The next time she runs into him, she's having a bad day. A really bad, pick-up-two-bottles-of-wine-on-the-way-home kind of terrible day.
"Nooo," she groans, spotting the yellow citation on her windshield from half a block away. When she makes it to her car, she snatches it off the window, eyes flying across the page. She's being fined for parking in a no-parking area. Glancing up at the sign next to her car, she double checks the wording.
No street parking from 4-dusk.
Then she looks down at her watch. It's three fifty-seven. She takes a quick picture of the ticket, making sure the time stamp is clearly visible.
"What the fuck?" she wonders aloud, climbing into her car and throwing the ticket in the backseat. "Why?"
As she turns the key in the ignition, the engine stutters, then turns over. She tries again, with the same result.
"FUCK!" She bangs her hands angrily against the dash. Grabbing her phone out of her purse, she dials Raven's number.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me," Clarke huffs, tapping her fingers agitatedly on her thigh. "You still talk the guys at your old garage, right?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Do you think you could send someone out to look at my car? I'm outside the Chase on Main, it won't start, and I got a fucking parking ticket."
On the other end, Raven snorts.
"Good day, huh?"
Clarke just growls.
"Yeah, I'll call Ricky. Hold on."
She hangs up, leaving Clarke sitting in her car, trying to remember to take deep breaths. After a minute or so, her phone rings.
"Heeeyyyy." It's Raven. Clarke narrows her eyes suspiciously at her friend's overly cheerful tone.
"What? What happened?"
"So they're totally swamped. Ricky's going to send someone out to tow you, but it's going to be like an hour or two."
Fighting the urge to scream, Clarke bangs her head against the steering wheel.
"Okay, thanks," she mutters, rubbing her forehead.
She now has an hour to kill, or two, and she's nowhere near home. There's nothing really around, unless she wants to hang out in a coffee shop all afternoon, except-
Hmm. That's an idea.
.-.-.-.
Fifteen minutes later, Clarke pushes through the front door of Johnny's. It's exactly the same as she remembers, and after she sits down at the bar, she realizes she's sitting in exactly the same stool she did the first time.
There's a man behind the bar Clarke doesn't know, and he walks over, dropping a menu in front of her.
"I'll just get a pint of whatever IPA you have on tap," she says, pushing the menu back at him. He takes it, returning with a pint glass of something frothy and cold.
She's on her second when the bartender looks up, greeting whoever just walked in.
"Hey man."
"Hey."
Clarke recognizes that voice, and swivels just in time to see the door falling shut behind Bellamy.
"Hi," she says. He blinks.
"Hey," he repeats. "What are you doing here?"
She holds up the nearly empty glass.
"Drinking."
"I see that," he says, glancing up at the clock above the bar. "Bad day?"
Feeling a little defensive, Clarke hums noncommittally. Instead of walking around the bar, or disappearing into the back room, Bellamy sits down beside her.
"You working tonight?"
He shakes his head.
"Just picking up my paycheck. So, what happened?" he asks, drumming his finger against the bar. They're long fingers, Clarke notices. Strong looking.
"Some asshole gave me a parking ticket for no reason. And then my car wouldn't start, and I'm going to have to wait an hour for a tow, so I'm waiting here." She drains the last of her beer. He watches that with interest.
"I can get Miller to take care of the parking ticket."
She looks at him in surprise.
"Thanks, that would be great," she admits gratefully.
They sit in silence for a while, Clarke wondering if he'll judge her for ordering another drink. After a couple minutes, he reaches over the bar, pouring her another beer. When he sets it down in front her, she eyes him warily.
"You looked like you wanted another," he says. She did, but for some reason, she's not sure she wants to give him the satisfaction of being right. Her hands hover awkwardly in her lap. Before she can decide whether to drink it or not, her phone rings.
"Clarke Griffin." Bellamy raises his eyebrows at the formal greeting, but she ignores him.
"Hey, this is Ricky. Reyes said you needed a tow, I'm like five minutes away from your location."
"Oh." Clarke jumps out of her seat, nestling her phone in the crook of her shoulder as she digs in her purse for her wallet. "Awesome, thank you. I can be there in ten minutes, it's the white Impreza, license plate ARK 100."
She hangs up, and feels a hand on her arm.
"Hey, free drinks, remember?"
She opens her mouth to protest, but decides she doesn't have time.
"Tip," she informs him, throwing a five down on the bar. His lips twitch.
"Are you going to the garage, or do you want a ride home?"
The offer reminds her of the first time they met, and she swallows a smile.
"I really wouldn't mind a ride."
He nods.
"Okay, just let me grab my cheque and I'll drive you to your car."
Clarke waits there for him to come back, trying to shake off the overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
.-.-.-.
According to Ricky, Clarke's problem is her alternator. She doesn't know what that means, but she knows it will cost her fifteen hundred dollars to fix, and that she should be able to pick up her car before the end of the day tomorrow.
"So, do you want to talk about it?"
Clarke glances over at Bellamy, appreciating his profile. She'd taken up charcoal sketching in college, as a way to vent after a long day of pre-med classes, but she hasn't done it in ages. Suddenly, she's inspired to pick it up again.
"About what?" she asks.
"Whatever it is that's bothering you."
She rolls her eyes.
"Does it ever strike you as odd," she wants to know, "that for two people who don't each other at all, we've gotten to know each other pretty well?"
His face crumples in confusion at the question.
"If I knew what the hell that meant, I might."
She blows out a tired breath.
"Never mind."
They pull up in front of her building, Clarke managing to unbuckle her own seatbelt this time.
"Thanks," she says.
"No problem."
Instead of getting out of the car, she finds herself fiddling with the door handle, torn.
"I lost a patient." Her voice wavers, the emotion from earlier pushing back up to the surface.
"Oh," he murmurs.
"He was twelve, and he came in with half a tree sticking out of his chest, and I knew it was bad but I thought-" her voice breaks, and she feels a set of long fingers lacing between hers. "I thought I could save him. I told his mother I would do every thing I could. But it wasn't enough."
The first tear falls, and like a switch flipping, she's suddenly sobbing. Vaguely, Clarke hears the sound of a car door closing, and then hers is suddenly opening, and strong arms are pulling her out, circling around her. She presses her face into Bellamy's chest.
"His name was Jake," she hiccups into his shirt. "And my d-dad…he-"
"Your dad's name was Jake," Bellamy finishes, tightening his grip on her. She nods. They're in the middle of the sidewalk, rush hour traffic creeping along beside them, but Clarke doesn't care. She loses track of how long she stands there, crying, and Bellamy just lets her. Eventually, she pulls back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles, not meeting his gaze. He puts his finger under her chin, tilting her face up.
"Don't be." The way he's looking at her then, concern and a fondness that surprises her, sends a wave of longing through her. But it's been a really bad day, and she's just spent ten minutes crying on his shirt. So she forces a smile, and hikes her bag higher onto her shoulder.
"I'm going to…" she tilts her head toward her building. He nods.
"Sure. Try not to let yourself get too in your head," he says.
"Yeah." Clarke turns her keys over in her hand. "I'm not making any promises."
She waves, and hears the rattle of his truck pull away before she reaches the top of her stairs. When she gets into her apartment, her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She pulls it out, frowning when she doesn't recognize the number. It's a text.
In case you ever have a bad day and want to talk. It's not as fun as drinking, but the hangover usually isn't as bad.
-Bellamy
It's the first contact they've ever had that was on purpose, Clarke realizes. Turning down the hallway, she digs through her closet until she finds what she's looking for. The box of charcoals is exactly where she left it.