don't mind." Suppressing the urge to groan, Clarke smiled tightly.

"No, not at all." She grabbed her phone off the counter, muscle memory kicking as she traced the familiar number across the keypad. It was late, but Finn didn't work Mondays and she knew he'd be up. Some things change, others don't. His schedule was as steadfast as time itself. Listening to the phone ring, Clarke tapped her fingers irritably on the table.

"Hello?" Finn finally picked up, his voice a little uncertain. He had caller ID, he knew it was her. Clarke hadn't called him since the breakup almost a year ago.

"Um, hey. It's Clarke." Stupid, she thought. He already knew that.

"Hi." The pause was awkward, and Clarke was suddenly aware that she'd spent most of the last hour sitting in silence with Bellamy, and it had been so comfortable she hadn't thought twice about it. The contrast was glaring.

"I was actually wondering if I could ask a favor." The words felt like acid, burning her tongue as they went. A very indignant part of her wanted to hang up the phone, to hold onto her pride. The logical part dismissed that, but her pulse spiked a little as though in protest.

"Of course." He answered immediately, and Clarke bit her lip. Clearly he was still feeling the guilt of what he'd done. Once, that would have made her happy. Now all she felt was empty.

"I have this friend, he's writing a book about one of your ancestors. I was wondering if you'd be willing to meet with him, just to talk."

"Bellamy Blake? You know that guy?" Finn sounded a little incredulous.

"He's Octavia's brother." There was another pause, and Clarke could practically see Finn slapping a hand to his forehead as he put it together.

"I should've known. Yeah, I've gotten a few of his e-mails but I just haven't had time to deal with it. Sure. I'll talk to him. I'm free every day except Thursday after three and-"

"All day Sunday. Yeah, I know." The familiarity still hurt a little, but not in the way it used to. Now it was more of a dull ache, like a bruise that wasn't quite healed.

"Do you want to ask him and call me back?" Finn asked. Clarke glanced at Bellamy sitting across from her.

"Uh, no. Just hold on a second." She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and looked at Bellamy. "He says he's free every day except Thursday after three and all day on Sunday." It didn't escape Clarke's notice that Bellamy was supposed to be leaving tomorrow, but she didn't bring it up. A few more days wouldn't kill her, and now that she'd gone to the effort and asked Finn there was no sense in Bellamy leaving before they got a chance to talk.

"Wednesday would be great." Bellamy told her, still looking pleasantly surprised. Clarke nodded and lifted her hand from the phone.

"How's Wednesday?"

"That's fine. Around eight?" Clarke mouthed eight to Bellamy and he gave her a thumbs up.

"Sure. He'll meet you at the Alibi Room." Realizing she was tapping her fingers against the table in discomfort, Clarke slid her hand under the table, sitting on it.

"Okay. Clarke?" Fighting the urge to simply hang up and down an entire bottle of wine, Clarke exhaled slowly.

"Yeah?"

"Is he with you now? Like at your place?"

"Goodnight, Finn" Clarke said sharply, hanging up and dropping the phone on the table. Bellamy looked at her inquisitively, but she waved it off. "Okay, you're meeting him at the Alibi Room at eight. It's a nice pub, and it's close. You can walk from here." He cocked his head, studying her.

"Do you have a problem with this Collins kid?" He asked, ignoring what she'd said. Clarke dropped her head into hands, wanting nothing more than to fall into bed.

"No." She muttered into her fingers. She didn't have to look up to know he didn't believe her. She groaned, looking back up at him. "I'm just tired, and we don't get along that well. I'm going to bed, Bellamy. Thanks for dinner." Suddenly exhausted, Clarke stood, finishing the rest of her beer and recycling the bottle. She headed for her bedroom without looking back, waving her hand above her head in a silent goodnight.

When her head hit the pillow, Finn's face appeared behind closed eyes, but the last thing she saw before it all faded away was Bellamy's smile.