A/N: I just wanted to say thank you, you guys have been so lovely with the reviews for the past few chapters. I'm so glad you all are still with me 3


The scream wakes her straight from a dead sleep, bolting up in bed, hand curling around something cold and heavy just as the door to her bedroom flies open.

"CLARKE!" Octavia stands there, chest heaving, eyes bright. The elation on her face gives way to confusion for a moment, as she looks at the blonde girl tangled in her sheets. "Wha-why are you holding a lamp?"

Clarke glances over at her hand, and realizes the object she armed herself with was the lamp from her bedside table. She sets it back down with a sigh, then fixes her friend with the most searing glare she can muster given the fact that her heart is still threatening to leap right out of her chest.

"Because you scared the shit out of me!" She growls, flopping back onto the mattress and clutching her chest. "What the fuck, Octavia?"

The bed dips when Octavia lays down beside her. The knowledge that nothing seems to be urgently wrong doesn't do much to counter the flood of adrenaline coursing through Clarke's veins. A hand appears directly in front of her face, and she moves to swat it away.

Then she sees it.

"Oh my god." She sits up again, grabbing Octavia's hand and staring. "Is that an engagement ring?"

"Lincoln asked me last night, we were hiking and he just stopped and pulled out the ring, and-"

"Oh my god," Clarke says again, pulling her best friend into a hug. "O, that's-congratulations."

"Thanks." Octavia beams back at her, and Clarke has never seen her this happy. Her heart gives a happy little kick, the kind that comes with seeing a good thing happen to someone who deserves it.

"It's about time. You two could have come back from your second date married and I wouldn't have been that surprised." They've been attached at the hip ever since Lincoln moved to Vancouver, and as sickening as they sometimes are, they're also a storybook kind of perfect for each other. Something suddenly occurs to her. "Have you told Bellamy yet?"

"No," Octavia fiddles with the ring. "I kind of wanted to enjoy it first. You know Bell, he'll probably freak out."

Clarke cocks her head, studying the worried crease between the brunette's eyebrows.

"I wouldn't be so sure. I have a feeling he won't really be surprised." He'd have to be an idiot not to have seen this coming, and Bellamy Blake is a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them.

The women lay there in silence for a while, until Octavia slaps Clarke on the thigh, as though suddenly remembering something important.

"You'll be my maid of honor, right?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

.-.-.-.-.-.

Clarke barely registers the buzzing in her blazer pocket as she stares wide-eyed across the counter at Anya.

"What do you-what are you talking about?"

"Like I said the last three times you asked me that question, Oliver is moving back to Paris, full time. I can afford to buy his half of the gallery back from him, but I'd rather have another partner. I think you should buy in, it would mean you no longer have to pay the gallery commission, and to be frank, I like that you probably wouldn't try to change anything." Clarke's phone vibrates again. "Are you going to get that?"

She just shakes her head.

"You want me to co-own the gallery with you?"

"Yes. I assume you wouldn't really want to be involved as a curator, or too much in the day to day business, but I've been running those on my own for years. You would be…"

"A silent partner."

Anya smiles.

"More like a quiet partner. You'd still have full partnership authority, just less responsibility. I thought you might like the opportunity to work with new artists, help find and develop local creators."

As the woman Clarke has come to consider a friend continues to speak, the absurdity of the idea begins to fade. Maybe it's not that crazy. It's actually starting to sound good. It would give her more leniency as far as producing new paintings, she could take a break when she wanted to and focus on finding and promoting new artists instead. She would own a business. With a twisted smile, Clarke thinks her mother would approve. She tries not to let that ruin it for her.

"Can I think about it?" She finally asks? Anya nods.

"Of course," and hands her the cheque for her most recent sales. Clarke doesn't look at the numbers anymore. She knows she makes enough money to do mostly what she likes, enough to pay for the white dress Octavia's had her eye on for a month. She won't let Clarke cover the cost of the whole wedding, which Clarke understands and respects, but Octavia has had to compromise enough already. Apparently Lincoln's family has money, old money, and Clarke knows they've offered to pay for as much as Lincoln and Octavia will allow. But Octavia is short on family, and Clarke considers herself part of that, so there's nothing she'd rather do with the commissions from her sales than put it toward something that will make her best friend smile.

When Clarke pulls out her phone, stepping back out onto the street, she sees the texts on her phone are from the woman she was just thinking about.

Set a date – a month from now. Just booked the venue for June 14th.

And two others.

Clear your schedule MOH. We've got a lot of fucking work to do.

Where are you? Call me, you know, sometime this year.

The time between messages was less than five minutes. Rolling her eyes, Clarke swipes at the screen, holding her phone up to her ear.

"Hey O," she greets her friend, sliding into her car. "I think I just bought half an art gallery."

.-.-.-.-.

"Oh my god, this is-" words slurred over the mouthful of red velvet cake, Octavia just coos.

"So good," Clarke finishes. There aren't a lot of bakeries in town who could do a wedding cake on such short notice, so she's secretly been harbouring the suspicion that they were going to end up with something disgusting. But leave it to Octavia to find some hole in the wall cake shop run by an eighty year-old French woman that can have a cake for one hundred people done on three weeks notice.

"Oh, by the way, Bell's not bringing a date to the wedding. I asked about his plus one, he said he's bringing someone named Eddie."

"That doesn't necessarily mean it's not a date," Clarke points out, through a massive bite of lemon pound cake. Octavia snorts.

"Are you?"

"Am I what?" Clarke asks absently, making a face and crossing Lavender and Chocolate off her list of contenders.

"Bringing a date?"

This time, Clarke snorts.

"Yeah, right. Who would I bring? Besides, I'm the maid of honour. I'll probably be running around after you all night, making sure you don't puke in the planters."

Octavia just nods at that, looking thoughtful.

.-.-.-.-.-.

"Clarke." Octavia drops the lid to the white box, gaping at the dress folded inside. "Oh, please tell me you didn't."

"I could," Clarke says, dropping onto the couch beside her. "But that would be a lie. Consider this your wedding gift." She watches her friend pull the gown out, running her fingers along the ivory material.

"This is-"

"The least you can let me do."

Octavia bites her lip, eyes welling. That's something Clarke's never seen before. Then the brunette launches herself into her lap, arms holding her in a crushing hug.

"Thank you."

"Better than a salad bowl, right?" That earns her a punch to the shoulder.

Clarke just laughs, patting her back, and thinking that was the best five grand she's ever spent.

.-.-.-.-.

Bellamy is late. His flight was delayed, or something, Clarke never really bothered to get the details from Octavia, but the point is, he's not here. His sister is walking down the aisle in less than three hours, and he's still not here.

Clarke tries his cell again, but it goes straight to voicemail.

"Shit."

Normally, she would have tried to pass this job onto someone else. There's something distinctly uncomfortable about barraging your ex-boyfriend with phone calls, and text messages, and vaguely threatening e-mails. But she's the maid of honor, and Octavia will have a meltdown if Bellamy isn't there in time, so Clarke tries again.

She's pacing now, in the hotel, the flip flops she's refusing to change out of until the last possible second slapping against her heels as she traces the same path across the lobby floor. If the way he keeps glancing up at her every ten seconds is any indication, her behaviour is making the concierge nervous. Not that she cares.

And then she hears it.

"Fuck."

And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever heard, because she knows that voice, knows, actually, what that word feels like when it's pressed against her neck, or her chest, or-

Anyways, she recognizes it.

Turning toward the door, she sees him, garment bag tossed over his suitcase, hair in utter chaos, eyes wild.

"Bellamy!" She calls him name, watches as he scans the room then sees her, visibly relaxing.

"Oh," he half jogs toward her, wheeling his suitcase behind him. "Thank god, I thought I was going to miss it, I had to pay a cab like an extra hundred bucks to speed, and then-" His voice is a couple octaves higher than usual, words tumbling off his lips in a mess of nerves and what she can only imagine is exhaustion.

"Hey." She puts a reassuring hand on his arm. This might be weird, maybe, if the circumstances left any room for that. Fortunately, they don't. "You made it. We've got time to get you cleaned up and dressed, and a drink, probably, because I think we both need one."

She jumps when another man appears from what seems like thin air, a tall, skinny blonde in jeans that cling to his legs like a second skin.

"Oh," Bellamy glances tiredly between them. "Right. Clarke this is Eddie, Eddie, Clarke."

Eddie holds out his hand, and Clarke takes it.

"Nice to meet you, Eddie."

"So you're Clarke." He eyes her appraisingly. "I have heard a lot about you."

Bellamy suddenly stands up a little straighter, eyes sharpening.

"We should get ready," he mutters, shooting his friend a warning glance, one Clarke catches. She ignores that, filing it away for later reflection.

"Right, you two are in room 540," she hands over the key cards, "as soon as you're showered and dressed you need to head to 510, that's where all the guys are getting their hair done."

"What?" Bellamy frowns. "But we're not in the bridal party. Or the grooms…party, men whatever."

At her wits end, Clarke begins to physically push him toward the elevator.

"Yes, Bell, but you're walking her down the aisle, and the only family she has at this thing, so you're going to be in all the pictures." She glances at Eddie. "You don't really have to go with him, but if you want our guy to do your hair too, I'm sure that's fine."

The blonde smiles.

"Don't worry Clarke. I'll make sure Bell here is ready on time. Scouts honour."

As the elevator arrives with a ding, Clarke just eyes him warily.

"Somehow, I don't believe you were ever a Boy Scout."

Eddie's grin only widens as he steps into the elevator, turning to Bellamy with an eyebrow raised. He shoots Clarke a wink.

"I like her. You never told me she was so-" but the rest of his sentence is cut off when the doors close, and Clarke just leans up against a pillar for a moment, collecting herself.

.-.-.-.-.-.

Boy scout or not, Eddie keeps his word, and both men are ready and present when the ceremony begins.

Clarke walks down the aisle arm in arm with one of Lincoln's cousins, a deceptively intimidating man with a face tattoo, who whispers a dirty joke in her ear right as the music starts. She spends the entire walk to the altar struggling to keep a straight face.

And then the Blakes come in. Bellamy looks irritatingly sexy in his tux, hair slicked back in a style that Clarke is surprised actually suits him quite well. Though she still prefers his curls loose and wild. Beside him, Octavia glows, her tanned skin almost ethereal against the white of the linen that pinches in at the waist, the A-line skirt flaring out along the runner making up the aisle. Her hair is mostly loose, a few slim braids twisting in around the curls. She looks beautiful, soft under the strength she always wears like armour, and the look on her face as she locks eyes with Lincoln is so intense that Clarke has to look away.

She's not crying as they say their vows, half in English, half in Lincoln's native Trigedasleng, but there's a pressure in her chest, a melancholy ache that steals her breath a few times. It's not easier for having Bellamy there, standing across from her, looking tall and beautiful and solid. When the I do's are exchanged, Clarke is hit with a wave of missing him that almost knocks her off her feet. But then Lincoln is sweeping Octavia into a deep dip, kissing her, and everyone is cheering, and Clarke can't help but laugh at the look on Bellamy's face.

Later, when she's finally run out of things to do, she collapses into her chair at the head table, knocking back one of the happy couple's signature cocktails, a vamped up gin and tonic that goes down smooth but seems to have crept up on some of the guests, if the quality of the moves currently on display down on the dance floor are any indication.

Someone drops into the chair beside her, and she looks up to see Bellamy's friend, Eddie.

"Hi," she says, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey." He isn't looking at her, just watching the dancers the same way she was a moment ago.

"Having fun?"

He shrugs.

"Sure. I hit on one of Lincoln's cousins, turns out she's married to a guy with a wolf tooth as an earring."

"Ah," Clarke tilts her head in understanding. "So you're hiding out with me?"

His lips twitch.

"Maybe." Then he turns toward her, studying her. "So, you're the ex."

She sighs.

"One of them, I guess." That earns her a curious glance.

"Have there been a lot?"

She frowns, glancing back at him.

"You'd know better than me. I kind of stopped watching TMZ after the whole Kaitlyn Herald thing."

This time Eddie actually laughs, and Clarke just grabs another cocktail from a passing caterer, throwing it back.

"God, I forgot about that. Man, it's a good thing your dating life hasn't been on the news. Bellamy would-" He stops himself suddenly, lips pressing together.

"Die of boredom, probably," Clarke mutters, thinking the gin must have gone straight to her head for her to be sharing details of her love life with some stranger who was probably going to report back to Bellamy the first chance he gets. She can feel him staring at her and shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

"You know, my brother bought one of your paintings."

He's offering her an out, a change of subject, and she's almost pitifully grateful for it.

"Oh, yeah?" She sits back, dropping her head into her hands. She's been up since six getting everything organized, and it's almost ten-thirty now. Between the almost seventeen hours she's already been awake, and the fact that this has been her first chance to sit down all day, she's starting to wish she could just go home and pass out.

"Yeah. You do good work. I really like the one you did for Bellamy, it's very him."

Smiling at the compliment, she just shakes her head.

"You're the one who outed me, aren't you?"

"Hey, sister. Don't blame me for your weird, secretive nature. I was just trying to figure out if Bellamy had been dumped by a millionaire. He never really struck me as an opportunist."

Clarke snorts a little more loudly than is ladylike.

"Yeah, right. Bellamy, a gold digger? He'd starve before he'd ask me for money." Just like his sister in that way, both proud to a fault due to their difficult childhoods.

"Mmm," Eddie just makes a thoughtful noise, still watching her. "You wanna dance?"

Surprised, she just blinks at him. Then she considers that the alternative is sitting here, alone, and some of the weariness in her legs seems to dissolve. It's a wedding, after all. Besides, Clarke is pretty good at knowing when someone's hitting on her, and she's fairly confident Eddie is not. He comes across more as a concerned friend, trying to figure out whether she's good enough for Bellamy. Not that it actually matters anymore.

"Are you sure? It'll be tough to hide from Gus on the dance floor."

Eddie just stands, holding out a hand. After a moments hesitation, she takes it.

It turns out that Eddie is a great dancer, has the rhythm of a musician. They continue to talk a little, while he spins her around, and soon she's laughing at the story of him being chased out of Michoacán by a mariachi band and a bondsman.

"How did you end up friends with Bellamy?" She wonders as the song changes, suddenly something slow. For a moment she thinks this might be a good time to retire from the floor, but he throws his arm around her dramatically, a wolfish smile on his face.

Clarke just sighs, draping her own arm over his shoulder and swaying.

"What do you mean?" He asks, referring to her earlier question.

"I mean Bellamy is…careful. You're whatever the opposite of careful is."

Eddie considers that, steering them decidedly away from Lincoln's great aunt Eva, who's eyeing him curiously.

"If the gossip I heard at the open bar earlier is to be trusted, you're pretty good friends with that super hot mechanic, who also happens to be the guy your fiancé cheated on you with. So I think you know that friends are sometimes found in the unlikeliest of places. Besides, Bellamy's not quite as careful as you'd think."

Clarke stares at him, wondering how it's possible that someone can move so rapidly between profound and shallow.

"Ex-fiance." She corrects automatically. And then, with a vague twinge of grief, "late, ex-fiance."

A shadow of regret passes over his face.

"Right, sorry."

She shrugs.

As the song changes again, another ballad, a hand comes down on her shoulder, one that clearly doesn't belong to Eddie.

"Mind if I cut in?"

The cocktails seem to be finally kicking in, and Clarke swallows hard when she recognizes Bellamy's voice. Eddie actually glances at her first, which she finds surprisingly sweet, and when she nods he drops his hands.

"All yours, Bell." The nickname is clearly mocking off the lips of the musician, but Bellamy just rolls his eyes.

His arms wind easily around her, hands a little hesitant, but familiar.

"Hey," he says, dark eyes slanted down at her. She sometimes forgets how tall he is, even in her heels she barely comes up to his chin.

"Hey." She replies, trying not to be completely distracted by the way his fingertips feel against the bare skin of her back where her dress cuts out. "How does it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"You know, now that Octavia's all grown up, married. You did a good job, raising her."

His face slides into a smile, one that looks a little surprised.

"Thanks. It feels…weird. I'm always gonna look out for her, you know. But it's different now. She doesn't need me anymore."

Clarke shakes her head.

"She'll always need you, Bellamy. Just because she's growing up, figuring out who she wants to be in the world, that will never change."

His gaze darkens, grip tightening slightly.

"We are still talking about Octavia, right?"

Clarke stops, the blood rushing to her face. She feels woozy.

"Of course," she mumbles, dropping her arms and taking a step back.

"Clarke-"

"I need some air," she says, because it's the politest way she can think to say please leave me alone. He nods, looking caught.

"Okay."

She stumbles out of the hall, into the lobby, pressing a hand to her head. Stupid, she thinks, letting him get so close again. Stupid to think he wouldn't get under her skin, to think he hasn't been there all along.

"Are you alright?"

For the second time that night, Clarke finds herself blinking up in surprise at a man much taller than herself. This one looks familiar, but she can't place him at first.

"Just needed some air," she repeats, forcing a smile. When he smiles nervously back, she recognizes him as the concierge from earlier, the one who was working when Bellamy and Eddie first arrived.

"Oh," he rocks back on his heels. "Sure. Is there anything I can get you?"

She takes a moment to clear the fog from her mind, peering around the grand marble lobby. Everything about it looks expensive, the kind of place her mother used to attend charity functions for the hospital. Lincoln's family must have paid for it, there's no way him and Octavia could have afforded a place like this. When the man clears his throat, Clarke realizes he's still waiting for an answer.

"I'm okay," she assures him, smile still plastered on her face. There's a small cluster of plush chairs to her right, and she drops into the nearest one. "Thank you."

Still, he hovers.

"Did you need something?" She eventually asks, wondering why he won't just go back to the front desk.

He seems to be conflicted, gloved hands twisting anxiously at his waist.

"I don't want to sound creepy, but are you Dr. Griffin?"

She blinks.

"Um." It's been a long time since anyone has called her that. "I was, I guess. I'm not a doctor anymore."

He nods.

"My name's Steve."

Clarke tries to focus her eyes, looking him over. He does look familiar, thirty-something with brown hair, brown eyes. He looks like a hundred people she's known in her life.

"You um, you treated my girlfriend a couple years ago. Maya Campbell? She was in a car accident."

Oh.

Her, Clarke remembers. It was one of the first surgeries she ever scrubbed in on, and it had been-

A mess. Hemorrhaging everywhere, lungs shredded, heart damaged beyond repair. She still has nightmares about it, sometimes. And the longer she looks at the boyfriend, Steve, she starts to remember him too. He'd been a disaster, she'd eventually had to hold his hand while the nurses sedated him. She never saw him, after that.

Until now.

"Right," she gets to her feet again, feeling strange and formal. "How have you been?"

It seems like a stupid question, given that his girlfriend died, but Clarke knows firsthand that life moves on. He shrugs.

"Better lately. It's been hard."

"Yeah," she ducks her head, guilt from that day coming rushing back up to the surface. "I can imagine. I'm sorry, for your loss."

His eyes dip to the floor, sad and heavy.

"Thanks. I never really got a chance to thank you then, you know, after."

Her mouth opens, then closes, lips pressing together in confusion.

"Thank me?" She'd operated, and Maya had died. She never would have expected gratitude for something like that.

"For being there, when I-I remember you were nice to me. A lot of that night is a blur, but I remember you."

She'd stayed, calmed him down enough to sit still while the nurses pumped him full of Lorazepam. It had been partially out of guilt, the kind of overwhelming misery that surgeons are known to drown in, especially the first few times. But Clarke knows what it's like to feel that pain, the way it radiates like poison from your chest until it feels like you'll explode from the sheer force of it. So he's right, she stayed until he was asleep, but the truth is that while she thinks about the girl laying cold on that table all the time, she hasn't thought about Steven in years.

Her mouth is dry when she answers.

"Of course. You're uh, you don't have to thank me." The room is spinning a little, and she suddenly wants more than anything to take a nap. Her job, for the night, is mostly done. They can manage the cleanup without her. Octavia and Lincoln are both further in the bottle than she is, they won't even remember that she didn't say goodbye. "I think it's probably time for me to call it a night, though," she manages, fishing her room card out of her purse. I'm glad you're doing well."

Steven looks like he wants to say something else, but after a second or two pass, he smiles back.

"Okay. Um, drink a lot of water," he offers, as she staggers toward the elevator. She grimaces.

"I will. Have a good…shift." It occurs to her that he's been there for almost twelve hours. That seems like an unreasonably long day for a concierge, but maybe he needs the overtime. When the elevator doors close she slumps against the wall, rubbing her temples. A soft ding alerts her to their arrival at the fifth floor, and she makes her way painfully to her room. One shoe is already off when she reaches for the light switch, and then she hears the noises.

Moaning. And-

Oh. Raven's not alone. Clarke backs away as quietly as she can, the knowledge that they didn't hear her come in a small comfort.

"Ah, Eddie-"

Clapping a hand to her mouth, Clarke almost falls over herself in an effort to get out of there before she's noticed, or before she has to hear anything else.

Clumsily, she steps back into the hallway, the door closing softly behind her. It looks like she needs to find a new place to sleep. And in light of the company that Raven has decided to keep tonight, Clarke can think of at least one bed that she knows to be empty. One that doesn't require a long and expensive cab ride back to her loft.

Five minutes later she's banging on the door, shoes in hand, head resting exhaustedly against the wall. It only takes roughly a dozen sharp knocks for the inhabitant to wrench it open, glaring down at her with the intense kind of anger that can only truly be achieved by waking a very tired person from a very deep sleep.

"Clarke?" His eyebrows unfurrow to disappear into his hairline. "What are you doing here?"

She pushes past him with ease, dropping her heels beside the still made bed and flopping down on the mattress with a sigh. The sound of the door closing is followed by footsteps, and when she opens one eye she's confronted with an up-close view of a pair of tanned knees.

"Looks like we're bunking together tonight, friend," she says with a yawn. "Seeing as how I've just been sexiled."