A/N: You might have noticed that I added some tags since the last chapter. In an upcoming chapter (should be 22) there will be some violence, and I wanted to just give you all a heads up. I hadn't planned for it, but it just works with the narrative.

Anyways, this chapter is a little shorter, because it's basically just a set-up for chapter 21. I hope you like it :)


It's still dark out when her phone rings.

Clarke groans, rolling over to slap blindly at her nightstand a few times before her hand closes around the phone. She drags it over to her ear.

"Whoever you are, I hate you," she mumbles, face still half pressed into her pillow.

"What? I-oh shit."

"Bellamy?" She rolls over, sitting up against her headboard.

"So I may have forgotten about the time difference."

Clarke pulls the phone away from her ear long enough to look at the time.

"It's five thirty, you asshole." She grunts. "If you're not calling because you're in mortal danger, you're about to be."

She's only been home two days; the last time they spoke was when she called him from the airport.

"So this would be a bad time to ask you for a favour, then," he decides, sounding hesitant. Fighting the urge to scream at him, Clarke just growls.

"I have the money to hire assassins now," she tells him, "I want you to think about that."

"Wow." He sighs. "You're really not a morning person."

"BELLAM-"

"Alright, alright. What are you doing on the 19th?"

"Of?" She wonders.

"September."

She blinks into the darkness of her room.

"You mean what am I doing in three weeks?"

His answering silence tells her that yes, that is exactly what he means.

"I'd have to look," she says tiredly, "why?"

"I kind of need a date…for a work thing."

"What work thing?" She's suddenly suspicious. "Why are you being so weird?"

Once again he falls silent. The date sounds familiar, why does she feel like she's heard it bef-

"The Emmy's?" She blurts suddenly. "Are you asking me to be your date to the Emmy's?"

"Maybe."

Clarke tugs the covers over her head, then realizes he can't see her anyways.

"Aren't you going with Kaitlyn?" She wonders. The air under her comforter is uncomfortably hot and stuffy.

"She won't be back by then, and…" his voice changes. "We broke up."

"What? I've only been home for two days." Annoyed by the knowledge that she probably won't be able to fall back to sleep after this conversation, Clarke crawls out of bed, heading for the kitchen.

"Yeah, well. She's dealing with some family stuff, and we kind of decided that we're not really going to be good for each other for a while."

"Oh." She dumps some coffee grounds into the machine and starts it. "That makes sense. I'm sorry, though." He sounds sad, and she can't tell if it's about Jake or Kaitlyn. Probably both.

"Thanks. So, will you come?"

Clarke sighs.

"If I say yes, will you promise to never, ever call me before eight o'clock pacific time again?" She asks.

"Absolutely."

"Then sure. E-mail me the details, I guess."

He starts talking again, but she hangs up. She's tired, and it's early, and she's pretty much reached her threshold for information that can be retained before six o'clock in the morning. The coffee maker hisses a little, the smell beginning to fill the air, and she collapses face first onto the couch in her living room.

Oh, god. She's going to have to buy a dress.

.-.-.-.-.-.

"Reaaally?" Octavia asks, eyebrows disappearing into her dark hair. "He asked you to go with him?"

"Yeah." Clarke downs the rest of her coffee, her fourth so far, thanks to Bellamy.

"And you agreed, obviously."

"Yeah."

"You don't look excited," Octavia points out. Clarke shrugs, tracing the rim of her cup, eyes drifting over to a man a few tables over, who seems to be intently watching the barista. It's a little creepy, almost.

"I'm not really sure where we stand anymore." She admits, after a beat. Her friend studies her, quiet for a moment.

"You're both single again."

"Yeah, but it's not-he still lives in Toronto, and I still live here." Clarke mumbles, and it strikes her, for the first time, how miserable she sounds. "If anything I've put down more roots since we broke up, buying the gallery."

"Sometimes I wonder what past life transgression you're punishing yourself for," Octavia says, shaking her head. Clarke just continues to watch the man a few tables over. He never takes his eyes off the barista.

.-.-.-.-.-.

It takes a few days to hammer out a plan, but Clarke decides she's going to fly out the day of the ceremony. Bellamy's going to be busy for the two days preceding it anyways, and she has no desire to sightsee by herself. The show has booked a block of rooms at the Four Seasons for the cast and crew, and Clarke has been invited to use one of them, so at least that's taken care of.

Now she just needs a dress.

She's sorting through her closet, pretending something appropriate will actually be hanging there. It's not that she hates shopping. But evening gown shopping? She's had to do the fancy dress thing too many times as a kid to enjoy it now. Her t-shirt is sticking to her, the late summer heatwave invading her usually cool loft. She plucks at the scratchy material, wishing for the thinner one she usually sleeps in. It was gone when she got back, and she strongly suspects Hayley might have taken it. She flips through the dresses hanging in front of her, the only one that even comes close to dressy enough is a floor length black number, but she's worn enough black dresses lately to last a lifetime.

So, shopping it is.

.-.-.-.-.-.

"No," Octavia flaps her hand, shooing Clarke back into the dressing room. "That one makes your ass look weird. Next."

"You're such a comfort to me," Clarke mutters, disappearing back behind the curtain. She grabs the next contender, something navy in velvet. They've been here for two hours, and Octavia has nixed every single dress Clarke has tried on. This one has long sleeves, a modest high neckline, and a tight bodice. The skirt folds out in an A-line, falling to the floor. She zips up the back, stepping out into the showing area, where her friend is lounging on a plush chair.

"Oh," Octavia makes a face. "No. What is that neckline? Where are your boobs?"

"They're still there," Clarke bristles, looking down. But it is a little conservative, so she just retreats into the safety of her curtained room, flipping through the gowns hanging inside. She grabs one Octavia picked out, a raspberry Zac Posen number with cap sleeves and a plunging neckline. It's surprisingly comfortable, despite the way the material clings to her like a second skin all the way down to her knees, where it flares out to pool around her feet. She picks up the bottom, thinking she'll either need some tall heels, or some alterations, and shuffles out to show Octavia.

"Oh." The brunette sits up straight, eyes traveling the length of the dress, and then back up. "Oh, hell yes. Done. Wrap it up, and let's go."

Clarke's eyebrows go up. She swivels to face the full length mirror and hums thoughtfully as she catches her reflection. It does look good, emphasizing her curves, and there's more than enough cleavage on display to appease her friend. She likes it all the more for it's signalling the end of this exhausting trip.

"Okay," she sighs, turning to wave at one of the fitting attendants. "I need to get this hemmed a little, I'll get her to pin it and then we can get dinner."

Octavia gives her a thumbs up, then goes back to scrolling through her phone.

.-.-.-.-.-.

"Hey, what are you wearing?"

"What, right now?" Bellamy sounds confused, which is probably fair considering Clarke didn't even say hello before launching into her interrogation about his apparel. "Are you hitting on me?"

"No, you idiot." She wedges her phone between her shoulder and ear, grabbing a bottle of Sauv Blanc and making her way to the checkout. The cashier nods at her, and Clarke smiles apologetically, gesturing at her phone. "Hold on," she mumbles to Bellamy.

After pointing at the Macallan on the shelf behind the counter, Clarke thanks the cashier, and pays, then hobbles out to her car, laden with alcohol, phone still cradled in her neck.

"The Emmys."

There's silence for a moment, then, uncertainly;

"Wait, are you talking to me now?"

"Jesus Christ." She sets her bags down on the pavement, opening the drivers side door and sliding in. The booze all gets piled on the floor of the passenger's side, and then she sits back, closing her eyes. "Okay, sorry. Yes, you. What are you wearing to the Emmys?"

"A tux, nothing crazy. Why?"

"I got my dress, wanted to make sure we weren't going to clash. Black bow tie?"

"Yeah."

"Alright," she sighs, leaning forward to jam her key into the ignition. "I guess I'll talk to you later."

"Clarke?"

She pops the car into neutral, not wanting to drive with this phone stuck to her ear. The last thing she needs is another ticket. Between her and Octavia, the Charger is a few points away from being impounded.

"Mmm?"

"I-" he pauses. "Uh, never mind. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay," she slides the gearshift back into first. "Bye."

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

"Oh man, I forgot how good this is," Clarke mumbles, mouth full of pizza. Jasper nods enthusiastically, while Miller just watches both of them in disgust.

"Aren't you rich now? Have some standards," he mutters, crossing the room to flop down beside Monty on the couch.

"Pizza can be good and also cost 9.99 for an extra large," Jasper argues, though most of his words come out muffled, crumbs flying from his mouth as he speaks. Him, Clarke and Raven are sitting around Miller's dining room table, inhaling pizza, while Monty and Miller watch from the couch. Raven rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, Nate, don't be such a snob." She folds her piece in half, taking a massive bite. As Clarke goes for a second piece, she realizes the food has only been here for ten minutes, and it's already half gone. She eyes the massive bong on the coffee table, blaming the weed. They're all prone to the munchies, but Jasper seems to have already eaten an entire pie to himself.

"So," Clarke props her feet up on Raven's lap. "How's the hospital?"

Monty shrugs, seeming to realize that Jasper isn't going to stop eating long enough to answer that.

"Same old. Someone died in the bathroom in the third floor nurse's station."

Clarke gapes at him.

"Who?"

"Oh," Jasper waves a hand at her, mouth only half full now. "No one you know. It was a patient who'd wandered in. Adam found her, when he went in to take a leak."

Raven makes a face.

"Okay, some of us don't want to hear about dead people while they're trying to eat."

Jasper shrugs, his own appetite obviously undisturbed. Just then, Clarke's phone rings. She doesn't even look at it, leaning back wearily in her chair. The others glance at it, then at her.

"Um," Miller says eventually. "Are you not going to answer that?"

Clarke shakes her head.

"No, it's some number that keeps calling me and hanging up. They've called like six times in the past week."

"A heavy breather?" Jasper asks, perking up curiously.

"No, I don't think so." She pulls her phone across the table, glancing at the screen just to check that it isn't Bellamy, or Anya. "It almost seems like a robodialer gone haywire or something."

Monty frowns.

"Are you sure? Have you looked up the number?"

"Yeah, I googled it. All that comes up is some massive conglomerate company, BW."

"Brennan Worldwide." Miller says. "They own a bunch of stuff, restaurants, hotel chains, rental car companies. Cold calling maybe?"

Clarke shrugs.

"I've got a friend who's VPD," he tells her. "I can get him to run the number if you want, they can probably find out where it's coming from."

"Sure," she says, surprised. "Thanks."

"So." Raven seems to finally be finished eating, wiping her hands on a napkin before turning seriously to Clarke. "Let's talk about how you're going to get me Kit Harington's phone number."

Clarke's Dress: .