Chapter 4: "We cannot hold mortality's strong hand" - King John

Clarke collapsed on the plush blue couch in the Blakes' living room with a groan. Octavia's laughter sounded from the kitchen, but she was too tired to lift her head to glare at the brunette.

"Shut up, Octavia."

Octavia merely laughed harder. "I take it my brother is kicking your ass."

"I feel like I've gone three rounds with a thousand pound gorilla. Really, how hard can doing a Tango be?"

Octavia moved into her field of vision, an incredulous expression on her face. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?"

The other woman shook her head in disbelief before returning to banging around in the kitchen. "You already did a Tango with Nathan and got three perfect scores and a nine. Bell wants to make sure you get four tens. He's been beat out by Miller too many times over the years to not want to come out on top this time. He's never had a partner that meshes with him as well as you do, so he wants to create something extraordinary."

"So that's why it feels like we're training for the Olympics and not a TV Show?"

"Precisely. Where is my idiot brother anyway?"

Clarke rolled so that she could see Octavia over the arm of the couch. Her muscles screamed in protest, causing another groan to escape her lips. She had never felt this flayed before. She wasn't sure she could make it off the couch even if the house was on fire. She let out a long-suffering sigh before replying to Octavia. "He said something about running errands after he dropped me off. I wasn't paying too much attention considering every single part of my body was dying at the time."

Octavia absently hummed at her while pulling lettuce from the fridge and setting it on the counter next to three plates she'd already pulled from the cabinets. Clarke stared helplessly at the plates. She usually helped Octavia prepare their meals, but today she was in too much pain to think straight. Glancing over at her, Octavia paused. "Why don't you take a hot bath? I have Epsom salts under the sink. Just pour a cup in the bath while you're filling it and soak for at least twenty minutes."

"You don't mind?"

"Nah. Plus I have a feeling Bell's going to want to go over some choreography with you later. He let you have an entire afternoon off. There's no way he's not making you run something with him in the living room tonight. He's just that type of special," she told her with a grimace.

Special sort of asshole Clarke added silently. She and Bellamy might be something resembling friends now, but he was still ruthless as ever in the studio. She sank further into the couch, her muscles protesting even that slight movement. "I take it you're speaking from experience?"

Octavia nodded as she chopped tomatoes. "Yup. Back when Bell and I were competing professionally he was a complete perfectionist. We'd spend the day teaching at the studio and the evening rehearsing. Then we'd come home, eat dinner and Bell would be like… let's run that super hard part you've been messing up all day until you want to kill me, sound good? I never actually killed him, obviously, but it was a close thing some days. Of course we nearly always won, which only encouraged him to continue torturing me."

"Sounds like Bellamy," Clarke muttered as she forced herself to stand. She hobbled toward the bathroom, ignoring Octavia's soft laughter. "I can hear you, Octavia."

"I promise the bath will make you feel better," Octavia's voice called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, yeah." Clarke sank down on the toilet lid as she turned the spigots to searing hot. She might not want to boil herself, but the warmer the water the more likely she was going to be able to move at a pace faster than an elderly sloth. Recalling Octavia's instructions about the Epsom salts, she pivoted on the seat to pull the cabinet door open. True to her word, the carton of Epsom salts was tucked just inside the door. Clarke dumped what looked like 1.5 cups of salt into the bath.

The tub took several minutes to fill, but Clarke appreciated not having to move or think. When the water sloshed near the overflow drain, she toed off her flats and slowly stood, joints creaking, to remove her fitted blue jeans and tank top. Her green sports bra was the last to fall onto the pile of clothing. Normally she changed completely after the studio, but their Tango rehearsal had left her with just enough energy to pull on decent clothing before collapsing in the passenger side of Bellamy's jeep. She would swear he was trying to kill her if not for the fact that he'd released her from duty despite her failure to properly execute several parts of their Tango.

She dipped a toe in the water and hissed at the heat, quickly pulling her foot back. Now that she knew the temperature she slowly placed her foot in the water, ignoring the burn as hot water rushed to meet cool skin. Soon enough she was able to lower her whole body into the soothing water. An involuntary moan escaped her lips as her muscles began to unknot and relax in the heat. She pulled her hair into a messy bun on top of her head with the spare hair tie from her wrist before leaning fully back into the water. Closing her eyes, she sighed in relief.

As the warmth permeated through her joints and loosened the tension in her body, she found herself thinking of Wells yet again. As each day passed, the gushing wound in her chest clotted just a bit more. It had been eleven days since his death and she still felt his loss keenly. It was the small things. She'd be driving past a street in West LA and see someone in outrageous clothing and naturally her first thought would be to text Wells. He always had the best responses that made her giggle uncontrollably. But she would never hear his deep laugh through the static of the phone or see one of his horrible puns flash across her screen again. He was gone and no matter how much she fought to accept that loss, to let him go, she couldn't give him up. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She clung to his memory, whispering to him when no one was listening, playing imaginary chess games with him as she tossed and turned under the sheets, sleep ever elusive.

Bellamy and Octavia helped, but they could only do so much. More nights than not found her sitting on the couch in silence with Bellamy sipping Scotch and watching the lights of LA flicker beyond the balcony. He seemed to understand that there was nothing he could say to ease her pain, but his solid presence by her side held her together, reminding her that although the loss of Wells was a raw wound, she shouldn't let it fester. Clarke often told herself that Wells would be extremely disappointed in her if she got so caught up in his death that she didn't remember to live.

And live she did. Each day at the dance studio Bellamy pushed her to new extremes. No matter how tired she became, her whole body hummed like a live wire at the end of their practice sessions. Just the simple act of moving with him catapulted her beyond her troubles; she took to it like an addict, savoring each moment that the searing grief was held at bay.

Bellamy pushed her physically, proving that she was stronger, more flexible and faster than she ever imagined. He destroyed her mentally. She had this image of Clarke Griffin, nice girl. She was the girl next door, the girl who drew landscapes and went to medical school to save the world. She rarely argued with other people, save her mother, and she never got into fights. Clarke played it safe. Even her relationship with Lexa had been more about exploring a risk-free avenue than giving in to passion. Clarke was controlled, never letting the emotions that clawed at her skin out for the world to see. She was better than that. She was stronger than that.

Bellamy took one look at her with his dark burning eyes and eviscerated that Clarke. He drove her to the dark side, pulling pain, loss and desire out of her. He forced her emotions to the surface and used their eruption to fuel her performance. She was driven into a realm of raw passion that scorched her with each step, but ignited a craving she had never known before. She was no longer moving to be beautiful, no longer one of Balanchine's Jewels, she was moving to communicate, to share the twisted emotions that lurked beneath the surface of her being. Now she was a tidal wave reaching its pinnacle as she moved across the floor, relishing the moment on the precipice. Clarke was in awe as she watched him mold her into something so foreign that she didn't recognize herself in the rehearsal mirrors. Where she had been all curves and light, she was now sharp edges and smoldering darkness, so raw she nearly recoiled from herself.

Despite the ability of dance to transport her beyond the suffering, she still found herself thinking of Wells, paying tribute to him as she moved across the floor during their Tango to "Feel so Close" by Calvin Harris. He was in the sensual lyrics, the staccato beats and the dropping of her hand from Bellamy's as the last notes rippled through her. He was her shadow even when she could concentrate on nothing but the wild beat of Bellamy's heart against her fingers and the searing heat of his breath across her lips. Even as her skin exploded under Bellamy's calloused palms, Wells was breathing down her neck, refusing to let go.

Clarke knew it was unhealthy to cling to him still and yet no amount of distraction, not even the deep abyss of Bellamy's captivating dark eyes, could pull her fully from the depths of sorrow. She found herself trying to lose herself in Bellamy's deep voice and skilled grip more frequently, wanting to give in to the tendrils of desire that rocketed down her spine when he pulled her close to him. It was stupid, a heightened attraction for all the wrong reasons, but she ached for something beyond the fallow ground of her grief. Through their nights of silent communion, Clarke had become accustomed to Bellamy, even come to like him, but the idea of pursuing her attraction was absurd. He was her friend and she could not afford to lose another one of those so quickly no matter what the jumble of her hormones and grief led her to feel.

She kicked a foot out of the water, sending droplets splattering across the blue tiles. Here she was, sitting in a soothing bath, senses inundated by heavenly smells from the kitchen and Clarke was still trying to analyze, to fix her situation. She would give anything to escape her head, to take a vacation in someone else's brain. But she was stuck, mind warring over the merits of her desires and the woes of her sorrows. She groaned, stared blankly ahead and tried to concentrate to the ache in her muscles instead of her heart.

S~*~S

The heavenly smell turned out to be Octavia's curry, which was mind blowing. Clarke just barely resisted licking her lips like a cat as they cleaned the kitchen. Bellamy was putting the dishes in the dishwasher while Octavia rinsed and Clarke cleared the dining room table. Once again she was reminded of how warm and domestic the Blake house felt. Even before her father had died there had been no family dinners in the Griffin household. Most nights neither her mother nor father could make it home. When they lived within walking distance of the Jahas, she spent most evenings with Wells and his mother. Although those dinners had been pleasant, they lacked the sincerity dinner with the Blakes embodied.

Neither Octavia nor Bellamy was shy about voicing their opinions. The arguments that ignited between the two were violent, but they were also brief and always ended with conciliatory laughter. Whatever Clarke was feeling, it was safe to share with either Bellamy or Octavia. Dinners with the Jahas had been too marred by unmentionable facts and absent parents to ever feel truly safe.

Bellamy finished loading the dishes and dried his hands on the blue dishtowel as he turned to Clarke, a predatory smile on his face. Octavia glanced between the two of them before mouthing 'I told you so' to Clarke and disappearing down the hallway towards her room.

Bellamy ignored his sister, moving to lean casually against the kitchen doorframe, his white t-shirt pulling tightly as he crossed his arms. His olive skin glowed against the white material and Clarke was momentarily lost in tracing the planes of chest and the defined muscles of his arms. Her eyes were drawn to the splattering of freckles down his neck that she knew continued across his shoulders and back. Her fingers itched to trace their downward path.

"Princess?"

Realizing he had been speaking to her, Clarke's eyes shot up to see an amused smirk growing on his face. "Huh?"

"I was saying, before you got distracted ogling me," he began. Clarke knew her face was flaming red now. Usually he was kind enough to let her lingering stares go unmentioned, but apparently she'd been a bit too blatant this time. Thankfully he continued without further comment. "That you skipped a whole afternoon of practice, so you owe me at least an hour tonight."

"Octavia forewarned me on this one," Clarke admitted. "I took a bath, so I can move, but can we only do the intro? I'm not sure I'm up for all the fast parts right now. I can try, but I'm pretty sure that would end in death by muscle failure."

He stared at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. He had a deep flowing laugh that made Clarke's insides warm and tingly. "You sound so sure of my murderous intent, Princess."

She continued to stare at him, not sure what exactly was so hilarious to him, but unwilling to stop his peals of laughter. His defined shoulders continued to shake for at least another minute before he caught his breath and pulled a hand through his unruly curls. "If anything, you'll be the death of me, Princess. Not the other way around."

"Care to share what was so funny?"

He shook his head, black curls spraying across his forehead. "You reminded me a bit of Octavia as a teenager, which is not exactly a flattering comparison. She was a bit of a brat sometimes."

Clarke leveled an even stare at him. "You can be pretty demanding."

"Only for your own good. Now what do you say to some extra practice?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Technically?"

Clarke rolled her eyes at him as she pushed past him into the living room, bumping his shoulder with hers and darting a playful grin at him. He stared at her for a moment before rushing past her and swinging her into his grasp. She struggled against his firm grip, the urge to giggle swelling up within her. This was ridiculous, but it was also the most fun she'd had in weeks and all they were doing was horsing around like a pair of five year olds.

A youthful grin was plastered on his face and his cheeks were flushed from the momentary exertion. Clarke thought he looked positively edible, but there was no way she was letting him know she appreciated the disheveled look. All too soon he released her, holding out his hand.

"Shall we dance?"

"Why yes, Your Royal Highness, we shall," Clarke returned as she took his hand.

He gave a small chuckle. "Too bad we're not doing the Polka."

"I used to make my father dance me around the living room singing that song. Neither he nor I are very good singers, but we had a great time of it."

Bellamy's eyes lit with amusement. "Octavia too. For a month after I let her see the movie all she wanted to do was dance with me. I should have known dancing was going to be her future, but she was only five and I really wasn't that observant of a ten year old."

Clarke grinned at him as she imagined a small Octavia and Bellamy polkaing around the room. "I suppose I should have known too, but I found art before I found dance."

He tilted his head at her. "I didn't know you were an artist too."

She tugged on his hand to bring him to sit on the couch with her. She stared down at their joined hands for a long moment, only speaking when she felt him stir beside her. "I haven't painted or drawn since my father died."

It spoke to the closeness they had developed that Bellamy didn't hesitate to ask, "Why'd you stop?"

"Inspiration mostly," she admitted. "It wasn't that I didn't feel like I could draw, it was that I didn't want to. My dad had always embraced my artistic side far more than my mother. I mean you saw her the other day. She thinks artists and homeless people belong in the same population category. So when he died, I had no one I really wanted to share my art with. Wells tried, he really did, but he couldn't get me to draw or paint again."

All humor was gone from Bellamy's expression as he reached out and tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered as he spoke, "Doing this show was a really big deal for you, wasn't it? It wasn't just about dancing, it was about doing something artistic again."

Her face tingled from the brush of his hand as she nodded. "I want to find that part of myself again. I want to be inspired."

His dark eyes bored into her while he murmured as if in prayer, "I want to inspire you."

The Goosebumps that rushed across Clarke's skin had nothing to with the draft from the window. He had no idea how much he had inspired her already. Every interaction with Bellamy left her full of creative yearning. He made her want to dance wildly in the rain while she painted the impact of his soul on dripping canvases. He made her want to break free of her body and explode into the ether. She had no idea if any of those things were even possible, but he inspired her to profound madness. But even though she would call them friends now, she didn't dare share her emotions. She was not yet ready to open that floodgate because she was sure once it was open, she would have no choice but to drown.

He was still staring intently at her as if drinking in the memory. She vibrated under the intensity of his dark eyes. A moment before Clarke was sure she was going to splinter into a thousand pieces, Bellamy abruptly shook his head, smiled and rose to his feet.

"Dancing time, Princess." He led her to one of the clearer parts of the living room, across from the couch and coffee table. Dropping her hand, he assumed their beginning pose. "From the top…"

Even with no music playing, they moved in synch with each other as if they shared the same natural frequency. Eight beats into their walk, they reached towards each other, hands clasping slowly. Clarke's fingers tingled as they brushed over Bellamy's, but she ignored the sensation, already moving to the next steps. They continued walking together to end the eight count and then he was spinning her between his warm palms, sending lightning racing down her spine. His strong grip halted her movement she let her head fall back as she extended her free leg in a high dévelopé. In the performance she'd be wearing a flowing black pantsuit, but right now her black cotton pajama bottoms rode up her leg.

As soon as her toe pointed, they were spinning together, quick movements that narrowly avoided each other. Clarke let the momentum of their turns throw her into a deep port du bras backward, arching her back to its maximum. She loved this moment most of all because she could abandon herself and in that release freedom stretched out before her. The moment ended all too soon as he reversed the momentum, pulling her back to him.

In the choreography their lips were supposed to hover millimeters apart in teasing suspense before the quick beat of the music began and they took off across the floor with a series intricate turns and steps. In practice they had glossed over the moment since it was more theater than dance, but now as she felt the burn of his lips so close to hers, it was unbearable. Without conscious thought Clarke surged forward the last millimeter and closed the gap between them. His lips were soft and searing against hers and for an infinite moment he remained perfectly still, the only sound his sharp intake of breath. Then his fingers were tightening on her back and his mouth was plundering hers as if seeking salvation in its depths. A low moan escaped Clarke as he pulled her flush against him, the hard planes of his chest burning against her. His mouth was branding her with open-mouthed kisses that promised so much more when suddenly he was standing across the room staring at Clarke like he had never seen her before.

Bellamy's chest heaved and his cheeks were flushed, but it was his eyes that undid her. They were blown wide, pupils dilated in unmasked desire. For a long moment all he did was stare at her like it was a scorching summer day and she was the only cold water in sight. Then he snapped his eyes closed and dug both hands into his hair, pulling hard at the roots of his black curls. When he looked at her again, his eyes were clear and edged with regret. Her heart crashed to her feet and shattered. He thought it was a mistake. Although Clarke knew he was right, she had wanted so badly for him to desire her. But she had known, known from the beginning, that he was not hers for the taking. "I'm sorry," she murmured, refusing to meet his regretful eyes and retreating toward the couch. The manta of stupid, stupid, stupid reverberated through her skull as she dug her fingers into the plush material of the couch, regret pooling in her stomach.

He made to step toward her before thinking better of it and moving to perch on the arm of the couch at the end opposite her. His voice was strained, as if speaking took all his energy. "I don't do this. Ever. There are certain lines I don't cross."

"I understand." She kept her head down, fingers gripping the couch cushions where she sat and watched his bare feet out of the corner of her eye.

"Clarke," he murmured and finally she met his dark gaze. He looked less regretful now and more conflicted. His forehead was creased with lines and a frown tugged at his mouth. "I've allowed us to get closer than normal. I know that. I would consider us friends…"

She let out a breath of relief. At least she wasn't losing him. She didn't know what she'd do right now if she had to leave the Blakes'. Narrowing her eyes at him, she nodded. "Yes, we're friends. But just friends…"

He sighed and buried his head in his hands for a moment before meeting her disappointed stare once more. "I can't tell you there isn't anything there." He waved his hand between them. "Obviously we have chemistry, but right now is not the time to be exploring that. You've just been through a traumatic loss and I am not taking advantage of your vulnerability. Not to mention every single one of our interactions from 9 AM to 5 PM is filmed for the whole world to see. I'm a private person, Clarke. I don't want my personal life plastered all over network television."

Clarke smiled sardonically. "So you're not rejecting me, just all the baggage that comes with being with me right now."

He flinched at her words, but nodded. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"I'm not sure if you have or not," she admitted. The crushing heartache that she had felt when he pulled away had faded to a dull throb now. That he was rejecting her because of circumstances and not outright was a balm to the wound. She had not expected him to be interested at all, so the news that Bellamy Blake, dancing superstar and admitted playboy, was telling her that he wanted her, but liked her enough to back off until the time was right felt more like victory than defeat. What she had done was stupid and she knew she wasn't ready, wasn't able to give him what he deserved even if he had accepted her advance. Clarke's scars were too fresh, her motives too cloudy. She sighed and offered him a small smile. "Let's just forget it for now. You're right. I'm still working through a lot and our friendship is more important than an accidental kiss."

His dark expression lifted at her words and he reached over to give her shoulder a small shove. "Accidental my ass, Princess."

Her face flushed, but a smile tugged at her lips. "Shut up."

Bellamy rose from the couch and held out a hand to her. "Come on, let's do a drama free run through of that intro."