"What do you mean it sold?" Clarke gaped at the woman standing in front of her.

"I mean a customer came in, saw it, and asked to buy it." Anya murmured, lips quirking.

"But that painting has only been here two days!" Clarke sputtered.

"Well," Anya sighed, "clearly we were undercharging. I would guess you could charge double for the next piece, maybe more. Do you have anything else that is finished?"

Clarke just stared at her. A couple days ago she had brought the Kitsilano painting in, with no real expectations. If the piece did sell, she had expected it to take weeks, maybe months. And once she'd found out what Anya was planning to charge, her doubts that it would move turned to certainty it would not.

"I…" She tried to pull it together. "I have two smaller pieces and another one the same size. I can bring them in tomorrow if you want to take a look."

Anya nodded.

"Fine. But not tomorrow. I need to process the sale to get your cut. You get your canvases and bring them back today, and I will have your money ready." She raised an eyebrow.

"Um, sure." Clarke said, blinking. The whole thing felt surreal. It was almost unheard of for amateur artists to sell for anything over a couple grand. And her first painting had just gone for $15,000. She turned to go, still a little dazed.

"Oh and Clarke?" Anya's voice trailed behind her. Clarke turned back. "Don't look so surprised. You are incredibly talented."

The taller woman gave her a knowing smile, and then left to attend to a small group of customers. Clarke made her way back to the Charger with her head in the clouds.

By the time she got back to her apartment she'd been gone for almost an hour. Octavia's motorcycle was parked in front of her building, and for a moment Clarke wondered whether she should give the siblings some space. But she'd promised to take Anya a few more pieces and the gallery closed at six, so she headed up the stairs, a little nervous to interrupt what could be a massive Blake family blowout.

The hallway outside her door was surprisingly quiet, and Clarke crossed her fingers that that was a good sign. She swung the door open loudly, announcing herself.

"Hey, I'm back." She called. No answer.

Frowning, she walked into the living room to find Octavia lying on the floor, holding a magazine open above her head.

"Oh." She looked up at the sound of Clarke's heels on the hardwood. "Hey."

"Hey." Clarke looked around for some sign of Bellamy, but didn't find one. "Where's your brother?"

"He went out for a bit." Octavia said. She looked exactly as she always did, eyes bright and sharp, lips curved in a way that managed to be beguiling while baring her teeth. She was beautiful but dangerous, and Clarke always pitied the men who were too distracted by her sex appeal to see the warning signs of a wild card. Then again, they usually deserved what they got.

But Clarke had been expecting tears, or at the very least anger, and all she saw was a little extra energy.

"Okay." Clarke sat on the floor beside her friend. "Did you guys talk?"

Octavia nodded. Her eyes flicked over to study Clarke.

"You knew." It wasn't an accusation, but it wasn't a question either.

"As of," Clarke glanced at the time on her phone, "about an hour ago." She admitted. Octavia tossed the magazine aside and sat up.

"Huh."

"You seem…okay." Clarke observed.

Throwing her hands in the air, the brunette smiled.

"I'm always okay."

"You just found out that your father was a John." Clarke pointed out. "You probably shouldn't be okay." Briefly, she wondered if her friend was having one of those quiet meltdowns that always seemed normal until windows ended up broken.

"No." Octavia sighed. "I didn't."

That stopped the wheels turning in Clarke's head.

"What?"

"I didn't just find out. I've known since I was, like, nine."

Clarke stared.

"And you never told your brother?" She asked. Octavia made a face. "You two have serious communication issues, do you know that?"

"He obviously didn't want me to know. But I'm not stupid, I figured it out. Anyways, my mom spilled the beans before she died, not that it was a surprise."

For once, Clarke didn't know what to say.

"I didn't know about Bell's dad, though." Octavia's voice softened. "That's…I guess it was just something we always had in common. We didn't know our fathers, it was like we didn't have any. So I could pretend they didn't exist, that we were real siblings you know?"

Clarke didn't know, because she didn't have siblings. But she understood.

"O, the bond you guys have is way stronger than most kids who have the same parents. You're real siblings, trust me." She reached out, covering her friend's hand with her own. Then she remembered Anya. "Shit!" She leapt to her feet. "I have to run an errand before it closes. You can hang out, we'll talk when I get back." Octavia shrugged and picked up her abandoned magazine.

Cursing herself for letting this happen twice in one day, Clarke grabbed the canvases she wanted out of her closet, hastily wrapping them before stumbling toward the door.

"Octavia!" She called, as she bumped into the wall for the second time. "Can you get the door for me?"

She couldn't see past the jumble of brown paper in her arms, but there was the soft sound of bare feet padding across the floor, and then the click of her door opening.

"You're going to explain this when you get back." Octavia told her, holding open the door as Clarke shuffled through sideways.

"Of course." Clarke puffed, almost tripping over the threshold. It wasn't that the paintings were heavy, just awkward, and her arms strained to fit around them.

After securing them in the backseat, she took off toward the gallery, swearing when she realized she only had ten minutes to get there. Anya might stay open for her, but it would be unprofessional to be late, and Clarke was so green that she couldn't really afford that.

She made it with seconds to spare, carting the first painting in with her as the last client was being ushered out.

"Hi." She breathed, as Anya spotted her from behind the front desk.

"Hi."

Clarke set her painting down on the counter. Anya tugged at the strings tying the paper on, and then carefully lifted the canvas out of it's wrapping. Her eyes widened when she saw what it was.

"This is one of the smaller pieces?" She asked, scanning the tiny brushstrokes that made up the trees.

"Yeah." Clarke nodded. "I have two others in the car, another like this and one the same size as the Kits piece."

"Alright." Anya set it back down, her expression unreadable. "I would like to see those, if you don't mind." She pulled an envelope from behind the counter and held it out. "And this is your payment for the piece that sold."

Clarke took the envelope, sliding it open. She frowned when she saw the numbers written on the cheque.

"You only took 20% commission." Her eyes narrowed as she read it again, doing the math. That was unreasonably low for a gallery like this.

"All artists get their first piece for half our usual fee." Anya told her.

"Ah." That made more sense. "Alright, I'll grab the other pieces." Clarke said, tucking the envelope into her jacket pocket. It was strange that $12,000 could be so light.

Anya surveyed the next two pieces with the same poker face as the first. Clarke's hands began to sweat. She'd left a job that most medical students would kill for, for this, and it suddenly occurred to her that this was the moment of truth. The Kits piece was one of her favourites, and what if her others weren't as good? What if none of them would sell? She'd never painted with other people in mind, it had all been for herself.

After a few minutes of Anya staring silently at the three paintings lined up in front of her, Clarke couldn't stand the silence.

"I'm dying here." She muttered, and Anya turned an almond shaped eye on her.

"We will sell all of these." She said. The dazed feeling returned, along with a sense of déjà vu.

"Um," unable to think of anything else to say, Clarke just responded with: "alright."

"These two." Anya pointed at the square canvases, two landscapes of an old campsite Clarke used to visit with her father, a river cutting through the forest, Mount Baker cutting through the skyline. They made her smile, but she couldn't keep everything she made. "Are they a set?"

Clarke cocked her head, one was done in the early morning light, the sky still tinted orange with the sun not fully risen. The other was an evening perspective, a fire dancing in the foreground and dusk just touching the tops of the trees. She shook her head.

"No, I think they're individuals."

"Alright. They should sell for more that way, anyways."

Clarke shot her a sideways glance.

"If I ask about pricing am I setting myself up for a heart attack?" She wondered. Anya grinned.

"You are the only artist I've worked with who gets sticker shock from their own paintings." She mused. "Although I'm not sure whether that speaks more to your talent or your modesty."

It was a compliment, certainly, but it only made Clarke nervous. When she didn't say anything, Anya sighed.

"We can lower the prices if they don't sell, but…"

"Anya." Clarke warned.

"I would say 20 for these." She gestured at the campsite scenes.

"Twenty-thousand?" Clarke deadpanned.

"Each."

It was enough to make her head spin, but Anya was already frowning down at the third painting. That one was of the water, something she'd sketched in a boat off the shore of a lake and painted mostly from memory. It faced the shoreline, the rough jut of rock cutting sharply into the green water, trees thickly carpeting the land, a darker green than the jade of the surf. It was what the water always looked like when it clouded over, dark and wet and still somehow saturated with colour. You could see the rough surface of the water, sprays of white on the peaks, but it was still calming, somehow.

"This one we'll tag at thirty." Anya decided. True to her word, that was twice what the first painting had sold for. Clarke felt lightheaded.

"Sure." She said weakly. Anya looked over at her and shook her head.

"I know it seems like a lot. And it is, actually. We don't often sell pieces from new artists for so much. But your work is unique, Clarke. And even for your first painting, there was a lot of interest. If you keep bring in pieces like this…" Anya gestured at the ones in front of her. "These will sell purely on their beauty. Once your name is recognizable, their value will only increase."

It was a lot. Too much, maybe. Anya seemed to recognize that.

"Thank you." Clarke murmured. "This has been…a huge day for me. I quit my job." She admitted. Anya sighed.

"I know the saying is not to quit your day job, but…in your case I think you made the right decision."

Clarke smiled.

"I should get going. I'll leave these with you."

Anya nodded.

"Goodnight, Clarke."

"Goodnight."

.

By the time Clarke got home, Bellamy was back. She knew the instant she opened her front door, and the smell of stir fry hit her nose. Octavia's bike was still out front, so she assumed the full set of Blakes were around somewhere.

"Clarke!" Octavia greeted her before Clarke could even get her shoes off. "Bell's been asking me where you went. Something about a disappearing act you pulled last night?"

Clarke cringed.

"I had some business stuff."

Octavia raised her eyebrows.

"What kind of business?"

Clarke kicked off her shoes, following her nose into the kitchen.

"That smells good." She murmured, ignoring Octavia. Bellamy looked up, smirking.

"What are you going to do when I leave?" He asked. "You can't go back to eating takeout for every meal. You know how unhealthy that is, you're a doctor." He paused. "Well, sort of."

Clarke stuck out her tongue at him, grabbing a beer out of the fridge. Octavia had apparently already helped herself to a bottle of wine, and Bellamy had what appeared to be a Jack and Coke sitting on the counter beside him.

Suddenly, his words sunk in. Leaving. She kept forgetting that was something inevitable. He had only been there a couple weeks, but he already fit into her routine. He was right, it was hard to imagine going back to the way her life had been before. She no longer had a job that required her to work sixty hours a week, being on call for whatever remained. Most of the time she'd gotten back from quitting she now spent with him.

"I don't know." She said quietly. He regarded her thoughtfully, eyes curious, then looked back at the mushrooms he was slicing.

"So are you going to tell me what you were up to today?" Octavia asked, dropping onto the bar stool next to her. Clarke wasn't sure she was ready to share everything, Bellamy still didn't know about the painting.

"Well," she turned to face Octavia, "being that I am technically unemployed, I decided to sell some stuff. I need the cash." Her friend caught on, eyes widening in interest.

"And?"

"And I think I'll take us out for drinks after dinner." Clarke grinned. Her own smile was rivalled only by Octavia's.

"That's great!" Octavia clapped her hands, then realized her brother was staring curiously between them. Dialing down the enthusiasm, she turned back to Clarke. "We should go to Portside. I haven't been in ages and it's 80's night."

"Sure." Clarke took a swig of her beer. The reality of her situation, of her day, was finally beginning to sink in. After a few minutes of Blake bickering, Octavia seemed to pick up on how quiet Clarke had gone.

"Are you alright?" The brunette asked, cutting off her conversation with Bellamy. Her older brother turned to look at Clarke, confused.

"I'm uh…" Clarke shrugged, though her mouth had gone dry. "I think I'm going to just grab a sweater." She murmured. She headed toward her bedroom, dazed.

When she turned to grab a cardigan out of her closet, she was surprised to find that Octavia had followed her.

"What's going on?" Her friend's arms were crossed, concern all over her face. Not sure how to describe it, Clarke just reached inside the jacket she had discarded on her bed, and handed the envelope inside to Octavia.

There were a few seconds of silence, Octavia flipping it open and pulling out the cheque. And then there was that intake of breath, identical, Clarke was sure, to the one she had taken earlier that day.

"What is this?" The cheque was being waved, almost angrily, in the air. "Where the hell did you get this?"

Clarke blinked.

"The gallery." She had expected surprise, certainly, and maybe even a little skepticism, but there was an accusatory tone in Octavia's voice that was catching her off guard.

"The…your painting? Your painting sold for twelve grand?"

Clarke knew her friend didn't mean to be insulting, so she let the absolute disbelief on O's face slide.

"Fifteen, actually. But the gallery takes commission, so. I can't believe it either. Octavia…" Clarke trailed off, face going numb. Her hands moved forward of their own accord, settling on Octavia's shoulders.

"Holy shit." The youngest Blake stared back at her. "HOLY SHIT!" For a moment the only sound in the room was their breathing, and then the door burst open. Bellamy stood there, chef's knife in hand, eyes wide with concern. The girls stared at him.

"Are you okay?" He asked, looking like he was slowly realizing he had probably just overreacted. Octavia rolled her eyes.

"We're fine. Dying of starvation, but you know, fine." She said, narrowing her eyes at him. He sighed. Clarke wasn't sure she would ever really figure out the rhythm of their relationship. His eyes ghosted over the cheque in Octavia's hands, but didn't linger long enough to read it.

"Um, right." He began to back out of the room. "Sorry."

When he was gone, Octavia turned to Clarke.

"Are you ever going to tell him?"

Clarke shrugged.

"I mean…when he first got here I didn't tell him because I didn't think he'd be around that long. But now…I don't know. I guess I will eventually." She considered that there wasn't any good reason to keep it from him anymore, especially now that she was actually selling, but for some reason she was still hesitant. Octavia frowned for a moment, then apparently decided to let it go.

"Okay, well, I'm sorry I freaked out." Octavia's cheeks flushed. "The way I grew up…money like that was usually a red flag. I forget that it's different for you."

Clarke forgot the differences in their childhoods sometimes, too. And she knew exactly where her friend's mind had gone.

"It's fine, I probably would have done the same thing. I kind of did, actually, at the gallery." She mused. Octavia glanced back down at the cheque.

"Okay, well, you're definitely buying drinks tonight." She murmured, a grin creeping over her face. "You know, I'm a big fan of Patron. I might even go for Platinum tonight."

Clarke shook her head.

"I am not drinking tequila with you again. And besides, you realize your brother is going to be there? He's going to start thinking I'm a bad influence."

Octavia shrugged, then slapped her forehead.

"Oh my god. I totally forgot to tell you. Saturday is Bell's birthday."

"October 11th. Right. Shit, I haven't gotten him anything." Clarke had loosened up a lot since she met Octavia, but the part of her that hated to be unprepared for anything felt a twinge of anxiety.

If Octavia looked slightly suspicious at the fact that Clarke already knew when her brother's birthday was, she didn't say anything.

"I don't think you have to, really. You've only known him a few weeks, and from what I hear you're cutting him a pretty sweet deal on the rent."

It was an out, but Clarke found she didn't want one.

"Mmm. I'll figure something out. Are you guys doing anything?" She wondered how many birthdays in the past few years the siblings had actually been together for. For some reason, she got the feeling it wasn't a lot.

They seemed close, closer than any other siblings Clarke knew, but there was something about the way they spent time together that gave it away. Like maybe it would be a long time before they saw each other again. It seemed like Bellamy got by, financially, but it couldn't be easy to fly all the way across the country all the time, even for a writer. Octavia didn't have the funds for something like that, she was making enough as a personal trainer to pay the bills, but didn't have a lot left over. Clarke made a mental note to buy her friend a round trip to Toronto for her next birthday.

"I was thinking of throwing a party at my place, it's kind of small, but it's not like he really knows anyone here anyways." Octavia said, pulling Clarke back to the moment.

She frowned.

"You know…why don't you have it here? It could be a surprise." Clarke offered. Her place was a lot bigger than Octavia's. "And I think I might be able to help with the guest list."

Her friend looked surprised.

"That would be great, actually. What can I do to help?"

They talked details for long enough that Bellamy came banging on the door again, announcing dinner. By the time they were finished they had most of the plan taken care of. Octavia was going to take Bellamy to dinner, so at least they would make sure he had the night set aside. She would take him to Hawksworth, a restaurant that was guaranteed to be fully booked on a Saturday night. Hopefully they would be out of the apartment long enough for Clarke to get everything, and everyone, set up. It wasn't foolproof, but as Octavia said, he wouldn't be expecting much.

"Is this zucchini?" Clarke poked at one of the green things on her plate. Bellamy looked up at her.

"Yeah."

She slid the piece, and several others, to the side of her place, uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her. She smiled apologetically.

"Sorry. I'm not trying to be picky, just allergic."

His eyebrows went up.

"Shit. Sorry." He glanced at the table, where the only things available were a big wok of stir-fry and half of a baguette. "I didn't know. I can throw a steak on the grill for you."

Clarke watched the way the corners of his mouth turn down in disappointment. But he looked more disappointed in himself than anything else. She popped a carrot into her mouth.

"Bellamy, it's fine. I'm not that allergic, just can't eat big chunks of it."

He didn't look convinced. Clarke took a big forkful of the stir-fry and shoved it in her mouth, barely able to close her lips around it.

"Mmm." She mumbled, chewing, and Octavia snorted beside her. Bellamy sighed. Their eyes met for a moment, his nose crinkling when he smiled, those freckles dusted across it. A few weeks. That's how long she'd known him. But here he was, perfectly at home in her apartment, and as much as she tried to shake it, she was beginning to wonder what she was going to do when he left.

So she forced a smile in return, and threw one of her zucchini pieces at Octavia when her beer was magically empty after Clarke had only had a sip.

.

Portside was crowded, because a Thursday is really as good as any when it's 80's night at the bar. Bellamy just sat there, bemused, when Madonna plunked a couple shots of tequila in front of them.

"Stop staring." Clarke nudged him. He shook his head, like a dog cleaning water from their ears.

"His beard doesn't go with his bra." Bellamy pointed out, sliding one of the shots toward her. Clarke rolled her eyes.

"Nothing goes with a cone-bra." She informed him. She lifted her shot, followed closely by both of the Blakes. "To me not being broke, despite not being a doctor." She said.

"Here, here." Octavia clinked their glasses together, and Bellamy, who still didn't know why they were really celebrating, gave a kind of confused nod.

Clarke tipped the shot back, then signalled for another round. Bellamy was staring at his glass. His sister poked him.

"Bell? You okay?"

He looked up at Clarke.

"What are we drinking, exactly?" He asked. Clarke directed him toward Octavia, who had ordered in the first place.

"Patron Platinum." The petite brunette said, tilting her head curiously. "Why?"

He gaped at her.

"Why are we drinking $250 tequila?"

"We're celebrating." Clarke reminded them. "I came into a little money today, and I think I've found a viable way to support myself despite being unemployed, so…" She shrugged. "Expensive tequila."

Octavia was watching them, a wary look in her eye. Clarke could just tell him the truth, but when she opened her mouth, it stuck in her throat.

He didn't push it further, and they made their way through a couple more rounds before Octavia decided she wanted to dance.

The music was the kind of 80's pop that made you immediately forget people were watching. Clarke sank into it, along with Octavia, and they were soon split up by a couple guys wanting to cut in. By the time Clarke realized she'd lost track of Bellamy, it had been almost forty-five minutes. She ducked out on the guy currently holding her a little lower than her hips, and scanned the crowd. Her hair was sticking to the back of her neck, and she could practically feel her face glowing pink with a combination of exertion and alcohol. After a few moments she spotted him, back against the bar, chatting with a blonde Clarke didn't recognize.

As she made her way over to them, it occurred to Clarke that he might not want to be interrupted. But he had already caught sight of her, and it would look strange for her to suddenly dart in another direction. Slightly breathless, she closed the distance between them and nodded at the girl.

"Hi." She smiled, despite not really feeling it. The girl smiled back, hers looking a little more genuine than Clarke's felt.

"This is Monroe." Bellamy nodded at the blonde to his left. "We used to work on a paper together." Clarke hadn't known that, that Bellamy used to work at a newspaper. She imagined him in one of those brown fedoras, shouting at a staffer. Her lips quirked.

"I'm Clarke, it's nice to meet you." She held out her hand, which was a tiny bit sweaty, but Monroe didn't seem to mind. It was then that Clarke noticed exactly how close the two of them were standing, and something in her stomach twisted unpleasantly. Bellamy leaned around Monroe, signalling the bartender back over. The way he curved around her, well, they didn't look like coworkers.

It wasn't any of Clarke's business, though. So she pressed her lips together to keep from saying something petty and jealous, and only opened them to accept the shot that Bellamy passed her.

After a couple minutes of small talk, Bellamy's phone rang. He shot them both an apologetic glance, and headed for the door.

"So." Once he was gone, Monroe turned to Clarke. "What's the deal with you two?"

Clarke blinked, caught a little off guard by the other girl's bluntness. Then she shrugged.

"There is no deal. He's staying with me while he's in town as a favour to Octavia." Suddenly remembering her friend, Clarke scanned the dancefloor, and saw the brunette rubbing up against a guy with a face tattoo. When she glanced back at Monroe, the blonde was staring at her appraisingly.

"I thought she was sober." Monroe noted, following Clarke's eyeline to Octavia. Fighting the urge to revert to the very mature reply of that's none of your business, Clarke just shrugged again.

"It's complicated. She's fine, though." Clarke suddenly had an idea. "Hey you used to work with Bellamy around here, right?"

Monroe nodded, looking curious at the change of topic.

"Do you know anyone else he kept in touch with? Like friends in the area?"

That got another nod.

"There are a few guys, and Roma. Why?" She asked, downing the rest of her drink. Clarke was beginning to feel lightheaded, but the bartender set down another round before she'd even had the chance to ask.

"Octavia's throwing Bellamy a birthday thing, on Saturday. You should come. And if there's anyone else you think he'd want there, tell them to come too." Clarke threw back something that tasted like medicine, probably Jager, and watched Octavia finally tire herself out. Her eyes fell on Bellamy, pushing his way back through the front door.

"Sure." Clarke looked up to see Monroe smiling again. "I'll be there. And I'll see who else I can drag along." She shut up as Bellamy reached them, but Clarke mouthed a quick thank you over his shoulder.

"What are you guys talking about?" He asked, looking between them suspiciously. Clarke smiled mischievously.

"You."

He paled a little, then coughed. Monroe laughed.

"I should actually get going. Clarke, why don't you give me your number." She held out her phone, and Clarke took it, stifling her own laughter at the look on Bellamy's face. She handed back the phone, now one contact heavier, and Monroe kissed Bellamy on the cheek before taking off.

"You two seemed to get along pretty well." He observed, taking the drink out of Clarke's hand and sipping it. She scowled.

"Thief."

He rolled his eyes.

"You ready to go?"

It sounded like he was, and Clarke was beginning to pick up on the fact that his mood had darkened significantly since he got back from that phone call. She nodded.

"Sure. I'll close out the tab if you want to get O."

They both look over at where some guy has his hand in a place Octavia does not seem to want it. Bellamy's face tightened.

"Yeah." He muttered. "I'll get her."

Clarke caught him by the back of his shirt.

"Don't make a scene." She warned him. "Your sister is more than capable of taking care of herself."

He just grunted and stomped away. Clarke turned back to the bar, pulling out a credit card and catching the attention of the Madonna who'd been serving them drinks all night.

The cab ride home was quiet, Bellamy in the middle, both girls resting their heads on his shoulders. Clarke caught the expression of their cab driver in the mirror, and muffled a snicker into Bellamy's shirt. As they were piling out, the driver gave him a wink.

"What was that about?" Bellamy wondered, making his way up the steps.

Clarke snorted.

"He was really impressed with you. I think he thought we were going to have a threesome." She mused, still snickering as she slid the key into the lock. It swung open, and he walked past her, looking horrified. She tried not to be offended by that.

"We are two very hot girls." Octavia sighed, flopping onto the couch. "You lucky bastard."

Clarke continued to laugh, while Bellamy just made a face.

"Cut it out. Why didn't you just go home, anyways?" He asked, sitting on the couch next to his sister. Octavia shrugged, kicking her shoes halfway across the room.

"My bike is here. Easier." Her voice was muffled into the couch cushions.

"Do you ever actually ask if you can crash here?" He wondered. But she was already asleep.

Clarke was determinedly draining the entire pitcher of water that had been in the fridge, when Bellamy wandered in from the living room.

He just raised an eyebrow, watching her.

"No more hangovers." She declared, finishing what was left and then sitting it in the sink.

"Ah." He nodded in understanding.

"So." Clarke folded her arms across her chest. "Do you want to talk about the phone call?"

The amusement slipped off his face, tension replacing it.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have to tell me." Clarke said, backpedaling at the tone of his voice. "It just seemed to upset you, and I thought-"

"That you would pry? Because you need to know everything about my life?" He retorted, each word like a gunshot. Clarke stepped back, shocked.

"Um, no, I'm sorry, I just thought maybe you'd want to talk about it." She raised her hands in surrender.

"I don't want to talk to you about it." He said. "I've already got a sister, I don't need another. And maybe we're friends-" maybe? "but if I want to talk about something, I will. If I wanted to tell you about that, I would have."

Clarke stared at him. She wasn't sure where this was coming from, wasn't sure what she'd done wrong.

"Okay." She said quietly. Seeing him like this, cold and angry, it was like looking at a stranger. And, Clarke realized, that's really what he was. She'd known him a few weeks, seen what he'd let her see. This fantasy she'd created in her head, of them being friends, of them having this connection, it was exactly that. In her head.

She let her hands fall, and shoved them into her pockets.

"Goodnight, Bellamy."

He didn't say anything, and the silence followed her to bed.

Just as she plugged in her phone, Clarke realized she'd missed two texts from an unknown number.

Hey, it's Monroe.

I'll be there on Saturday, and I roped in like 9 other guys, hope that's okay. It's nice that you're doing this for him, you guys must be close.

Clarke set it down with a sigh. She'd forgotten about the party. She wasn't sure Monroe was right, about them being close, not after whatever the hell had just happened in the kitchen. But one thing was undeniable. Her life had gotten infinitely more complicated since Bellamy Blake had walked into her life. And it was probably about to get worse.


A/N: Looks like things with Bell aren't going as well as Clarke had hoped. Next up: the party.

P.S. Love the comments, thanks guys :)