"What are the odds that I could convince you to stay?"

Clarke rolls over, propping her head up on her elbow to stare at the very naked Bellamy in front of her.

"What, here? In Toronto?"

He nods.

"Hmmm." She watches him watch her, his eyes dark and slightly hooded. "Tempting. But I hate the smog."

He reaches out to trace a line between her shoulder blades.

"This long distance thing is getting old," he grumbles.

"It's only been a month," she replies with a sigh. "And we already made a pact not to go longer than two weeks without seeing each other. It sucks but-"

"We don't really have any other options," he finishes with a sigh. "Yeah I know."

"Unless you want to stop seeing each other," Clarke suggests. It's not what she wants, and she suspects it's not what he wants either, but if he's already unhappy after barely a month then there isn't a lot of hope for the next year or longer. His half lidded eyes sharpen, suddenly intense. They'd tried at first, not talking, letting whatever they had fizzle out with distance, but it didn't work. Eventually, every time they tried, one of them caved.

"Is that what you want?" he asks slowly.

"Of course not. But who knows how long you'll be here filming? And I can't move, I have friends and business in Vancouver. I don't like it either, but if the long distance thing isn't working, I'd rather know now."

With a deep groan, he pulls her into his chest.

"Not seeing you at all would not be better," he mumbles into her hair. Then something seems to occur to him and his grip on her tightens. "I could just keep you here by force," he says brightly. Clarke snorts.

"You could try. I wouldn't suggest it." Before he even has a chance to blink, she's on top of him, pinning him by his wrists to the bed. He blinks, a filthy grin spreading across his face.

"Oh?" He lets his eyes roam over her, slow and shameless. Parts of her that were totally sated a few minutes ago begin to throb again. "And why not?"

They don't get a lot of talking done after that.

.-.-.-.-.

"Thanks for picking me up again," Clarke says through a mouthful of muffin, climbing into the passenger seat of her car. Octavia rolls her eyes behind the aviators perched on her nose.

"You'll be making it up to me eventually," she mutters, and Clarke knows that's not an empty promise. Still, her post-Bellamy glow has yet to wear off, so for the moment she just smiles good naturedly at her friend and watches the airport slowly shrink behind them.

"Your brother says hi, by the way," Clarke tells her.

"Yeah, right," Octavia says, glancing over at her "I have a feeling you two don't exactly spend a lot of time talking about me on these little weekend vacations." Clarke frowns.

"Are you kidding? Half the time he just grills me about your life, about Lincoln. He really misses you." And that's enough to elicit a sad sigh from the brunette, her flippancy finally disappearing.

"It was nice having him around," she admits. "One of those things where you don't really realize how much you missed someone until they're gone again."

Clarke knows about that. It's been six months now, that her and Bellamy have been scraping together whatever long distance, stolen moments they can, and every time she gets to stand in the same room as him it's like finally coming up for air. They instated a rule early on that they couldn't go longer than two weeks without seeing each other, so they alternate flying back and forth, more often in Toronto than Vancouver because of his schedule, but it's working. Every time she questions that, she remembers that the alternative is not to see him at all. So, if anyone were to ask, it's working.

And then, just like clockwork, her phone rings. Glancing at the name flashing on her screen, Clarke sighs.

"Your brother's a little overprotective, you know that?"

Octavia just makes a bemused noise.

"We're not even home yet," Clarke mutters, the phone now pressed against her cheek.

"I thought you were going to call me when you landed." Hearing his voice just makes the reality that she's home, and he's not, sink in a little faster.

"No, I said when I got home."

"Oh my god!" The younger Blake suddenly shouts from the driver's seat. "You two have this argument every time I pick you up. Next time just call him when you land, he's not going to let this go."

Clarke blinks sheepishly at the girl as Bellamy laughs on the other end.

"Goodbye, Bellamy," she says, holding the phone directly in front of her mouth. "I will call you when I get home."

It's working.

.-.-.-.-.-.

This is the longest they've gone since Bellamy moved back to Toronto.

Twenty-nine days. But Raven needs her here, and when Finn was shot, Clarke knew exactly where she needed to be. His coma, which lasted for three weeks, had been hard on the mechanic. It's not that Clarke isn't affected, she is, but the other two shared a history that ran much deeper, and messier, than a broken engagement. And then, a few days ago, he was just gone. Clarke had made him write out the living will when they were together, and Finn had specified that he didn't want to be on life support longer than twenty-one days. So they'd pulled the plug.

Bellamy had tried to come out three times since the shooting, but they were in the middle of shooting the finale, the most important episode of the season, as well as negotiating contracts for the next run.

Besides, Clarke is fine.

A knock comes from the front door, and she looks up from the photos in front of her, ones from a relationship that feels like a lifetime ago. Finn's mother asked her for anything that could be added to the slideshow, and for the first time, Clarke was glad she hadn't burned everything like she'd once wanted to. Leaving the stack of pictures on her coffee table, she pads to the front door, and when she pulls it open, she tenses.

"Bellamy?"

He looks terrible, dark circles tugging underneath his eyes, the usually rich tone of his skin washed out.

"Hey," he says, and he even sounds exhausted. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." When he moves toward her, she takes an involuntary step back.

She wonders, for a moment, why she's not happy to see him. And then her mouth opens, and the words come out, and it's not such a mystery anymore.

"Where the hell have you been?" She hisses, and his eyebrows go up, barely. He looks less surprised at her outburst than she feels. "I needed you, and I know you have work, but it's just a job, Bellamy-"

"I'm sorry," he says again, and she doesn't move away when he wraps his arms around her this time, melting into that smell that she knows so well, old books and cedar. Her hands fist in his shirt, trembling, and then all of her is shaking, sobs wracking her body so hard she can barely stand. "I'm sorry."

After a few minutes of this, Bellamy drops his arms, but instead of backing away, he picks her up, carrying her into her bedroom. He sets her on the bed, and she grabs his hand, holding fast.

"Wait, don't-"

"I'm just going to get my bag and close the door," he promises, and though he disappears, he keeps his word and is back before a minute passes. Then he crawls onto the bed beside her, pulling her into him. She hasn't really slept since she got the phone call, there's been a lot to do, and up until this morning Raven couldn't really be left by herself. But here, Bellamy's strong arms enveloping her, that intense warmth he always gives off seeping through her, Clarke finds her eyes beginning to close.

"I'm tired," she mumbles eventually. His thumb strokes across her shoulder.

"Get some sleep," he tells her. "I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere."

And although something in the back of her mind doesn't quite believe him, she lets the noise around her fade into nothing, and falls asleep to the steady rhythm of his heart against her cheek.

.-..-.-.

Her eyes feel heavy. They drag when she tugs them open, and as they adjust to the light, she realizes she's staring into a familiar chest.

"Bell?" She asks, voice hoarse. The weight of everything, her eyelids, her limbs, her head, it reminds her of the times she used to stay up for days cramming for finals, and the rough morning that always comes after sleeping for twenty-four hours straight. Then she remembers why Bellamy's here, and why she's had so much trouble sleeping.

"Hey." His voice is rough, as though he's been sleeping too. For the first time, she notices the lack of sunlight leaking under her curtains. It must be fully dark out.

"What time is it?"

The bed moves a little as he shifts to grab his phone from the night stand.

"Just after two."

"AM?" Clarke sits bolt upright, then immediately regrets it, head spinning.

"Mmm," he grunts, struggling to sit up himself. "Yeah. Guess we both really needed a nap."

She groans, sitting back against the headboard groggily.

"I don't think sleeping for twelve hours straight counts as a nap."

It had been around one when he showed up on her doorstep, and she's been out like a light since then. Bellamy just sighs. His eyes are drifting shut again, and Clarke stares at him for a moment, taking in all the subtle changes since the last time she saw him. His hair is longer, combined with the beginnings of a beard that makes her wonder why he's stopped taking care of himself.

"What's going on?" She finally asks, before he has a chance to fall back to sleep. One of his eyes opens, looking at her curiously.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why do you look like the one whose ex-fiancé just died?"

His face instantly darkens, both eyes open now, and unreadable.

"Clarke-"

"Bellamy, don't lie to me."

He regards her for a moment, undecided.

"They picked up the show for another season."

Her eyebrows go up. Maybe she shouldn't be surprised, she knows Bellamy's talent, and his penchant for details when it comes to anything historical, but she is.

"Isn't it kind of soon for that? The pilot just aired, you haven't even finished shooting the first season yet." Although the pilot did get glowing reviews, and having watched it with Octavia, Clarke can only agree that it was very well done. He shrugs.

"It's not unheard of."

"Wow." Ignoring the way her mouth has suddenly gone dry, she leans in to press a kiss lightly against his lips. "Congratulations."

"Thanks."

She's proud of him, she realizes with some relief. Even through her own disappointment.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get here."

Clarke could let that go. She could shrug and say it's fine, that it doesn't matter, that she understands the demands of his job.

But,

"Me too," is all she can really think to say. It's been twenty-six days of being the only thing holding Raven up, and it wasn't really until now that Clarke realized exactly how much she needed someone of her own to lean on. The others have been there the best they know how, hovering awkwardly, texting their condolences. Octavia has alternated Raven duty with her, but she didn't know Finn the way the other two women did, so she can't really relate.

"I should have been here. I just-" he breaks off suddenly, like the next few words simply won't come out. "It doesn't matter. I should have gotten away."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Clarke decides that for now, just for now, she'll forgive him.

"The funeral is tomorrow. Or, today, I guess."

"I know."

"I have to go, Raven will need me there."

"I know. I can go too, if you want." His ties to Finn are loose, at best, but these days so are Clarke's. She nods, dropping her head onto his shoulder. "Okay. You hungry?" She just nods again. Pressing his lips to her forehead, he climbs out of bed, and she watches him disappear down the hallway, into the kitchen. Part of her wants to go back to sleep, but the familiar sound of Bellamy cooking draws her out into the house, sitting in one of the bar stools at her peninsula.

"I guess I'm going to have to get used to take out again," she mumbles through a yawn. Bellamy looks up from the omelettes he's whisking to frown at her. "Considering you'll be staying on the East Coast."

"Oh," his frown deepens in understanding, though his gaze turns back to the bowl. "You know I haven't accepted yet, right?"

Her eyebrows go up.

"How would I know that?"

"I guess I just thought you'd know I wouldn't take it without talking to you first," he says slowly. But it hadn't even occurred to Clarke that he would turn it down. "I mean, it affects both of us."

"Bellamy-"

"But I guess I haven't really given you a lot of reasons to believe that, recently." He holds out a piece of mushroom, and she takes it, popping it into her mouth thoughtfully.

"Alright," she acknowledges that, the buried apology, one she's starting to realize she'll be hearing a lot. "So, let's talk. I think you should take it."

His hand, busy whisking, stills.

"You do."

"Look, the whole reason you took this job was because it would be good for your career, it would let you make enough money to go back to school. And if you want to turn it down so you can go back to school, fine. But I don't want you to quit just because of me."

Bellamy dumps the egg mixture into a pan on the stove, then turns his gaze on Clarke, still moody, still unreadable.

"So, basically, nothing has changed?"

It's her turn to frown.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this is exactly what happened the last time we had this conversation. I'm offering to stay here, so we can actually be together, and you're telling me to go."

"I'm not telling you to go, I'm just-"

"I miss you, Clarke. When we're not together I'm fucking miserable. This whole long distance thing was never the plan, we just fell into it. Are you actually happy flying out every two weeks, never having anyone to come home to? I could have been here, for this. And I wasn't."

His eyes are boring holes into her forehead, she can feel it. But her own gaze is trained on the counter, trying to convince herself that he's wrong. That it's not that bad. She's been surviving on her own since her father died. And as much as she loves her friends, Octavia, Raven, as much as she feels like a bigger, brighter person when she's with Bellamy, Clarke doesn't expect people to be there for her anymore. Or, she thought she didn't, until he showed up on her doorstep and that long forgotten feeling of disappointment had come rushing back as though it never left. And she's had enough disappointment to last her a lifetime. She doesn't need to set herself up for more.

"Okay, so you feel guilty, that doesn't mean you should give up your job and move back across the country."

The smell of chives and cheese begins to waft throughout the kitchen, and Bellamy gives the omelette a flip before rubbing his chin angrily.

"Seriously? You think this is about me feeling guilty? Jesus, Clarke, I just want to be near you, is that so hard to believe?" His jaw is set, voice raised and a little growly in the way it always is when she hurts him, accidentally or not.

"I don't want you to give up an amazing opportunity just to be near me! I can't ask you to do that! I don't need that kind of pressure!"

"Pressure?" His voice is even now, deadly quiet. Suddenly, she wishes he was still yelling. "Right." He turns to shut off the burner, then drops the pan on a hot pad on the island. "Here's your food, I'm going to stay at O's."

"Bellamy-"

"No, it's fine. I wouldn't want to put any pressure on you."

She hops off the stool, following him to the bedroom, where he picks up his bag.

"That's not what I meant." And now that he's finally here, she doesn't want him to go. But when he comes back out, she can see it all over his face. This fight isn't like the others, the dozens of small arguments stemming from the frustration of two thousand miles. This time, her punches landed.

"Bullshit." Bellamy pushes past her.

"It's two in the morning, what are you going to do?"

"I'll get a cab." When she puts her hand on his shoulder, he shakes it off. "Don't."

And then he's gone, and every ounce of comfort that he brought earlier slowly drains away.

.-.-.-.-.-.

The next morning comes quickly, and brutally. Clarke's eyes drag open at the sound of the alarm, and land on the black dress hanging on the back of her closet door. It suits her mood.

The scorching shower doesn't do much to push away the cold that's beginning to creep through her, a kind of icy numbness that she assumes will linger until long after the service has finished. An overwhelming urge to crawl back into bed, to pull the covers over her head, suddenly grabs her. And she knows if it weren't for Raven, she would. She doesn't owe Finn this. She doesn't owe him anything.

She grabs coffee on the way, because she's exhausted, and she thinks her friend might just want something to hold. When the passenger door opens, Clarke looks up.

"I got coffee," she gestures at it. Raven slides in, buckling her seatbelt. She glances at the coffee, but shakes her head.

"I'm already edgy enough." There are dark circles under her eyes, and Clarke figures she didn't get much sleep either.

"You sure you're up for this?"

The brunette just nods, so Clarke pulls back onto the street, sighing when the first few drops of rain hit her windshield. Perfect.

"You must think I'm pathetic."

Clarke glances over at the other woman, eyebrows drawing together when she sees tears welling in her dark brown eyes.

"What? Why?"

"All this, I don't know, time and energy grieving someone who treated me like shit. Treated us like shit. Going to his funeral."

"I'm going to his funeral, too," Clarke reminds her, glancing in the rear view mirror.

"Yeah," Raven mutters, "because I need you."

Clarke sighs, squinting to see through the now torrential downpour beating against her window.

"That's not pathetic, Raven." She turns onto the long driveway that winds up to the cemetery. When the flashbacks to the last time she was in a place like this start, her grip on the steering wheel tightens. "You're human. That's just the cost, I guess."

"What is?"

They're close now, Clarke can see the cluster of cars parked at the side of the road, the vast black tent set up to keep everything dry. She thinks about the kind of pain that seems to seep out of the ground in places like this, at times like this.

"Grief."

.-.-.-.-.

They make their way to the back, because neither of them want to be at the front, to answer questions, and talk to people who would inevitably reminisce about what a good boy Finn always was. Clarke's left hand closes around Raven's when the minister starts to speak, and she almost jumps out of her skin when someone takes hold of her right hand as well. She looks up, eyes widening at the slightly wet, exhausted mess of freckles and dark hair in front of her.

"Bellamy?" Her voice is low, quiet enough not to disrupt the service. "What are you doing here?"

"You needed me," he replies with a shrug.

God, does she. Every second of this is reminding her of her father's funeral, of the finality that comes with putting someone in the ground. And maybe there was no love lost between her and Finn in the end, but she had loved him once, not so long ago. He had ruined what they had, broke her heart. But before that he'd just been a charming boy with an infectious smile. He'd taught her to be free.

Closing her eyes against the burning pressure, Clarke wonders if need is enough to close a distance that's beginning to seem insurmountably vast. Or maybe, if the fact that she needs him, is the very thing that will make them impossible.