A/N: This chapter's a little shorter, but I figured it would be better to just post it now, as is, rather than waiting until I can finish the next scene. I realized today that this has officially become the longest fic I've ever written! So that's something! Anyways, I hope you like this, I promise Bellamy and Clarke are on their way back to each other.


"You-what?"

The confusion is evident in Bellamy's voice, though Clarke barely even registers that he's talking through her exhaustion. This bed is soft, and comfortable, and the whole room smells like him, and now that she's vertical, she's tempted to pass out without even crawling under the sheets.

"S'Raven," she mumbles into the duvet. "We're sharing a room, and she's entertaining, so it's not like I can really crash there tonight."

"Oh." The other bed creaks slightly as he sits down on it, and from the one eye that isn't smushed into the blankets, Clarke can see him looking at her. "Alright. I'm not sharing with Eddie though, so if he comes back-"

"Then I'll know it's safe to go back to my own room, considering he's the one Raven's hooking up with."

Deciding she won't likely get to sleep anytime in the next five minutes, Clarke sits up, rubbing her eyes.

"Huh." Bellamy digests that information for a moment, then rolls his eyes. "Didn't see that one coming."

"Really?" Clarke groans, sliding backwards to rest her back against the headboard. "I don't know him that well, but I'm not exactly surprised. Eddie could be on the DVD case for Wedding Crashers."

He makes a noise of agreement.

"I'm not surprised he's hooking up, just that he's hooking up with Raven."

She opens one eye again, rolling her head to the side so she can stare at him.

"What's wrong with Raven?" She asks, warning in her voice. He puts his hands up, apologetic.

"Nothing, I just thought he had his eye on someone else."

"Oh." Satisfied, Clarke shuts her eyes again, shivering when her lack of motion, and clothing, begins to catch up with her. The forest green theme of the wedding had included the bridesmaid dresses, tight, strapless numbers that Clarke had been secretly afraid of spilling out of all night. The other bridesmaids weren't quite as she chesty as her, and there had been a couple close calls. "God, do you have the AC on blast or something?"

"No. Maybe you should put on a sweater or something."

This time, when Clarke opens her eyes, she catches him just as he looks away, eyes dark.

"I didn't exactly get a chance to grab my bag." Instead, she throws back the covers, sliding underneath them with a sigh. The sheets are surprisingly soft, for a hotel, and though the fabric is cool against her skin, she feels a little warmer protected from the draft in the room. As her eyes drift shut, something occurs to her. "Did you mean Aria?"

"What?"

"Whoever you thought Eddie was going to hook up with, was it Aria? Gustus's wife?"

"Uh," there's a pause before he answers. "No. Why?"

She shrugs into the comforter, debating just taking the constricting dress off.

"I d'no," she mumbles. "He mentioned hitting on her, til he realized she was married." Beginning to warm up, she tugs the dress off under the covers, then tosses it to the side.

"What-" comes Bellamy's voice, sounding strangely constricted, "-are you doing?"

She forces her eyes open, groaning at the light in the room. Then she sees her dress, having landed neatly on Bellamy's bed.

"Oh," she just sighs. "Do you know how uncomfortable that thing was? Don't worry, Dad, I'll stay under the covers."

He stares at her for a moment, a little slack jawed, which her alcohol soaked brain chocks up simply to fatigue, then gets up and disappears into the little alcove beside the bathroom. A few moments later she can hear him coming back, and then something soft hits her squarely in the face. She knows, even after all this time, even with her eyes closed, that it's Bellamy's McGill shirt. She can tell just from the way it smells, and how it's worn so thin she can almost put her finger through it. That ache comes back, the one in her chest that seems to echo every time she breathes in, smelling him. Her hand curls around the shirt.

"Thanks," she mutters, before pulling it under the covers and then over her head. He doesn't say anything, and if he nods, she can't see it. It should probably be hard, to sleep with him there, awkward and strained and tense.

But after he shuts off the light, and she can hear his steady breathing, the familiar scent of him surrounding her, Clarke is gone before she has a chance to say goodnight.

.-.-.-.-.

It's not the arm around her waist that wakes her, or the hand on her breast. It's the sleepy sigh, right in her ear, the one that doesn't sound quite right.

She cranes her head, blinking against the soft early morning light, and then recognizes the face pressed into her hair.

"What are you doing?"

Eddie squints blearily up at her.

"Oh. You're not the mechanic." His words wash over her, along with a potent cloud of whiskey.

"Oh my god," her face crumples in disgust. "You smell like a distillery. What, did you go back to the bar after you guys hooked up?"

His drunken confusion is answer enough for her, and she makes a mental note to give someone, somewhere a slap on the wrist for over serving their guests.

Beside them, the other bed begins to move, and a messy mop of dark brown curls eventually pops up like a meercat.

"Clarke, shut up," Bellamy mutters, voice hoarse and thick with sleep.

She elbows Eddie in the side, realizing he still has one hand firmly cupped around her breast.

His bare leg brushes hers, and then he looks slowly down at the duvet covering them, a frown forming.

"You're not wearing any pants," he notes, making no sign of moving away.

At the sound of his voice, Bellamy suddenly sits straight up, blinking at the two of them in confusion.

"What the fuck is going on?" He asks, taking in the way his friend is curled around Clarke like a housecat.

"Your friend here hooked up in my room, banishing me to your room, hit up the bar, and has now come back to drunkenly grope me." Clarke grumbles, considering whether physically pushing Eddie out of the bed would take too much effort.

'Wh-"

Bellamy is suddenly on his feet, glaring down at them. The hand holding tight to her chest suddenly loosens.

"Eddie. Go shower."

The blonde complies with a sigh, sliding out of the bed to reveal that he's wearing only boxers. He disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of running water comes on a few seconds later.

"It's like he's actually trying to annoy me," she mutters, rolling onto her back.

"Yeah," Bellamy says groggily, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry. He's not usually like that."

"Why are you sorry?" She wonders, then remembers who she's talking to. "Nevermind. You hungry?"

"Uh," he turns back toward her, and the sight of him in his boxers makes heat curl in her stomach. She looks away. "I guess. Why?"

"I want breakfast. Also, I don't think I'm ready to be hungover yet. And they have mimosas."

When she glances back at him, he's frowning at her.

"Or not." She says hurriedly, wondering if she's just made a fool of herself. It really was just an offer for breakfast.

"No." He shakes his head. Then, catching sight of her face, corrects himself. "I mean yes. I just figured you'd want to sleep in. You're not exactly a morning person."

Right. She'd almost let herself forget exactly how well he knows her.

"I can be," she mutters huffily, if only to annoy him. He rolls his eyes.

"Clarke. Remember when you asked me to wake you up early so you could go for a run?" He raises an eyebrow.

She does remember.

"I didn't mean it," she grumbles, sliding out of bed and stretching wearily.

"When you asked me to wake you up? Or when you threatened to disembowel me?"

Her lips tug into a wry smile.

"You're the one who asked me to read an entire medical journal about war-era torture."

"I needed an expert opinion," he argues.

She sighs. The cold ache blooming in her chest is familiar, one she recognizes from the first few weeks after they'd finally called things off for good. Him just being here is apparently enough to bring it back, hollow and creeping.

God, she misses him. But he'll be gone again in less than 24 hours. And nothing has changed, not for her. She can't have half of him. It's just not enough.

"Is that what you're wearing to breakfast?" He suddenly asks. "This is kind of a fancy place. Not that I care."

She looks down, at his ratty t-shirt and her bare legs.

"Oh. Hmm." Walking around the bed, she starts searching for her discarded bridesmaid dress. The sound of water stops. "I know it's here-" she stops when a towel drops nearly in front of her face. And then the ass that was concealed by the towel is also, suddenly, in her face.

"EDDIE!" Bellamy roars, as Clarke claps a hand over her mouth, snorting. Eddie whirls around, finally spotting Clarke where she's sitting on the floor, wedged between the wall and the bed.

"Oh." His eyebrows go up, but as he hastily wraps the towel back around his waist, there's not even a shred of embarrassment in his grin. "Sorry, didn't realize you were still here. When I didn't see you, I just assumed you'd gone back to your own room."

She waves a hand dismissively.

"It's fine." She glances at Bellamy, who's pinching the bridge of his nose irritable, and her lips twitch. "I've seen worse."

Eddie's tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth, face breaking into a cheeky smile.

"I mean, if you had to rate it…"

She considers that.

"Like, how? On a scale of one to ten?"

"Sure."

"Hmm. I-"

Bellamy coughs loudly, interrupting their conversation.

"Weren't we going to get breakfast?" He asks pointedly. She blinks.

"Oh. Yeah. I just need to find my dress."

In front of her, Eddie bends over, then straightens, her dress dangling from his finger.

"And what a fine dress it is."

She takes it with a suspicious frown.

"Are you hitting on me? Because like eight hours ago I walked in on you having sex with my best friend."

He stares at her, obviously surprised.

"Wait, like, literally?"

She nods.

"Oh. Sorry about that. We didn't-"

"Hear me." She finishes for him, stepping into her dress. She tugs it up, under Bellamy's t-shirt. The hem barely covers anymore than what she was already wearing, but at least it's technically a whole outfit. "Trust me, I know." Flashes of the night before come back to her, the noises in the dark. Her face twists in a grimace. She tugs the shirt off, shivering as the well air conditioned air hits her bare arms.

"Are you ready?" Bellamy asks, from where he's leaning against the wall. He's been fairly quiet, Clarke notices, during this exchange.

"I guess." She turns back to the blonde musician, sliding past him toward the door. "I'd invite you, but I think I've reached my Eddie quota for the day." Bellamy snorts.

"S'alright. I'm gonna crash anyways, I need a nap. Didn't sleep much last night." True to his word, Eddie walks over to the bed Clarke was in only a few moments ago, and flops onto it face first, not bothering to get under the sheets. Or change out of his towel. Clarke has a strong suspicion that whenever Bellamy makes it back to his room, the towel will have been discarded. Her stomach growls ferociously, and she glances down at it in surprise. "And no," Eddie adds, voice muffled into the pillow. "I wasn't hitting on you." She's not sure whether she believes him, but her body is beginning to make demands she can't ignore.

"Okay," she mutters, talking half to Bellamy and half to her stomach. "We're going."

They get to the elevator before he speaks.

"So," he looks over at her. "paint anything lately?" She tenses at the question, but he doesn't sound like he's still mad about it, so she just shrugs.

"Yeah, a few things. I, uh-" She bites her lip. "I'm actually buying into the gallery that's been selling my stuff. I'll co-own it, with the girl who runs it now."

"Oh." He clears his throat. "That's-congratulations."

And there it is, the awkwardness that they've been too busy, or too drunk, or too tired to really notice. Until now.

"Thanks." The elevator doors open, and they step out, Clarke putting a hand lightly on his arm to guide him toward the restaurant. "What about you?"

"Uh," he holds up two fingers when the host asks about a table. "Have I bought any art galleries or painted anything lately?"

Her lips twitch.

"Sure."

"No. But the show's been nominated for an Emmy."

Clarke stops suddenly, the host still making a beeline for their empty table, and Bellamy bumps into her back.

"You-what?" She gapes at him. He just takes her by the shoulders, pushing her toward the table, and into a seat. He doesn't say anything as the host hands them two menus, and then disappears. "Bellamy," Clarke says impatiently, when he begins browsing through the waffle list.

"What?" He asks innocently, looking at her over the menu.

"You've been nominated for an Emmy?"

"Apparently. It's not official yet, I don't even know what category it's for, but-"

"That's amazing!"

"It will be probably just be something really obscure, the stuff they don't air, like set design for a period drama, or-"

"Shut up!" She hits him on the bicep, hard. "That's still amazing! You're a Canadian show, and you've only aired one season. That's huge."

His carefully neutral expression slips, and then he's beaming at her. She remembers this, how he's humble to the point of martyrdom sometimes, that he needs to be reminded that it's alright to be proud. To want things.

She wants to kiss him. But she won't.

"Thanks." His voice is soft. Clarke just nods, feeling all the filled in cracks in her chest slowly pulling back apart. How can it still be so hard?

When their drinks come, and screw mimosas, this calls for actual champagne, she raises her glass in a toast. Her second in twenty-four hours.

"To us. Living our dreams." She leaves out the part where there are days that she thinks maybe he's her dream, and she's making a mistake. But he raises his glass anyways, tapping it against hers.

"I feel like a Manhattan housewife drinking champagne with breakfast," he mutters, but he's flashing her that side smile that she'll never admit still gives her butterflies. "To living the dream, Princess."

It's been ages since he's called her that. She forces a smile in return, then downs the whole glass. Suddenly, it doesn't matter that it's barely eight in the morning, she wishes she had something stronger.

"So," she eventually breaks the heavy silence that has settled between them. "Waffles?"

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

An hour later, she's almost forgotten. There's a shred of self-preservation, and she's hanging from it like a climber to a vine, but the truth is that she's dangerously tempted to let go. To pretend, for a little longer, that this is how things are. That they are still an us.

So when he looks at his phone, and swears at the time, and the realization that he's leaving now, that there's no us anymore, it's only mostly like being punched in the stomach. There's no reason for him to go back to his room with him, she didn't leave anything there. He has to pack, and catch a flight, and go home. Back to the other side of the country.

This is what you wanted, Clarke thinks, as she leans in for a brief and polite goodbye hug. She doesn't let herself linger as she presses a kiss to his cheek.

But it's not. And she watches him walk away with an almost physically heavy melancholy.

I love you. God, she still does, maybe even more than before. How is that possible, when she hasn't seen him in months? Still, the words are there, like they've been scratched on the inside of her mind with something sharp and cold. I love you, I love you, I love you.

And then, with a jolt, she realizes the words on repeat in her mind are ones that Bellamy has never heard from her. Not once.