Back from hiatus - happy to be writing again! I missed that

In Clarke's head, she knew exactly how this moment would play out: she'd glide up the escalator at Grand Central Station with her suitcase in hand, Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" blasting through her earbuds. She would stroll out the front doors, breathing in the April air and feeling the uninhibited sense of possibility oozing through her skin. That's how she'd been imagining her arrival in New York City.

That wasn't at all how it actually played out.

Even though it was late in the afternoon, the station was crawling with people, and Clarke had to elbow her way up a flooded set of stairs. Her suitcase clunked along behind her, awkward and unwieldy, and her phone was down to two-percent of its precious battery life. Instead, she listened to the less-than-polite muttering of the crowd around her and a hundred footsteps on the lacquered floors. When Clarke finally made it outside, her first inhale brought a strong whiff of car exhaust. She tugged her cargo jacket tighter around her shoulders, it was colder than she'd expected.

Nothing was really how she'd expected.

Clarke set her suitcase on the ground and precariously balanced her other bags on top of it, freeing a hand to hail for a taxi. She blew wisps of her blonde hair from her face. Now the wind was starting to pick up, and yup, she was definitely cold. After her ninth unsuccessful attempt at getting a driver's attention, and third taxi that had been rudely intercepted by some harried-looking businessman, Clarke gave up and, in a huff, marched down the street towards the nearest subway entrance.

Inside the tunnel, Clarke paid for her ticket and slipped through the turnstiles, pulling a city map from a plastic holder on the wall. She collapsed onto one of the uncomfortable tile benches, eyes scanning the unfolded map for the familiar street intersection. When she spotted it, she dragged her finger across the page, counting out the number of subway stops away she was… eight. Of course, she rolled her eyes. Didn't look this complicated on Google Maps. From the darker end of the tunnel a small light grew, bringing with it the rushing sound of the approaching subway car. As it slid to a halt, Clarke gathered her things and hurried on.

For this first time so far, something went according to how she'd envisioned it: the subway ride was just as cramped and uncomfortable as she'd imagined. It wasn't necessarily bad, and she had to admit her heart raced a little each time she felt the train speed up. Because this was New York. This was the experience she'd been looking for, and she finally felt like she'd landed in the place she'd expected. A place where she could start over.

She could move on, from her complicated family situation. From her ill-fitting job. From the memory of Lexa, and the months of grieving that followed. She could relocate to a city that was so overwhelming, so jarring, that she'd have no choice but completely start over.

When her legs started to feel tingly, and her fingers sore from clutching the metal bar so tightly, Clarke heard the automated voice over the loudspeaker announcing her stop. Waiting for the sliding doors to open, Clarke could feel butterflies rumbling her stomach. This was it. She hopped off the train and ascended up the escalator, which dumped her out right in the middle of her street.

Finally, something's going my way. Clarke wove down the sidewalk, surrounded by businessmen in long coats, wide-eyed tourists with oversized cameras, street vendors with their stuffed carts, construction workers and the likes. She passed storefronts with glossy windows and streetlamps plastered with a thousand posters. Even the sidewalks themselves were busy, bespeckled with leaves and gum and odd pieces of trash that told their own story. Clarke followed her path around the corner, eyes combing for the building address she'd memorized.

When she finally spotted the right numbers, they were affixed onto a drab brick building, nothing like the glamorous newer towers with their sparkling glass and steel. Clarke tried to see the positive: it was in a decent location, and it was relatively affordable, and she was in New York City for crying out loud. So she swallowed down her butterflies and her uncertainties and strolled - no, hobbled, given her clunky suitcase - up the front steps.

And when she'd been praying to any deity up above that there was an elevator, naturally there was just a stairwell. And her apartment was on the fourth floor.

Four flights of stairs later, Clarke had missed the step twice, bruised her right leg with her suitcase more times than she could count, and had mentally - and occasionally verbally, under her breath - recited every cuss word she knew. She hauled herself to the top of the stairs and practically flung herself out onto the hallway. "Unit 411," she muttered to herself, passing rows of identical doors. Around a bend in the path, she spotted it at the very end. Unit 411.

"Welcome to day one," Clarke whispered as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. She wasn't sure what she expected here. Perhaps her hopes weren't really even that high, but everything was heightened by her eager nerves. The apartment was small and rather barren, with outdated furniture but zero personality. On the far wall the windows looked small, but she supposed that was just because someone had yanked the blinds down across them, keeping out any natural light. Shutting the door behind her, Clarke walked in with hesitant steps, her new reality settling in around her. She put her bags on the floor and slowly sat down on the couch, sinking into the stiff cushions.

What have I done?

All at once, the exhaustion of the day seemed to hit her. She was tired and wanted a nap, but also felt scummy and gross from traveling. Maybe a shower would do, or at least she could wash her face and freshen up. She noticed a door leading into a small room off the bedroom, and assumed it was the bathroom. Like everything else, it was tiny and underwhelming, but at least there was a shower, toilet and a sink. Little miracles.

Her appearance looked as bad as she felt: tired eyes, ruddy complexion, hair spilling out of her braid and flying all over her face. Maybe the lighting or the mirror wasn't flattering, or maybe she really needed some rest. Clarke reached for the sink handles to wash her face.

Nothing happened. She tried turning the handles the other way, but still nothing happened. No water. She tried the handle in the shower, then flushing the toilet. Nothing. By the time she'd checked the kitchen sink, to no avail, she came to the disheartening realization that she had no running water.

"That's just great." She threw her hands up in frustration, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. Who could she call? Her landlord was in Florida until the end of the week, having left her broken directions over a series of emails. She didn't know how to get in contact anyone in charge of the facilities for the building. She could see only one other option.

Taking her key, Clarke left Unit 411 for its neighbor, 412. Gathering herself, she knocked politely at the door and crossed her fingers that someone would be home.

So when the door did open, she let out a big sigh of relief. "Hi," she began. "I just moved into 411, right next to you."

The man who'd answered the door stood several inches taller than her, and though she could only see half of him because of the door, she could tell he was muscular and fit. He had olive skin and freckles, and his dark curly hair matched his dark, unamused eyes. In fact, he didn't look too delighted to be disturbed, and Clarke - realizing it was probably dinnertime - could understand that. "Yeah," was all he said.

"I just… there's no running water in my apartment."

His expression didn't change. "And what exactly am I supposed to do about that?"

Clarke raised her eyebrows. "Well, I figured you might know who to call about it."

"Maybe the landlord?"

"Out of the state for the rest of the week."

"Convenient time to move into an apartment then." He seemed skeptical.

"Want to see my paperwork? I'm not a squatter or something." She was already regretting the choice to ask him for help. "You know what? Never mind. I'm sure Unit 410 will be happy to give me some pointers."

"No one in Unit 410 speaks English very well." He said once Clarke had turned around. "And the guy in 409 is never home on weeknights."

She spun back around, arms folded. Her patience had worn thin. "Then what do you propose I do?"

He finally gave up. "I think I have the facilities contacts written down somewhere, I'll get them for you and you can give them a call."

"Thank you." Clarke made towards his front door but he shut it before she could get close. So she stood. In the hallway. Facing his closed door with wide eyes. The nerve of that idiot!

It was only for a few seconds though, before he pulled the door back open, a sheepish look on his face. He mumbled an apology and a halfhearted invitation inside. Awkwardly, Clarke accepted.

"My name's Clarke," she called out as he disappeared into his kitchen. She caught a sliver of him through the doorway, watching him rifle through drawers and stacks of paper. In fact, there was paper everywhere. Piles and mountains and books on every flat surface. It wasn't particularly messy, from what she could see, there were just books everywhere. "Clarke Griffin."

"Bellamy Blake." He said in reply, not looking up from his search. In the kitchen light Clarke got a better look at him, at his hooded features and strong physique. Little details stood out to her, like the way his long curls fell across his forehead, or the curve of his jaw, or how the sleeves of his t-shirt were stretched just a bit too tightly across his sculpted arms. Then she realized what she was doing and caught herself staring, pulling her gaze away before he noticed.

"Here." He crossed to her, holding a wrinkly sticky-note with scrawling numbers written on it. "This is the phone number for the water company. Your unit's been empty for a couple weeks before you moved in, so that's probably why they shut off the water."

"How nice of my landlord to tell them I'm coming." Clarke remarked, folding the note and slipping it into her pocket. "Thank you. I… I have one more favor to ask."

His brows rose.

"Could I use your bathroom to freshen up a little? Just wash up and stuff, no shower or anything." Goodness knows she wasn't about to shower in some stranger's bathroom, even if he was intriguing and very easy on the eyes… "I'll be quick."

There was something about Bellamy's gaze, something about his dark eyes that seemed to cut right into Clarke and really see her. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. But she relieved when he nodded and motioned to the bathroom off the hall.

"Thanks," she said, slipping inside. It was nice to turn the sink knob and actually get water to come out. She washed her hands and face, relaxing a little as the cool water calmed her jumpy nerves. And she couldn't help herself from stealing quick glances at Bellamy's reflection in the mirror as he moved about the kitchen.

Dammit, I'm staring again.

Clarke didn't see Bellamy again until a few days later. She'd spent the rest of the week trying to unpack what she'd brought, and waiting anxiously for the rest of her belongings to finally show up in the mail. Slowly, she began to settle into some pattern, trying to adjust to her new life. So when Thursday evening rolled around and her stomach started to grumble, she followed its orders and set out to find dinner.

Since moving in, Clarke had left her apartment building exactly three times. She still didn't have the slightest idea where things were or how to get to them, and though she wanted to get out and explore the city, it was overwhelming to say the least. As she locked her front door and made for the stairwell, she had zero idea what she wanted to eat or where she could go.

So, perhaps it was good fortune that she noticed Bellamy leaving his unit and heading out towards the stairwell at the same time.

Clarke quickened her strides, tucking her flyaway hair behind her ears before she realized what she was doing. Why does it matter what my hair looks like anyways? It's just my neighbor. "Hey," she breathed when falling into step behind him.

He turned around sharply, not having heard her coming. His eyebrows raised, then furrowed. "Clarke?"

"Do you have a minute?"

He looked hesitant, but considering that they were both caught in the stairwell and he couldn't exactly leave her, he shrugged. She took that as a yes.

"Listen, I haven't exactly made it out too much the last few days," she began babbling, shuffling down the stairs to keep up with his wider strides. "And I was thinking about dinner, but I don't know where to go-"

Bellamy whipped around, face scrunched in confusion. "Are you suggesting that we-"

"No, no," Clarke cut him off. "No, I was just wondering if you knew of any good places to eat. You know, somewhere close and cheap."

"So that's why you're following me." Bellamy smirked, zipping up his dark leather jacket as they left the entryway and exited out onto the street. Clarke blamed her reddened cheeks on the cold, not Bellamy's teasing.

"I'm not following you. You just happened to be leaving around the same time I was."

"Funny coincidence."

"Whatever. Know anywhere to eat?"

He shrugged, gaze out on the busy street in front of them. The sun was starting to set, catching the city between the hazy twilight and the glowing nightlife. Clarke was just beginning to get used to the constant drone of city traffic and distant construction. Standing outside, it buzzed with energy. "There's this little deli around the corner, maybe a few blocks down."

"That's fine. I like walking."

Clarke matched his long strides, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. They walked in silence, but with the noise of the city around them, it was hardly quiet. Bellamy finally spoke as they rounded the corner on the deli.

"So, I guess we are getting dinner together, huh?" He said, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a halfway grin.

"If it's really that big of an issue for you, Mr. Blake," Clarke said with mock formality, "Then I'll sit in a different booth."

He wrinkled his nose. "Mr. Blake?"

"Well, I wasn't sure if we were on first-name basis yet."

"We share opposite sides of the same wall. We're there." Bellamy pushed open the door to the deli, jingling the overhead bells and holding it open for Clarke. The deli was tiny, with a long counter and four small booths. The walls were plastered with old newspaper pages and vintage posters and faded photographs to the point where Clarke couldn't tell what color the walls were actually painted. She followed Bellamy to the counter where the large menu hung overhead, meals spelled out with old-fashioned letter tiles.

She glanced at him. "What do you suggest I order?"

"Everything's pretty good here," he shrugged. "Just, don't get a salad."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, don't be that person who goes to a deli and orders a salad." He noticed her silence, and added, "Unless, you – umm – like that sort of thing."

Clarke laughed. "Nice save," she said, rolling her eyes before ordering a roast beef sandwich.

Five minutes later they were sitting on the vinyl seats in one of the booths, enormous sandwiches in front of them. Clarke had to admit: this beat her recent dinners of cereal and Poptarts, hands down.

Bellamy finished a sip of his black coffee before asking, "So, what brings a girl like you to the big city all by herself?"

Where do I begin? "Have you ever had a midlife crisis?"

"I'm pretty sure those don't usually happen for another fifteen, twenty years."

"Whatever." Details. "I was stuck in a high-stress job that I hated, I was wallowing in the aftermath of my girlfriend's premature death, I was in the middle of all sorts of convoluted family bullshit… and I just had enough. So I packed it up and came here." It sounded so lame when she said it out loud.

Bellamy nodded slowly. "So, you moved to New York City to escape stress?"

"When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous. But this is a different kind of stress. A better one."

A second chance. A new beginning.

"No, I get it. What was your job before?"

"Emergency-room trauma nurse."

Bellamy whistled, eyes widening. "Talk about stress."

"Yup. It got to the point where it was just… too much. I love helping people, but I hope to do it in a different way." She took a sip from her milkshake. "Maybe working at a smaller clinic in low-income areas, or doing some outreach work."

"I give you a lot of credit, that doesn't sound like easy work at all."

"It pays the bills," she blushes, downplaying it. Clarke changes the subject. "What about you? You're, what, a writer or something?"

Bellamy's brows furrowed in surprise. "Not yet, at least. How did you guess?"

Now Clarke was really blushing. "I remembered the books all over your apartment. The papers and everything."

He combed a hand through his curls, tousling them so they fell messily across his forehead. "Yeah, it's just on the side right now. I'm currently taking some online college classes, and juggling between two and four jobs depending on the time of year. So writing takes a backseat."

"Four jobs? That must be crazy."

He laughed lightly. "It is a lot, but I'm used to it by this point. My sister just moved out to live with her boyfriend, so it's a little trickier to cover the rent without her income, hence the multiple jobs. I'm working on it."

Clarke could imagine that he spent most of his time thinking about work, so she wanted him to think about anything else right now. "What do you like to write about?"

His eyes lit up at the question. "Anything, really. I like historical fiction, especially the classics. Greek and Roman mythology. And mysteries, those were some of my favorites growing up." Clarke nodded, encouraging him to continue. "They're probably the hardest to write though, because you need to plan out all of these little clues and have them add up in the end. Throw in a historical setting and suddenly you're doing research…"

Clarke liked sitting in that booth, fingers clasped around the cool glass of her milkshake cup, listening to her next-door neighbor talk about the books he was writing with something sparkling in his eyes. She liked that a lot, so much that it surprised her.

As they walked back down the hallway after dinner, Clarke had to remind herself that this was not a date. Nope. When she'd moved here, she strictly told herself that she was not ready to be back in the dating game again. That she needed more time, just in case.

And besides, this was her neighbor. This was the first person she'd really gotten to know in New York City. It would be ridiculous if anything came out of this, really. They were just neighbors, just by chance.

But as they stopped outside their respective doors – really, the doors were only about two feet away from each other – Clarke had a hard time convincing her racing heartbeat that this wasn't a date. Or her warm palms. You're acting like a child!

"Thanks for showing me the deli tonight," she said with a small smile.

"Of course. I'm right next door if you need anything." His eyes were soft, so different from when she initially met him on her first day. "And maybe we could… do this again some time?"

Her chest swelled. "I'd like that."

This was New York City. It was time to lose the baggage, to take her broken heart and put it away in a drawer for goodness sake. This was a fresh start, and Clarke wasn't going to miss it.

As she reached for her door handle, Clarke heard Bellamy speak up again.

"Oh, and by the way, but I don't think I ever got to tell you before." His smile was wide and friendly. "Welcome to New York."

.

.

.

More oneshots to come! Drop a review if you enjoyed this!