A/N: Hey guys, I hope everyone is doing alright. It's been a long 24 hours, and I just want to sincerely extend my thoughts and condolences to anyone who was affected by the tragedy in Orlando.

On a lighter note, because we need those, thank you to Marys for helping me hammer out some of the details/plotlines for this and other chapters. You da best 3

We're coming to a close here, only maybe two more chapters. Anyways, enjoy :)

P.S. I suck at photoshop but to see Clarke's Emmy's outfit just go to tinypic and paste this after the url "/r/imnd3o/9"

"Oh, no." Clarke stares at the clock in front of her in horror. "No, no no no-" she leaps off the bed, swearing. All she'd wanted to do was close her eyes. She needed a moment of quiet after being on a plane all night. But apparently she'd fallen asleep. For an hour.

At least she knows the hotel beds are comfortable.

It's almost two p.m. now, and she was supposed to meet Marian ten minutes ago to get her makeup done.

"Shit", she hisses, shoving her shoes back on as she stumbles for the door. Just as she reaches for the knob, someone knocks. She swings it open, blinking at the sight of a uniformed concierge holding a silver tray. "Um," she says awkwardly. "Hi, I actually have to go, so-"

"I have a complimentary snack," he tells her, and lowers the tray so she can see the water bottle and muffin on it. "The Four Seasons is providing one for all our guests of the Benson party." He means everyone with Earthbound.

"Oh," she sighs, trying to edge him out the door. "I was just leaving, actually." He doesn't make any move to go, so she just takes the tray from him, plastering a fake smile on her face. "Okay, great thanks." She digs a tip out of her purse, and he disappears.

Clarke tosses the tray on the desk, then, as an afterthought, grabs the muffin. She takes a bite as she bolts to the elevator. Marian is going to kill her.

.-.-.-.-.

"I'm so sorry," Clarke says, for what's probably the thirtieth time.

"Will you stop? I told you, it's fine. I'm used to working with actors, and they're always late." Marian says cheerfully, shooting one of the girls in the corner of her room a dark look. The girl, a new addition to the show since the last time Clarke hung out with the cast, sticks out her tongue.

Marian is the lead makeup artist for Earthbound, and one of the few people on the show that Clarke genuinely likes. When she'd heard that Clarke was going to the awards, she'd offered to do her makeup. And since Clarke's usual beauty routine consists of mascara, and on very special occasions, eyeliner, accepting had been a no-brainer. As a wet brush comes down on her cheek, she shivers.

"I can't believe I fell asleep. I slept on the plane, too."

"Well, it's probably good you did," Marian replies, buffing the foundation into her face. "I doubt you'll get much sleep tonight."

"Yeah," the other girl, Bianca, Clarke thinks, pipes up. "You're going with Bellamy Blake, right? He looks like he could keep you up all night." Her smile is lascivious, and Marian shoots her a look.

"Um," Clarke fights to keep a smile off her face. She's not wrong. "We're just going as friends."

Bianca makes a noise of disapproval.

"Bellamy is Clarke's ex," Marian tells her. Bianca's mouth drops open.

"Oh." She blinks. "Sorry." Clarke just shrugs.

"It's fine." The next half hour is spent talking about who they think will win, whether or not some celebrity couple Clarke has never heard of will reconcile, and whether Bianca has a shot with Aaron Tveit. When Marian finally finishes with Clarke, she grins.

"God, you're a pretty girl. How come you never went into acting?"

Clarke shrugs, then turns to look at herself, having to press her lips together to keep from smiling. Marian did a stunning job, shadows darkened under her cheekbones to minimize the roundness of her face, a dark, smoky eye making the near turquoise of her irises pop. And, of course, a bright raspberry lip to go with her dress. Marian hands the tube of lipstick over reluctantly.

"For touch ups. In case you chew it off."

"Or someone else chews it off," Bianca says suggestively.

.-.-.-.-.

An hour later, with a warning not to mess up her hair or makeup, Clarke walks back to her own room to get dressed. Thankfully, the plunging neckline of her dress allows her to pull it on without damaging the artfully tousled updo Amy gave her, and she manages to zip it up herself while stepping into her shoes. The material flows right to the floor, so no one can actually see the four inch heels, but according to Octavia wearing flats with an evening gown is practically a capital offence. And anyways, at 5'4 Clarke has long since gotten used to wearing heels.

She's supposed to meet Bellamy downstairs in five minutes, so she just swipes her clutch from the top of the dresser and turns to survey the finished product. Not bad. Apparently she's already chewed off a little of the lipstick, so she leans into the mirror to reapply. A knock comes from the door.

"Just a minute," she calls, pressing her lips together to blend the crimson more evenly. Then she half jogs to the door, clutch in tow.

"Oh," she smiles as the door swings open to reveal Bellamy. "Hey."

He looks good in a way that would have her toes curling if it weren't for the fact that they were already jammed into the tips of her shoes. The tux he's wearing is black, clearly professionally tailored, and looks a lot more expensive than the one he wore to Octavia's wedding. She can tell by the way it hangs. When her gaze finally makes it back up to his face, and, oh, good, he's left his hair curly this time, she blinks at the expression that meets her.

Clearly, he's doing an appraisal of his own, eyes roving slowly up her body, lingering at her chest just long enough not to be subtle. His eyes come up to meet hers, and there's a heat in them that she recognizes, that makes very specific parts of her anatomy throb. Unhelpfully, Bianca's comment from earlier rings in her ears.

"You look…" his voice is gravelly, and he clears his throat. "Uh, you look good."

"I know," she says, because it will make him smile. And it does. "So do you."

"I figured since you flew all the way out here, the least I could do is pick you up at your room," he eventually says. Ignoring the fact that his pupils are nearly all the way dilated as he looks at her, and the way it's making her feel a little feverish, she nods, holding up her clutch.

"Okay, I was just coming to meet you. We can go." She ushers him out, then slips the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. When he looks at it curiously, she shrugs. "I brought two sets of jewelry because I couldn't decide. I put them in the safe, but, you know."

"Sure." He says, but she gets the sense that he doesn't really. Sometimes she forgets that even though he's doing well for himself now, he spent most of his life just getting by. They make their way to the elevator, and she can feel him staring.

"Stop staring at me."

"I don't think I can."

She glares at him, and his lips twist into a half smile, the one that used to make her stomach flip. Much to her chagrin, she finds that it still does. He reaches over to flick one of hear earrings, a large teardrop blue topaz that dangles from a silver stud.

"I like these."

Her eyebrows go up.

"How Hollywood of you."

His smirk cracks into a wide smile.

"Have I told you yet how glad I am that you came?"

Surprised by the earnest tone of his voice, she pauses.

"Uh, no."

"I'm really glad it's you, you know. I mean we won't win or anything, but even being nominated…" He scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. "I wanted you here for it. With me."

Her lips part, and it takes a few seconds for her to catch up with his sudden change in mood. The elevator doors open, saving her from having to answer. He grabs her hand, pulling her through the lobby. There's a car waiting outside, and, ever the gentleman, he holds the door open while she folds herself inside. As they pull away from the curb, she can't help but lean into him, careful not to wreck her hair as she drops her head onto his shoulder.

"Just for the record," she says quietly, "I wanted to be here with you, too."

.-.-.-.-.-.

"Oh," Clarke says, head swiveling round in terror. "My. God." She clutches Bellamy's arm like a toddler hanging onto their mother's leg, but he just smiles.

"Come on, Princess. It's just a few paparazzi."

By a few paparazzi, he's referring to the horde of photographers jostling behind the rope, all shouting at the slow march of dressed up somebody's strolling along the red carpet. She really hates photographers.

"I mean," she rationalizes, as he half drags her down the lane, thicker into the chaos. "I'm nobody. And you're just a writer, right? You're not famous."

He raises an eyebrow, and she realizes how that sounds.

"A very good writer," she amends. He just continues to smirk at her. "A very handsome, talented guy." One of the paps yells at her to get out of the way, she's blocking his shot of Kerry Washington.

"I wouldn't have taken you for camera shy," Bellamy murmurs, drawing her closer. She instantly feels a little more at ease, breathing in the usual scent of Bellamy, mixed with a woodsy new cologne she likes.

"I didn't think I was," she says, a little hysterically. His teasing smile fades into concern.

"Okay, come on." He quickens his pace, brushing past the celebrities lingering in front of the cameras. They're almost to the doors when someone shouts at him.

"Bellamy! You sure have a thing for blondes, what happened to Kaitlyn?"

He stops in surprise, glancing over at the man in question, a short man who's probably in his thirties, but somehow manages to look sixty, his scruffy brown goatee turned up in an obnoxious grin.

"She had other obligations," Bellamy says stiffly. Clarke is surprised he's addressing him at all, so she just hovers, his arm still wrapped around her waist.

"So who's this?" The man prompts, lifting his camera to snap a photo. Clarke winces at the flash, and Bellamy's grip on her tightens protectively. He glances at her, thoughtful.

"This is Clarke." Then he tugs her away, through the door. The darkness is almost blinding after the combination of sun and flashing lights outside, but she feels an automatic sense of relief at being away from the cameras. "Sorry." Bellamy's lips brush her ear, it's loud enough that he has to speak right against it so she can hear him. "If I didn't give a name it would have been a thing."

She shrugs.

"It's okay." As they make their way further inside her, eyes adjust, and she stares around at the familiar faces.

"Hey, none of that." Bellamy mutters, watching her.

"What?" She looks at him. "I didn't do anything."

"You're about to go all swooning fan on me. I can see it."

She rolls her eyes. Then she spots Katherine McPhee.

"Clarke," Bellamy groans, following her eye line. "No. Let's just go find our seats."

"You're just threatened," she grumbles, letting him guide her toward the theater. "Because you know I'd abandon you and run off with her in a second."

"Right," he scoffs. "Like that doesn't go both ways."

She bites her lip, suppressing a grin.

"Hey, Blake."

Clarke tenses, bracing herself for another creepy paparazzi before remembering they aren't allowed inside. As Bellamy turns he pulls her with him, his arm still securely in place around her waist. For a second she thinks the man walking toward them is Eddie, but as he gets closer she realize it's not. They do look strikingly similar, but this man's eyes are hazel, as opposed to Eddie's steel blue, and his blonde hair is a few shades darker.

Still, if they aren't related, Clarke will eat her clutch.

"Cooper, hey." Bellamy is keeping a polite distance, she notices, but Cooper leans in to shake his hand. "Clarke, this is Cooper Masterson. Eddie's brother."

"Hi," she holds her hand out, and he takes it, but not without first taking a painfully obvious look down her dress. Her smile freezes in place, and she feels Bellamy stiffen irritably beside her. "It's nice to meet you."

At her name, recognition flashes across his face.

"You're shitting me. You're Clarke?"

"Um," she glances at Bellamy in confusion. "That's what my mom says, anyways."

His laugh is warm, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Man, I've heard about you. You know I bought one of your paintings?"

She nods.

"Yeah, Eddie told me." She never really knows what to say to people who buy her art. "You must have good taste." The joke feels a little dry on her tongue, but Cooper just smiles pointedly.

"I do. Then again, if I'd known you looked like that," his eyes roam deliberately over her body. "-I would have asked for your number along with the sale."

When Clarke looks up at Bellamy, his polite smile has faded, eyes hard. Cooper catches the exchange, glancing between the two of them.

"I'd heard you guys broke up though." His gaze, for the first time in minutes, flicks over to Bellamy. "Aren't you with Kaitlyn Herald now?"

"No," Bellamy says, shortly. Cooper's face turns calculating.

"I'm having an after party," he says, turning back to Clarke. "You should come. I'd love to pick your brain. You could tell me what you're working on and I could show you where I hung your painting."

His tone is anything but subtle, and something about him makes her skin crawl. Possibly the fact that his eyes take a dive every thirty seconds to stare at her cleavage. Bellamy makes a noise in his throat, something between a choke and a growl. Cooper frowns, a barely believable confusion settling over his features.

"Unless you two are…"

"We are." Bellamy says, his voice low and dangerous, his ribs vibrating against Clarke's. His hand, which was hovering at her waist where his arm looped around it, grips her hip possessively. She leans into him, smiling innocently at Cooper.

"Oh." He takes a step back, though his brow furrows skeptically. "My mistake."

"We should find out seats," Clarke reminds Bellamy loudly, and he blinks.

"Right. Sorry, Cooper. See you around." Without waiting for a reply, Bellamy wheels her around. It takes her a second to realize that they're heading away from the auditorium.

"Um," she glances over her shoulder. "Where are we going?"

Bellamy doesn't even break his stride.

"Bar."

.-.-.-.-.

She doesn't mention it at the bar. In fact, she lets him get all the way to his seat, waits until he's settled in, and then she leans forward, a feline smile splitting her face.

"So," she drawls, and all it takes is one look at her before he sighs, knowing exactly where this is headed. He groans.

"Oh, don't start. Cooper's an asshole. I was just trying to protect you."

"No kidding," she sighs. "What a fucking charmer. Who would've thought Eddie was actually the good egg in that family?" Then she frowns sternly at Bellamy. "But I don't need you scaring guys off for me."

"Are you serious? Would you rather I let him stare down your dress for another five minutes?" He glares at her incredulously.

"So your solution to that is just going to be to tell everyone we're together? You do realize that probably won't be the only time that happens." She has great boobs. They both know this.

"I was thinking on my feet," he mutters defensively. She doesn't completely believe him, but she lets it go. For now.

"I can stand up for myself," she points out. He snorts.

"Oh believe me, I know." He sneaks a sidelong glance at her, then sighs. "I know I shouldn't have let you leave the hotel looking like that."

"Excuse me?" She gasps, indignant. Bellamy looks up at the tone of her voice, and pales.

"No!" He corrects, sounding panicked. "I didn't mean-I just meant…"

She glares at him.

"I just meant you look really good," he says weakly, sitting back as the lights begin to dim. Her lips twitch.

"Mhmm."

"You-fuck it." He waves a hand at her irritably. "You know you look unbelievable. I knew the second I saw you I wouldn't be able to focus all night." He isn't looking at her now, eyes on the stage, and he almost seems to talking to himself more than her. "Ever since we got here I've been afraid that someone's going to pick you up and just run off with you."

Her mouth falls open, a little, and she's suddenly glad that the lights have gone down so he can't see the flush on her face.

"Bellamy-"

His phone goes off, interrupting her and earning them both a few scandalized glances from nearby tables.

"Seriously?" She mutters. "You didn't turn your ringer off?"

"I forgot," he says absently, frowning as he holds it to his ear. "Wh-oh Christ."

Her head snaps toward him.

"What's wrong?"

"The-it was the hotel. Apparently someone got caught trying to break into my room. They need me to go back, I-" He glances back up at the stage, where the ceremony has started. "I mean our category isn't until later, but I don't know how long this will take-" Even in the dark Clarke can see the frustration in his eyes. "I don't think this can wait."

She considers him, thoughtful.

"Okay, well I'll go."

He stares at her.

"What? But-"

"Look, none of your crew is here, and you can't exactly go crawling over all the tables to ask one of them." She gestures in the direction of the Earthbound cast's table, across the theater, where all the lead actors are sitting. "I doubt they'd go anyways." Her voice lowers to a whisper as the first host for the evening starts their introduction.

"I don't want you to miss anything," Bellamy whispers back, looking pained.

"Well," she murmurs, "better me than you. Besides, maybe it won't take that long."

"You'll have to go back out past the paps," he reminds her. She chews on her bottom lip, hearing Marian's voice in her head, chastising her for ruining her lipstick.

"I'll live." She holds her hand out. "Give me your room key."

He does, opening his mouth. Before he can say anything, she leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.

"I'll hurry," she promises, and then she slips out into the aisle as quietly as she can. She means that. The last thing she wants is to do is miss his face when he sees the name of his own show flashing across the big screen.

.-.-.-.-.-.

"No, I know I'm not Bellamy, obviously," Clarke mutters, resisting the urge to drop her head onto the counter. She's been arguing with this concierge at the front desk for almost ten minutes. "Bellamy is at the Emmy's right now, where I am also supposed to be, hence the fact that I'm a little overdressed to be hanging out in your lobby." She gestures to her outfit.

"Um," The mention of the Emmy's seems to spur the girl into action, her eyes taking in Clarke's appearance with a new interest. It's probably occurring to her that she might just be pissing off somebody important. She'd be wrong, but Clarke certainly isn't going to correct her. "Let me get my manager."

"Great, yes, thank you." Clarke watches her go, black ponytail swishing behind her as she walks. A few seconds later, she reappears, an older brunette in tow. This new woman, the manager, presumably, smiles.

"Hi, I'm Linda. What seems to be the problem?"

"Hi, Linda," Clarke says, already exhausted by this exchange. "My boyfriend got a call from your hotel, saying that someone tried to break into his room. He couldn't exactly be here, but I'm hoping you can tell me what's going on?"

Linda blinks.

"Oh, oh dear. Okay. What was your boyfriend's name?"

Clarke only lied because she figured it would make it easier for her to get information out of them. But so far it seems to be working, so she goes with it.

"Bellamy Blake. He's part of the Benson party."

Linda taps away at the computer, then looks up. The process of it all leaves Clarke wondering if this whole break and enter thing is more common at the hotel than she'd realized. Eventually, Linda looks up at her.

"Oh, yes. It seems that was a false alarm."

Clarke's head jerks up from staring at the hem of her dress.

"What?"

Sensing a possible scene, Linda straightens.

"I'm so sorry. It happens, sometimes, with the male housekeeping staff. People see them and…make assumptions." Her apology seems genuine, so Clarke just sighs, hand curling into a fist beneath the counter.

"It was just housekeeping? You're sure."

The older woman nods again.

"Unfortunately. Or…" She frowns. "Fortunately. Depending on how you look at it."

That, Clarke supposes, is true.

"That's a pretty dress," Linda adds. Clarke looks down at it.

"Well," she says dryly. "I was in the middle of the Emmy's."

The look on Linda's face is almost worth the trip.

Almost.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Since she's there, Clarke decides to run back to her room and reapply her antiperspirant. The theater is turning out to be hotter, and stuffier, than she'd anticipated, and she could use the touch up. She fires off a quick text to Bellamy.

It was a false alarm, just housekeeping. I guess to some people all men are inherently burglars or something. OMW back.

She slides her card key into the slot, sighing happily as the frigid air of her room hits her. She has a bad habit of cranking the air conditioning in hotel rooms, but right now it feels deliciously good.

She's so distracted by the feeling of the cold air on her overheated skin that she doesn't hear the sound of footsteps on the carpet behind her. She does hear the crack of something heavy hitting the back of her skull, it seems to reverberate inside her head, along with a searing white flash of pain.

And then everything goes black.