Archive of Our Own

I.

There's a knock on his door during his sixth period prep. Cynthia Anderson's supposed to be stopping by to pick up some late work so he expects the knock to belong to her. When he absentmindedly tells her to come in, he's surprised to find that it's not Cynthia Anderson standing in the doorway but Clarke Griffin of the school board, his sister's longtime friend and – he supposes, his longtime friend as well.

"Clarke," he says, looking up from the quizzes he's grading. She's fidgety, her fingers going to fix a strand of her hair, her smile a little forced. He can sense the discomfort behind it because Bellamy's a master at fake smiles.

"Uh, here, have a seat," he gestures belatedly after a few minutes of them observing each other pass. The only seats are the desks in the classroom but she sits down in one gracefully. Sitting down must anchor her nerves. When she looks back at him next, her smile is more natural and the lines of her face have lost the tense edge. Bellamy wonders what's up.

"Hi," she finally says. "Are you busy? Sorry to barge in here like that, I saw that it was your free period so I assumed it'd be an okay time to talk but it looks like I interrupted your work –"

"No, no," he says quickly, setting down his red pen. "Just getting a head start on grading." He feels weird sitting at his desk while she's sitting in a desk a few feet away from him so he gets up to sit down next to her. "What's up?"

Clarke watches him with piercing blue eyes before she grimaces. She takes a breath before speaking. He narrows his eyes. "Okay, you have to promise not to freak out when I tell you this –"

"Tell me what?" She shoots him a look; clearly he wasn't supposed to interrupt, but she should've known better. They may not be the best of friends, but they've known each other long enough.

"Don't interrupt me please," she says.

"Is it O?" He interjects, this time with panic in his voice. It's the only explanation he can think of for why she's telling him not to freak out, for the way she's looking at him like something she says will trigger his temper. "Did something happen with her? To her?" Clarke waves a hand to deny it, and his heartbeat slows down. He's able to slouch back against the chair in relief.

"If you'd let me explain, then you'd know." Sure, but when has 'I'm gonna tell you something but don't freak out' ever led to anything good? Judging by the serious look on her face, he thinks his assumption is right. But he indicates for her to continue.

"So, I just got out of a school board meeting, which was mostly nonsense, but we got to talking about the budget for this year." Bellamy's nodding slowly while he listens. He doesn't envy her position or the decisions she helps to make for the school district, although he does still think most of them are just in it for the power. This is an informed judgment because he's had to talk to the board numerous times before thanks to the monthly meetings the teachers have to attend and there's more than enough evidence to say so. Clarke's different, though, because he's heard her talk about the issues the board discusses and she's genuinely interested in helping the district. Even if he's never heard her talk about it, he knows that's the kind of person Clarke is. Good intentions and all that. Still, her position on the board and his job as a history teacher often pits them on different ends of an issue. They do eventually come to see each other's points though.

"– Oakes put up a huge fight for increasing the athletics budget, which obviously no one bought because it's already well-funded, but he just went on about it for twenty minutes," Clarke's still telling him in great detail about the meeting. He's about to interrupt her again to tell her to get to the point because while the quizzes aren't pressing, but it'd be nice to not have to grade tonight. There's a new episode of Ancient Aliens on tonight and he's already made tentative plans to spent a solid hour or so yelling at the tv. He's a simple man. Simple pleasures. Clarke seems to notice his impatience though, because she stops and exhales, then speaks again. "The thing is, the school's finances aren't good. We're gonna have to make cuts and I can tell you that some things will definitely be safe and some things –"

He gets it now. He should've realized when she started talking about funding that it was about funding for something that affected him. When was talk about funding ever positive? "Debate," he cuts in. "Debate's not safe."

Clarke winces. "Yeah. And some arts programs. Some academic clubs."

"Oh, so no big deal, because they'll get cut too, don't worry," he scoffs. A lot of people don't understand his attachment to debate, but he did high school debate for all four years in high school and credits it for a lot of the skills he needed for college. Plus, he was a state champion. Scratch that, he and Clarke were state champions, so he thought she would understand him better than this.

"They're just not certain to be safe," she stresses. "We won't make a decision about until the end of the school year, but those were the first mentioned as cuts, and I know you love your team and the program so I thought you should get a heads up."

He raises an eyebrow, hopes it conveys the sharpness in his message just as well. "You know, you loved the team and the program once too. Or was it just a high school thing?"

Clarke rolls her eyes, unfazed by his deliberate attempt to pick a fight. This isn't their first go around. "Bellamy, you know I have nothing but the best memories with the team and I  want nothing but the best for you guys, God, I still have the Nats qualifier plaque hanging up at my mom's!"

"Then you convinced the board to keep it off the block?" He crosses his arms in challenge.

"Well, not exactly, but –"

"Then why are you here telling me about how a program that I run and is very important to students will be gone by next year? I gave up the debate class because they asked me to choose between keeping that or the team, and it wasn't a hard choice, but I'm gonna lose that too? How is this a decision that'll benefit the district?"

"Gee, Bellamy, let it all out. How do you really feel?" She bites out dryly, glaring at him. "Please keep putting words in my mouth and not letting me fucking explain to you about how I saved your ass." He freezes, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. Embarrassment?

"What do you mean?" He asks slowly.

It's her turn to scoff. "They wanted to cut it right away, you know. No, you didn't, because you didn't let me talk, but whatever." Ah, there's the embarrassment he was feeling. "Anyways, they wanted to cut it immediately, but I got them to eventually agree to reassess after this year. Don't start. That's the best offer they would accept. You have to show them why we should keep it. You know, you have to know that I want to."

He nods, shame and relief battling for control. He regrets jumping to conclusions like that, for accusing Clarke of all that. "Thank you," he says quietly. She shrugs and nods. "Sorry about – being a dick like that. I should've listened first." She nods again, this time with a smile.

"Now you've learned your lesson. I really wish it hadn't come down to this, Bellamy," she says, the latter with a regretful look. She really does look sorry, but he never doubted that as soon as she said it. "The district's just not pulling in enough funds over the years and we've been able to push it off as much as we can, but cuts are gonna have to be made and I really, really hope it's not debate – I hope it's none of the ones I mentioned, actually – but the board's not going to agree not to just based on my word."

Bellamy has to take a minute to think about what all that means. Although funding for the team has been touch and go in recent years, it's not much in the grand scheme of the budget. That's probably why it's one of the first ones to be cut, but surely, that means that it's an equally good chance to keep it in the budget too.

"So, what do I have to do?" he finally manages. He feels a headache coming, and a weariness threatening to undo him.

"Win,"  she says simply. He has to laugh at that, and Clarke does too. Winning's a hell of a lot easier to think about than to accomplish.

"One tournament? TOC? State? Nats?"

"As much as we can, I guess," she offers.

"We?" Bellamy asks, inquisition in the curve of his mouth.

"You didn't think you'd have to do this alone, did you? I'm on your side."

He laughs, then closes his eyes for a moment. Somehow, it feels less daunting. "Thanks, Clarke."

After they lay out a preliminary plan for the team, Clarke has to leave for her actual job at the art gallery downtown. He bids her goodbye and intends to focus on the quizzes left to be graded, even though there's only 10 minutes left in the school day. When it's obvious nothing is going to be graded anytime soon, he shoves the papers in his bag, shuts down his computer, and locks up so he can head home and fixate more on how the hell they're going to save the team.

-----

Clarke meets the team a week later, after he's figured out call outs and set initial practice times. They don't get much interest in the call out meeting this year, but right now, he's got his hands full with his current team, so it's the least of his worries. An 11-person team is more than he can handle alone and he – not for the first time – is thankful Clarke's offered to help.

"Hey," she says, tapping him on the shoulder. He turns to find her smiling brightly at him. "Zoning off?"

"You're late," he says, cocking his head towards the clock behind him. She's only late by a few minutes.

"Parking," she offers, then bumps his shoulder. Before he can say anything in return, she's walking off to the students gathered at the front of the room. Clarke's already introducing herself to the curious students by the time he walks over to them so he just takes a place beside her as she explains that she's here to help with whatever is needed and that she used to do debate so this is still pretty familiar to her.

"What event did you do?" One of the girls, a sophomore named Mel, asks.

"Has Bellamy – Mr. Blake – told you about his debating career?" Clarke says, tossing him an amused look. He groans. They know his event was Policy but he's never talked much more beyond the basics – he did it for four years, won State once, went to Nationals twice. He's never mentioned his partner before for the sole reason that no one's ever asked him about her before. Besides, there's a plaque somewhere in the school with both their names on it so if they were really that curious, they could find it.

"I was his partner for two years." Everyone's shocked faces and gasps (a bit unnecessary, in his opinion) make Clarke turn to him with a frown. "You seriously never told them about me?"

Automatically, he adopts a defensive stance. It's not that big of a deal; it just never came up. "They knew I did policy so they knew I had a partner. They never asked further." The explanation doesn't seem to make her frown go away.

"A partner you never talked about? I bragged about us all the time when I did parli!"

There's a rush of guilt and he slumps his shoulders. "Can you yell at me later?" he asks in a lowered voice, trying to remind Clarke that the kids are right there watching them with the kind of interest they usually reserve for cafeteria fights. "We're supposed to be running practice."

Clarke's mouth sets in a straight line. "Fine," she says, one word enough to convey her displeasure before her attention is back on the students, more welcoming and friendly than she was with him. He deserved that, probably, but it hasn't even been ten minutes and he's already getting flashbacks to their first few months debating together all those years ago. Then again, they were able to stop fighting eventually, so that must be something. While the kids introduce themselves, he goes to grab the season schedules that he'd set on his desk earlier. Once there's a lull in conversation, he passes them out and they discuss the schedule for a few minutes – they don't compete until the end of October which gives them roughly two months to be as prepared and invincible as they can be, and given the early research he had them do over the summer, they don't have to waste more than a week gathering evidence and discussing plans.

Bellamy sets them off to their own devices after that, trusts them to know what to do by now. Since it's a veteran team, they do, so he doesn't have to hold their hand through everything. It's a team that he's built up by himself, from just a few students to 11 people who all love their events and look forward to competing. It's a team he's insanely proud of. As a coach of a small team with budget concerns weighing over his head, he can't ask for much more than that.

Clarke is at his desk, engrossed in reading one of the evidence files Fox and Trina, a varsity policy team (and if he had to admit it on pain of death, his favorite team), had gathered. She nods to herself every few minutes, marking on the papers every so often. She's so absorbed in reading that he accidentally startles her when he nudges his hip against her – his – chair.

"Bellamy!" she yelps, then winces at how loud she was. "Hasn't anyone told you not to sneak up on anyone?"

He grins. "Sorry," although he knows he doesn't sound very sorry. She just rolls her eyes. "So what do you think?"

"Of?"

"The weather, obviously."

"No need to be snippy, Mr. Blake. That question wouldn't fly in cross-ex," she smiles sweetly at him.

"Good thing we're not competing, then," he says. "I'll have you know I always got the compliments about the CX questions."

She scoffs loudly, dropping her pen down. "You just wish you were! I was the one who got the nice comments about them. You can spin a good rebuttal and tie up loose ends but I was the one who laid down the facts and poked holes in the arguments." She's right, of course, and that was why they were such a good team together. They balanced each other's strengths out and filled in where there were weaknesses. He was always good with his words, good at making an argument sound fluid and aiming rebuttals at the heart of the opposing team's strategies. Clarke targeted what issues to attack and deconstructed the other team's arguments. He hadn't known how much he needed her as his partner until they figured out how they were a perfect fit as a team. It made them unstoppable.

Still, he doesn't want to give in. "You find me those ballots and then we'll talk."

"I probably still have them somewhere," she warns. "But to answer your question, the team looks good. They get along well. How are their records?"

He surveys the team members scattered around the room, all busy with their work. Just a few years ago, he'd had to set strict rules on how to use their time and hover over them constantly but now they've really grown into their own. "I think Fox and Trina have a good shot at state," he says quietly, moving closer to Clarke so that he minimizes the chance the others can hear him. They're far enough that it doesn't seem a logistical problem but he doesn't want to chance it. "They've gotten consistently better and they made it to semis last year, lost 3-2. I think we can use that to their advantage. The other schools' coaches tell me their kids see them as a threat." If he says this with a point of pride, Clarke doesn't comment on it.

"Smart," Clarke says lightly, approvingly.

"Don't let it get to my head," he jokes.

"At this point, I think you've earned at least some of that ego," she says easily. Heat creeps up the back of his neck. He clears his throat but she doesn't notice anything amiss. Nothing is amiss.

"Yeah, uh. The others, they're still learning but I'm pleased with their progress." Clarke nods, then reaches for the legal pad off his desk and writes something down. He tries to catch a glimpse of what she's writing but doesn't manage it fully, only able to make out a "Bellamy" on the right side of the sheet. He's about to ask what she's doing when she lays the pad down and he sees both his names and Clarke's names at the top, separated by a line down the center.

"I figure you want to spend more time with the varsity teams," she starts, writing down "Fox/Trina" and "Spencer/Will" underneath his name. She looks up at him briefly for confirmation, which he gives with a jerky nod. It's been awhile since he's had to adjust to how fast her brain moves. "That means I can work with the newer teams. Now I'd prefer policy for obvious reasons, but I could do the others too, if you need. You might need to catch me up to speed on everything but you know I'm a quick learner, and this shit's – uh, this stuff," she looks up sheepishly at the students even though no one can hear her, "is like riding a bike." Her pen is flying across the sheet, jotting down names and ideas and questions as she speaks. He can practically see the wheels turning in her head. It's hard to catch up to her speed, her plans, hard to remember how to fit in with her like he used to. He used to admire that about her, used how fast she worked to push himself, to push their team to be the best, and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel that pull of admiration as he watches her go. He lays his hand on her upper arm to still her quick movements. Surprised, she looks up.

"You gotta let yourself have time to breathe and think," he says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "We have time and you have nothing to prove here, okay? You could honestly just sit and listen to them speak and I'd think that's way more help than you need to give me – us." She blushes slightly, smiles weakly.

"I'm not trying to prove anything," she tries to refute, but she's not meeting his eyes and maybe he does still know her as well as he used to back in high school.

"Give me some credit." He leans back against his desk, his feet touching the legs of her/his chair.

She's quiet for a few seconds, clearly in thought, maybe fighting with herself about whether or not she should tell him he's right or try to deny it further. He remembers that it had always been hard for her to open up to anyone, especially him. He had probably found out more when they were sort-of enemies, but mostly just antagonistic-in-circumstance than he had when they were friends. He watches as she gives in.

"I just... want to be able to do something more than cutting budgets and cutting jobs and ordering new jumbotrons. This is important. I want to do something actually good for once as part of the school board. Even if it's not a board sanctioned action." She's been focusing her eyes on the corner of his desk the whole time, but peeks up at him when she finishes explaining. He doesn't know what she sees on his face but she visibly relaxes, sinking back in the chair. It's times like these that he is awestruck by the force of her will and her constant desire to do something with all the advantages she's either been born into or acquired over the years. The realization – born 15 years ago when he had first been proven wrong about his assumptions about her – never stops following him.

"You will," he finally says, his throat dry all of a sudden.

"Yeah?" She asks, kicking out her legs so that they're beside his own outstretched ones. "How can you be so sure?

He can't resist the opportunity so he knocks his left foot against her leg. She kicks him back. "I can't seem to remember a single time you've wanted something and never gotten it."

She kicks him again, harder this time. "If that is followed up by a 'Princess,' I'll kick you even harder."

"I mean," he says, grouches out more like. "You always have a habit of accomplishing anything you want to do. So I know you can do it. But you still don't need to prove anything to me or to them." He nods his head back at the kids, who he hopes are still working. Bellamy is inexplicably pleased when he sees her blush.

"Still gonna try," she mumbles.

He laughs. "Well, you can try, but don't forget you have a team now. You have me." Although the words are easy to say, her direct gaze is a bit much for him. He breaks the connection first.

"I'm supposed to be here reassuring you," Clarke says without pause.

Bellamy knocks his foot against her leg again. "Hey, if you're really worried about that, I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities later. I'm just trying to impress you with how calm, cool, and collected I am." Then, for some stupid reason, he adds a wink, which is followed by a quick beseechment to God about whether he can erase that from memory.

"Why would you want to impress me?" Clarke says, coyly maybe, although he knows that can't be right. She's also either ignoring the wink because it was stupid and she's sparing him the embarrassment, ignoring it because it's too awkward, or just missing it entirely. Any reason is good with him.

He coughs loudly, jarring himself from working himself into a frenzy over a wink that he was responsible for. "My mother taught me to respect school board members," he manages to say, hopefully as smoothly as he wants it to sound. There's a barely perceptible drop in her expression. It's so small that it's probably a misread.

"Right," she picks up. "I do hold your job in my hands." If it was 15 years ago, he'd have taken offense at this, and she wouldn't have ever said anything close to it, but he takes it as a sign of familiarity that he doesn't get angry and she can tease him.

"Yeah, so take it easy on me, okay?"

She laughs softly, getting up from her chair and jumping over his legs to walk around the desk. He cranes his neck to track her movement. "No promises," she says with a wink as she goes to check on Andrew.

Bellamy blinks slowly. Fox's "Mr. Blake, can you come here for a sec?" brings him back to business.

-----

II.

They have practices every day after school. Bellamy spends most of his time with the varsity teams, listening to the policy teams outline their plans, to the PF team go over their possible arguments. He makes them run mock debates every Wednesday and Friday afternoon, pulls in a few free teachers, calls in a few favors from some old debate friends to give his kids helpful advice for strengths and areas of improvement. He wants them to work on using as little prep time between the 2NC and the 1NR to keep the affirmative team from benefiting from extra time. He wants them to build in more arguments, more cards without losing the emphasis on good argumentation and flow, but he doesn't expect that to be accomplished immediately. All in all, there's not much they need to improve upon, so he works with them to continue what they're doing right.

Clarke, on the other hand, works with the novice teams, trying to catch them up to speed, helping them develop the quick thinking that's necessary in a round, working with them to speak eloquently and persuasively. When he has time, he wanders over the side of the room that's been informally divided as her section and watches her coach, sometimes tossing in a few comments here or there. He always tries to be as helpful as possible and when he is, she gives him a smile, nods and brings in his advice into what she's trying to teach, and if that makes him want to be helpful more often, he thinks it's at least a good kind of positive reinforcement. Plus, it helps the team. Win win.

Apart from running daily practices, he and Clarke have a lot of details to figure out, mostly concerning season logistics. There's a lot of fees to enter tournaments, to register competitors, to sustain membership in the association, and he had been able to settle all that by himself before, but with the budget constraints hanging over him, they have to spend more time combing through the funds they have. Clarke's – unsurprisingly – a godsend for this, since she has more experience with creating district-wide budgets and allocating funds due to the school board and from managing an art gallery. It's going to be a tight budget this year, which he expected, but they're able to pay off all the necessary fees. They also have to arrange for transportation for tournaments, which just requires them to sign for the minibuses and for Clarke to pass the district's driving test required for school vehicles. Finding judges is the biggest hassle for them because most people he knows are less than pleased at the thought of giving up their Saturdays to judge a high school debate meet. Clarke's response is just an assured, "Don't worry, I have a few favors to call in," and that sounds a bit menacing so he's not sure if he really shouldn't worry or not.

Clarke's the best unofficial co-coach he could ever have hoped for, but that doesn't mean that doesn't preclude her ability to scare the hell out of him. It works for her though and it kinda* works for him.

(* Definitely.)

-----

"Fox, stop." Fox stops in the middle of a sentence, blinking at confusion at him. She's been blazing through her speech for the past three minutes, without a significant pause and while he can keep up with it (he has to), he's taught his team to prefer quality of arguments over quantity. He doesn't care to rehash this ongoing battle in his practice room.

"Is something wrong?" She asks, fumbling with the timer beside her. Trina turns around as well. They're in the room across from the regular debate room/his classroom to keep from bothering the others and Clarke with their practice round.

"I thought we agreed to stay away from spreading. You said you didn't feel comfortable with handling that much in a speech."

Fox shifts and rolls her shoulders in a shrug. "I've been practicing recently and I don't know, I thought it'd be a good idea."

Bellamy turns to Trina, who has been silent during this. "Will you be doing the same?"

"I –" she pauses, looks between Fox and him. "I want to."

"Fox, if you want to, I'll help you refine your integration of the evidence one after another, but right now you're just firing them off," he snaps his fingers in quick succession, "– without connecting the dots. Remember, the judges aren't all experienced coaches. It's your job to lay out the roadmap and tell them why you're making a certain point."

He knows she gets it when she nods and flips through the papers she has on the podium, rearranging them quickly.

"And I know spreading is based around fast speaking but right now, you're edging that point where it'll be hard to understand you."

Fox casts her eyes down and he feels a little bad about what he's said to her, although he knows that she knows it's for her improvement and she can handle it. Still, he finds it hard to criticize any of them, even constructively, because of the possibility of hurt feelings.

"It's just – Clarke said that sometimes you want to overwhelm the other team into dropping or missing arguments so I thought that meant going faster," Fox explains. Bellamy runs a hand through his hair, messing up already messy hair. He should've known it was Clarke's idea. It's been her specialty back then, flooding their opponents with a multitude of rebutting arguments so that they couldn't possibly address every one of them. Once she set the play up, Bellamy closed it out by reminding the judges at all the points the team had forgotten.

"It's one part of the strategy," he says, "but it doesn't rely just on that. When you go that fast without keeping to a structure, you lose the judges' focus. You've got to signpost –"

"'Contention one is OTEC has severe negative consequences on the ecosystem, you can label this one: Hallihan and Bedford, October 5, 2015, OTEC found to destroy natural habitats' –" Clarke's familiar voice – her debate voice, as he liked to call it, authoritative, smooth command, a little deeper timbre – rings out. She stands by the doorway, her arms crossed, a small smile gracing her face.

"– after you read the card, it'll be 'two: Grayson, October 9, 2015, OTEC disrupts natural cycles,' and so on. You want to make sure the organization of your arguments don't get lost and that your evidence is separated by some kind of distinction so it can be flowed," he continues from Clarke's words, as she comes up behind him. He feels her fingertips touching between the wood and his shirt.

"Wouldn't that make it easier for the other team?" Trina asks.

"The idea of it sounds like you would be doing that," Clarke answers, drawing on past experience. "But most teams get tripped up on trying to get down everything and inevitably miss the succeeding arguments." The two girls nod in understanding.

"How about you two go in the next room and work on refining it and we'll revisit this in an hour?" After agreeing, they pick up their things and head off, while Bellamy turns to Clarke.

"They weren't ready for that," he accuses. The first few weeks into this new partnership, coachship, she had deferred to his decisions but he's found that as she grows more comfortable in the role, she's been doling out her own strategies, which, to be fair, don't clash with his, just skip ahead of the specific path he's set the team on.

"Not if they don't get the chance to be ready for it," she fires back. He understands the reasoning behind it begrudgingly.

"They could've done it in a few months from now, though."

"You wouldn't have turned them on that road until it was too late to really work on it. You coddle them, Bellamy," she says simply, accompanying her words with an unconverted shrug.

"What?"

"It's like you want to be their mentor, the guy they can always feel comfortable to come talk to when there's any problems –" He must react poorly because she is quick to add, "And I think the kids need that and you were always good with our younger teammates and obviously since you became a teacher, you have a way of connecting to students, but sometimes it gets in the way of what will really help them do as well as they want to."

He opens his mouth to protest, to say that he just has their best interests in mind, then realizes that's exactly what Clarke means. "You're right," he reluctantly admits. "The girls could've started it last year, probably. I didn't want them to stress out about it since Fox's always had a bit of trouble with speed."

She squeezes his elbow. "Don't worry about it. There's still plenty of time to work on it."

Bellamy punches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. I don't like you going behind my back about things like this though."

"It was just an offhand suggestion, I didn't –"

"I'm joking. I mean, I don't like anyone overruling me but I have to remember that we're a team now." It's harder than he thought it would be, since he's become so used to coaching alone.

"Hey," she says softly. "We're on the same page about what's important. That's what matters most."

He reaches out a hand, tentatively squeezes her upper arm in what he hopes will be seen as gratitude. Clarke gives him a half smile, an appreciative one. When she gets up a few minutes later, she tugs on some hair at the back of his head and leans his head back to watch her leave in amusement.

-----

III.

He figures out he's fucked during Coaches Clinic, the world's most boring welcome weekend for the debate coaches around the area.

He tried to warn Clarke about how awful it was, two days of endless speeches and turf battles and rivalries, with subpar food and a lack of entertainment. He usually skips it every year he can through the handy excuses of attending sister's wedding/come down with a nasty flu/housesitting for a friend (to varying degrees of success) but Clarke gives him a Look and says that she wants to take in the whole experience and the association's already paying for it and she'll make it fun and that is how he got roped into driving down to Richmond with two overnight bags in the backseat, a stack of tests he needs to grade over the weekend, and Clarke in the passenger seat, telling him a story about how her friend Raven had accidentally summoned the fire department to their apartment because she had insisted on improving their smoke detectors. Cue a fight that eventually ended in Raven getting her way and the numbers of five of the firefighters. She gets really into telling the story, her hands gesticulating wildly and leaving well timed pauses for him to interject his incredulity or a laugh. At this moment, he doesn't even mind that they're on the way to Coaches Clinic.

(That's the first sign for him.)

They get to the hotel the thing's at around 7 and Clarke actually looks honest to god excited about spending the weekend sitting around listening to people try to one-up each other. It's cute on her though – he wishes he was half as excited. (Maybe it won't be as bad this year. He's had to suffer through it alone in the past and it's hard to resist Clarke's upbeat excitement.) She waits for him to lock the car and then loops her arm through his, pulling him inside the lobby.

"Reservation for Griffin," she tells the front desk clerk, who starts looking up the information.

"Room 205, miss," the clerk says, handing her the keys. "If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to call the front desk." Clarke smiles at him and moves aside for Bellamy to check in. He's in Room 207 and the clerk repeats the spiel, Bellamy nodding at him in acknowledgement. There's a late dinner reception and check in at 8, but Bellamy had planned on skipping that to take a nap – when he tells Clarke that in the middle of trying to get his stupid keycard to work (he must've gotten a defective one, he's usually really good at the hotel key thing), she grabs it for him and inserts it to a successful green light. Well, then. 

"You're not skipping out on anything, Bellamy," she says, nudging the door open with her shoulder. "You promised."

"No I didn't," he frowns. He would've remembered if he did. "I said I'd come to this, not that I'd show up at every event scheduled between now and Sunday."

"Bellamy!" Clarke says, a bit of warning underlying his name. "You can't leave me alone with people I don't know. That's a whole group of politics to navigate and without someone there to introduce me, I'll be the outcast. Do you want me to be the outcast?"

Slightly disbelieving at the level of manipulation she's using for something like this, he shakes his head, trying to maintain his stance. "You won't be an outcast. You tend to win people over with very little effort." She blushes slightly (it looks good on her, like everything else) but frowns, jutting out her lower lip in a pout. If the blush looked good on her, the sight of that lip she bites while in thought that he frequently finds himself staring at is even better. She must know about his weaknesses.

"Please?" Clarke just looks earnest in her appeal.

He sighs.

"I'll meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes," he says. She beams at him, then strides out of the room with the steps of a woman who knows she's won. (This is the second sign.)

"Tell me again who that was," she urges, picking up two cream puffs and placing it on his plate. She's been loading it up ever since they got in the buffet line even though she has her own in her hands.

"Carl Emerson, he's the assistant coach at Mt. Weather. Wallace never comes to this thing, which would have been the same case for me," he directs at her, although she is unaffected by it. 

"He gave off a weird vibe," she whispers. She grabs him some rolls. Anything more and the food on the plate will teeter.

In a lowered voice, leaning closer to Clarke so that hopefully only she can hear him, "Yeah, he's fucking creepy, isn't he?" Although there's no love lost between Ark and Mt. Weather, he's had less interaction with the assistant coach and has still come away with a negative impression of him. Emerson doesn't possess Cage Wallace's smarmy charm and usually ends up loitering in the corners or sitting at far away tables. Bellamy doesn't make it a habit of talking to him.

"So fucking creepy," Clarke concurs as they sit down at their table, which is occupied by a few other coaches and assistant coaches already in conversation with each other.

"Everyone seems to think so too, but no one likes to talk about it." 

"Mt. Weather really does a good job at producing some winners, don't they?" He snorts and they share a grin over their plates. Shit talking Mt. Weather is a sacred Ark tradition, not exclusive with the debate team. In every activity, it seems there is a shared hatred of the insular school.

Clarke gets drawn into a discussion with one of the women at their table so that means he has to engage in small talk with the coach from Bishop Luers, who is very nice but very boring. He'd feel bad about ignoring him though so he tries to tune into what he's saying, nodding at appropriate moments, and asking him questions every now and then. Whenever he hears Clarke laugh beside him, he wishes he was talking to her instead (sorry Lenny).

Since the past month, he's been able to make her laugh a few times and every time makes him want to make her laugh another time. They get along so well now it's hard to remember their fights in high school. It's a rhythm that's picked up from the last few months they debated together, smoothed out over the years they've grown up and lost contact with each other, back in full swing now that they've ironed out all the kinks. He finds himself seeking her opinion and asking for her thoughts at first merely on things relating to the team, but he doesn't even have that excuse to fall back on now that he just likes finding out how her day's been, listening to her catch him up on her life in those Lost Years (his term, much to Clarke's amusement), generally wanting to spend time with her. (If he thought about it, this was the real first sign.)

The thing is, Bellamy's no stranger to the signs of a crush. He's also not a stranger to the signs of a crush on Clarke. (He doesn't like to delve into those last six weeks of senior year, but they happened.) He knows he likes her like that or whatever because of all those reasons and more – he thinks about her all the time, for one; he agreed to come to this shit show because she asked, for another – but he can read Clarke pretty well and she doesn't like him like that. It's not a big deal (and it's not one of those instances where he really means it's a huge deal and he's pining and miserable – it's just a crush) because he figures he'll get over it sooner or later. He hasn't been in a proper relationship in a few years by now, and he's usually too busy to date around. As a result, he rarely puts himself in the mindset of pursuing anything serious with any of the women he's liked in the past few years. Clarke's smart and talented, funny and formidable and never fails to make him laugh and keep him grounded, but it's just a crush and it's not serious.

"Why do you look so serious?" Clarke says, nudging his shoulder. He blinks out of his reverie.

"Hm? Oh, uh, just thinking about ways to get my revenge on you for this."

"You don't scare me. I know you're all talk."

"That's just my strategy. Win you over into complacency and then make my move."

She mumbles something he can't make out. Then, "That's not how you work. I know you."

"Sure you do," he says breezily.

He expects her to play along with some ridiculous statement about him, but she says seriously, averting her eyes. "You love your sister, you'd do anything for her –"

"Kinda common knowledge there, Griffin."

Undeterred, and with her eyes on him now, rebuking him in a lecture for interrupting her, she continues. "You respect loyalty most of all. You try to act otherwise but you get attached to people easily. You think you have a lot to prove but you won't admit that you've accomplished a hell of a lot already. You have a big heart. You love those kids like they were your own. You're a sucker for those conspiracy shows about aliens but especially for Big Brother. You think Murphy in the science department is a dick and a half. And you are probably wondering how I'm doing this."

Oh.

Oh.

(This is when he realizes he's fucked.) 

He doesn't know what he does, his jaw probably open slightly, a pleasant buzzing in his ears, his heart beating slightly faster. "Uh. Yeah." Great effort there, Bellamy.

"I told you I know you," Clarke says, but with embarrassment in her voice suddenly, her cheeks pink and fingers fidgety on the table.

"You. Really do," he says in an exhale, still in disbelief at how spot on everything was. He doesn't know what to make of it, doesn't give into the side of his brain that's tempting him to hope.

"You haven't changed much since we were friends. You've just grown up, really, and I like that about you," she eventually says after they fall into a silence that's mixed with awkwardness and question. 

He nods, then clears his throat. "Uh, should I do the same for you?" He could do it, now that he thinks about it, using her explanation as the frame of reference as a starting point and extending to the way he's picked up things and learned about her over the years, but especially in the past month. (She feels better about taking the lead in something when she knows she has someone there supporting her. She used to have a terrible relationship with her mother that's slowly on the mend now. She doesn't like when people underestimate her but she hates when people speak for her. She's finally accepted she had no fault in her dad's death. Her favorite pens are the blue Bics, she takes her coffee with two sugars, she keeps a list of funny client names hidden in a drawer at work.)

Shaking off the stiffness that had overcome her, she laughs. "No, I think I'm good. That was probably enough creepiness to last a while." 

"It wasn't bad. Or creepy," he says quickly to reassure her, meaning it. "I didn't know you knew me that well."

"Just a few things, really. There's obviously stuff I don't know."

He doesn't know why he does it, except that he'll blame the side of the brain that shouts hope at him, encourages him to think more into it than he allows himself to. "I used to have a crush on you in high school," he blurts out, eyes widening when he registers what he's said. Why couldn't he have told her about his smoking habit in undergrad?

She quirks an eyebrow but it's not judgmental. Just curious. "You did not."

"I did," he says. There's really no way out of it now, so he decides to go full steam ahead. Relatively speaking, that is. "For a few weeks before graduation."

"Graduation cured you of it, huh?" Her mouth quirks up in a smile.

"Well, it was more like few weeks before graduation, then few weeks on and off during the summer." Nonchalantly, "You were hot back then."

"Oh, just back then?" 

"I plead the Fifth." There's no way he's telling her the full extent of what he thinks about her hotness, back then or otherwise. (For the record, definitely not just back then.) 

She bursts out laughing, quieting down in vain when everyone starts casting curious looks at their table. They've driven poor Lenny away too.

With a cocked eyebrow, Clarke manages through her fading giggles, "I thought you were hot back then too."

"Just back then?" 

"You're also a different word now," she says. 

He despairs under this flirtation because he can only handle so much. He knows he started it, but she was right: Bellamy all talk Blake. "Any hints?" He can't believe this is happening. 

"I think I'm gonna let you figure it out," she hums before she steers the topic away from his impending death by Clarke and into a safer topic like how much he hates Coaches Clinic. 

(To be honest, he doesn't even hate it anymore.)

-----

IV.

Phoenix Community Center, Ark County Consolidated Schools Monthly Board Meeting, 6 pm

The only downside of his job is that teachers are required to attend the monthly meetings arranged by the school board, Bellamy decides, his mind already wandering from listening to whatever Diana Sydney is updating the audience on. It's something on the state of the playgrounds at the elementary schools. The meetings are supposed to be a sign of accountability, a way to make the staff at the schools aware of the major decisions made by the people in charge but they're always set at the worst times (usually Mondays and always when he could do doing anything else but listen to the school board members go on about the good they're doing or some shit that makes them feel better about themselves) and drag on way too long.

Well, there's a lot of downsides (the pay, some students, the early wake up, the pay, dealing with entitled parents, dealing with entitled students, the pay), but this one is more immediate at the moment.

At least Clarke looks bored out of her mind as well, even if she does a much better job at hiding it. She's smiling, but it's a bland one, a very Polite Company one that doesn't demonstrate that she wants to be here more than he and most of his colleagues do. She looks like she's taking notes, but Bellamy would bet anything that she's just drawing. That's a thing she does when she's bored – back when they competed and had to listen to truly awful teams that didn't require much effort to beat, she would use prep time to complete a drawing or two and since they always won those rounds, he never complained. (Maybe it was cocky to be so secure in their victory like that, but they were facing truly awful teams.) When she looks up, she catches his eye from where he's sitting at the end of the second row (he hadn't chosen the spot; one of the other history teachers had hailed him down to ask some something about an upcoming test). He gives her a thumbs up and a mock approving smile which gains him a suppressed grin and a slight shake of her head.

"Mr. Blake, do you have a question?" Diana's cutting, condescendingly sweet voice interrupts. He jerks his head to the center of the long table in the front of the large conference room, hopes that the smile he's plastered on his face is appropriately more charming and less false. It's still pretty fake, of course, but if Diana and the others (minus Clarke) buy it, more power to him.

Diana wants to embarrass him on the spot in front of everyone and Bellamy has many faults but none of them include being unable to think fast. "I was just wondering if we'll be discussing the budget anytime during this meeting. The agenda doesn't make a mention to it, and it seems too big of an issue to let it lapse another month or even more." He recognizes Clarke's cough and reads approval into it. Diana is still smiling back at him, her posture stiff. She shuffles a few papers in her hands.

Too politely, "We mistakenly overlooked that when setting tonight's agenda, thank you for bringing it to our attention. We will discuss our plans after the new policy on two hour delays." With finality in her voice, she moves on from him and starts talking about snow days. They won't discuss much more about the budget, definitely won't be taking about the proposed cuts to various programs, but it'll remind everyone of the issue and hopefully keep them on the hook. He finds Clarke's eyes again and her eyebrow quirk is encouraging.

"Hey there," Clarke says, bumping his side. She looks very proper and polished, a nice blue blouse that draws inevitable attention to her blue eyes, a gray cardigan to shield from the brisk fall night. Beautiful, he decides. Even her hair is pinned in place with just a few flyaway strands. Bellamy almost tucks them behind her ear. He doesn't.

Everyone's filing out of the room, with just a few stragglers attempting to question Diana and some other members about something or the other.

"Hey there," he says back, wishing he had a better greeting. "How much shit am I in with Diana?"

She laughs, walking ahead of him so he has no choice but to follow (he does have to leave, after all). "Judging by how she wrote her name on her notes and her constant tapping on the table after your comment, I'd say a respectably risky amount. Not too bad to lose your job but enough to make her keep an eye on you."

There's a group waiting for the elevator already so when he gestures for the stairs, she nods her agreement. "Maybe she wants to ask me out because she was so impressed by me."

Clarke probably rolls her eyes but he can't be sure because she is walking down in front of him. She does laugh again though. She always seems to be laughing at him. Maybe he should be upset about that, but then again, it always came about from making her laugh. "If that's the case, please let me officiate your wedding."

"Thanks, Reverend Griffin." She opens the door, holds it as they leave the building, and he thanks her. The nighttime chill is sudden, but it's not too bad. Still, he tugs his jacket closer to him. They start heading towards their cars, both parked in the same area when Clarke speaks again.

"Have you had anything to eat?" He hasn't since that candy bar before practice and now that he's thinking about it, he's suddenly aware of how hungry he actually is.

"God, no, I'm starving," he says. 

"Me too," she concurs. "Wanna go to somewhere to eat? I have a few questions about strategy we can discuss." Bellamy stops in his tracks, which forces Clarke to stop too. Despite the earlier nighttime chill, he now feels very pleasantly warm. She has a very secret smile – he hasn't catalogued this one yet – and just blinks at him.

"Sure, I could go for that," he answers. She nods, more to herself than anything, and heads towards her car.

"Just follow me!" She shouts a bit louder to reach him.

"Are you trying to make Diana jealous?" He jokes and her grin when she turns back around, while still walking slowly backwards without a clumsy misstep, makes him catch his breath.

"Diana's too good for you!" That's all she says before she gets in her car, waiting a few minutes until he gets in his to drive off.

He doesn't know where they're going, but he wonders the whole drive if she just asked him on a date or not.

He parks beside her in front of a small restaurant with a large, obnoxiously endearing sign that bears the name THE CLUB. He's been a few times with Octavia because the owners are her friends, and it dawns on him that they're Clarke's friends too. He always forgets their shared friend circle, since he and Clarke have always been so peripheral to each other's lives ever since they graduated high school. 

"You could've told me this was the destination," he says as he locks his car and waits for Clarke to do the same. Apparently she was serious in having team matters to discuss because she's grabbing files from the backseat. This probably means it's not a date. He ignores the disappointment from that conclusion.

"Here, take these," she drops the files in his arms (thank God he has fast reflexes) and goes back to her car to grab her bag. She takes half the files back and heads inside. "I didn't know you were familiar with the place." 

"I've just been the few times." It's a fairly new place still, just around two years old. Clarke ducks under his arm that's outstretched to keep the door open for them.

"I forgot that Octavia probably introduced you." She tells the smiling waitress that there's just two of them and she leads them to a booth in the corner. The Club is a decent-sized sandwich shop owned and managed by two guys Bellamy's only distantly acquainted with – Monty Green and Jasper Jordan – and from what Bellamy's able to ascertain, it does pretty well. While he takes a look at the surroundings, stopping when two guys bound up to their booth.

"Clarke!" Monty yells, despite the other customers eating in his restaurant. "Why didn't you let us know you were coming?" She laughs and pulls him into a long hug, one that Jasper joins in by throwing his arms around both of them. Bellamy sits and watches. When they break apart, Monty looks quizzically at him.

"You brought Bellamy Blake?"

"I'm helping him with the team," she says, shoving Bellamy further into the booth as the other two sit opposite them. He complains a bit (her elbow is sharp, okay) but otherwise, acquiesces and waves awkwardly in greeting. 

"Ah, nerd stuff," Jasper says, nodding solemnly. "Whoa, you guys just got the same frown on your face." Bellamy looks over at Clarke, who's doing the same at him, and their matching frowns would be funny if he wasn't so offended.

"Jasper, you solve chemistry equations for fun. You have a movable chalkboard for math formulas," Monty says in their defense. Bellamy had not developed an actual opinion on either of them before now, but Monty's shot straight up the list of people he likes.

"Look, debate is incredibly useful. You develop research and writing skills that just aren't fostered in regular classes, and a lot of public figures and leaders say debate is part of the reason why they've become so successful." He's well aware that he sounds like a How to Convince Your Kid To Participate in Debate pamphlet, but Jasper looks scared of him now so it's worth it. "You learn how to construct arguments and –" Clarke's hand clamps down on his arm.

"You're scaring him, Bellamy," she says, but Bellamy just scowls at Jasper. He seems to shrink even more. At this point, it's not about proving a point to him anymore, but rather having some fun with him. "You guys should get back to work before he really gets into his spiel. Can you bring me my usual? And whatever Bellamy wants?" 

"Club sandwich," he adds, tracking Jasper's scrambling out of the booth. Monty tells them that their food will be right out and apologizes for Jasper.

Once they're out of sight, Clarke turns to him with an amused, but trying to be disapproving, look. "That was mean."

"He was mean."

"He's just an idiot." 

"And I had a duty to correct him."

"We're gonna leave him an apology tip later."

"He didn't even apologize to us!"

"Bellamy."

"Clarke." They're both glaring at each other now, neither of them willing to give in first – "Ouch! What the hell, Clarke?" She smiles smugly at him, retracting her fingers from his arm where she had pinched the skin to get him to flinch first. It worked, but it was a dirty, dirty trick. "That was mean."

"You have a low pain tolerance." 

"You don't play fair," he says, slumping down in the booth and trying to take up as much space as he can with her still next to him. She doesn't budge so he gives up. 

"When have I ever given the impression that I do?" She looks very satisfied with herself, smug even, and he should not find that as attractive as he does, probably.

"I'm keeping my eye on you," he grumbles, sitting up from his slumped position when he sees the waitress bring over their food. She leaves them with their food, Clarke piling the files in the corner of the table out of harm's way, and Bellamy takes the opportunity to sneak some fries off her plate. She catches him when he's stuffing them in his mouth, mouth open in an offended gasp. He goes to grab another one, just to try his luck, but she smacks his hand away, then guards her plate from his hands.

"Hey, you asked me to dinner," he points out.

"And that justifies your thievery?" She says with a pointed look, reaching past him for the ketchup. She puts an insane amount on the side of her plate, enough to cover two servings of fries. "Besides, this is purely a business meeting." He scrutinizes her profile, as she's busy biting into her burger. 

"My bad," he eventually says, using his food as an excuse for the delay in a response and resisting the desire to call bullshit. "What'd you need to talk to me about?" 

Clarke absolutely covers a fry in ketchup. "Nothing we can't talk about tomorrow. I need to devote enough time to this burger." He raises an eyebrow.

"Business meeting?" He quotes, turning slightly in his seat, draping his arm across the back of the booth.

"We are meeting and this is a business," she says primly.

"Interesting interpretation," he says through a chuckle. Then, emboldened somehow because he can't help it, has wanted to ask this since she told him to follow her to the restaurant. Ever since Coaches Clinic, he's spent too much time replaying their conversations, trying to understand Clarke in this new light. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to call this a date?"

She puts her burger down, wipes her fingers on a napkin. "Is that what this is?"

"Dinner, drinks, good company," he says, studiously pretending his ears aren't burning up as he speaks.

"Interesting interpretation," she says in the same lilt he had said it. "How do you explain the file folders?"

He almost knocks them over to hide them from sight. "Weird decoration for a sandwich shop."

She actually laughs at his terrible explanation and he can't fight his resulting smile.

"Then we'd have to classify all our victory celebrations back in high school as dates. 

"We've been dating for 15 years and I've had no idea?" he asks with a gasp.

"You'd be so lucky," she says.

I would, he thinks. "That's a bold statement, Griffin," he says instead. They lapse into silence.

"When we win the first tournament," she says later with an air of perfected nonchalance. "Then you should ask me out."

He actually chokes on his iced tea. What the hell. "What?" he asks dumbly.

"Do not make me say it again." There's a blush on her face and he knows he's not imagining it. He's off his game but he's not blind. She's staring determinedly in front of her, to the front of the restaurant instead of at him.

Bellamy scrambles for something to say but all he can think is you should ask me out. "Um. When we win?"

She turns her head to give him a look that all but screams that's what you're asking, which is coincidentally exactly what Bellamy is yelling at himself. "You think we won't?" 

"No! I mean, yes? No! I mean, we will win. Definitely."

"Then there shouldn't be a problem." There's a ringing in his ears. He's not sure how he ever gave off the impression that he could handle this without extensive warning. Maybe that's why she's giving him a month to work up to it.

Thankfully, he's able to sound confident. He thinks. "You didn't need to use this as leverage." Bellamy tries to add in a touch of the smugness he used to be so good at and that used to make her angry.

"Motivation," she corrects, deadpans.

"Motivation. I would've anyways."

"I've learned that sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands."

"Am I that hopeless to you?" He is. He really really is.

"Do you want me to answer that?"

"No. Because I'm not. Get ready to be asked out, Griffin."

She steals a chip off his plate. "Oh, I'm sure it'll be great."

-----

V.

Despite the temptation to fixate on the date thing, it's two weeks out until the first tournament. The coaching mailing list he's on has begun the lighthearted trash talk – which does happen, Octavia – because they are all very mature adults and scholars. That's the sure sign the season's about to start. That, and the team's increased frenzy with hoarding as many legal pads as they can in their boxes. Even Clarke mentioned how familiar this all was to her. 

They never have practice the day before a tournament because while he believes in practice, he also knows the perils of overpreparedness. He had learned that lesson first hand quite early on and it's still a scarring memory. The free time after school gives him time to have dinner with O, which some people (Octavia) would call a superstitious tradition because when he had first taken up the coaching position, she had invited him to dinner the night before the first tournament to calm him down and the team had actually exceeded his (realistically low) hopes. Ever since then, he's found it hard to break, and it doesn't hurt to be a little superstitious, all right?

He doesn't get to see Octavia as much as he used to ever since she moved to the next town over with Lincoln, so the weekly dinners are also because he misses her all the time. He can't help it; how could he when he raised her nearly by himself ever since the day she was born?

When he arrives at the restaurant, he's early – a habit of his – so he decides to order the same appetizer they always get – another habit, they don't like to branch out once they've found a restaurant – after Octavia texts him that she'll be there in ten minutes. His phone pings while he's glancing at the desserts menu. 

Do you feel like throwing up. I feel like it  

He snorts. He knows that nervous feeling, although for the most part, experience has turned it into a manageable weight at the bottom of his stomach. His fingers flit across the screen as he types out, should you really be texting me if you're about to throw up.

He drums his fingers against his phone as he waits for her reply. Nice comforting, dick, then This is SO weird! It's not like I'm even competing! before he can reply to the first text.

That's cute, he begins, then deletes it. First Time Coaching Jitters™, happens to the best of us. not me obv.

A quick one, Yeah RIGHT. He reads it in her voice, imagining the unimpressed look she gives him often (very often because he's always trying to tell jokes to her and she never finds them funny).

you know me too well

Also really good at seeing through your macho man thing

Bellamy scoffs at his phone. He so doesn't do that. i don't do that

Secret's safe w me. Don't worry.

He shakes his head, then jumps out of his seat when he spots Octavia heading his way. "O!" He nearly shouts, enveloping her in a tight hug. 

"I missed you too, Bell. You did see me last week, you know." Octavia slides into the booth and he slips back into his seat as well.

"That was a whole week ago," he insists because it's hard to let go of that protective streak even now when she's all grown up and settled. "How are you? How's Lincoln?" She starts telling him about what Lincoln planned for their first anniversary as a married couple, something that involved a lot of flowers or something. He's not really sure. She's a very animated storyteller and it goes by too fast to digest it all at once. His phone pings beside his hand and he remembers that he was in the middle of a conversation with Clarke and had not responded to her text when Octavia showed up.

"You sound really happy, O," he says, fondly, when she finishes. It's enough to put a smile on his face because he's always only wanted Octavia to be happy. "Sorry, I need to..." Octavia's looking at the menu now, but he sees her nod.

Are you worrying? You don't really do the macho thing a lot.  

People are really big on artwork of water, did you know that? That's what this stack of paperwork is telling me  

He chuckles, picturing her in her office complaining to him via text instead of working. It felt weird not seeing her today; he had grown accustomed to her presence every day after school due to the practices, but she'd been at work all day and also had no real reason to stop in. It felt weird. He didn't like it.

i'd say find me a painting of a beach but i wouldn't want to add to your workload. now i really want a painting of a beach. very soothing. that's prob why everyone wants one  

He registers Octavia telling the waiter what she wants and snaps his attention back up at them for a minute. Once he's given him his order, he types out a hasty, hey sorry I'm at dinner with O, talk later?

Octavia asks him a question as he gets her reply: Yes, leave me alone. No beach paintings in sight. Tell her I say hi!

"Bellamy!"

He looks up, sets down his phone face down so he doesn't get tempted to text again. "Repeat your question?"

"Are you sexting?"

He thanks God that he wasn't drinking anything because it would've ended in disaster. "What?" he sputters.

"Just kidding," she giggles. "What'd Clarke say?"

"Nothing," he's a bit unnerved by how she knew it was Clarke even though he hadn't mentioned her. "She says hi. I can't believe you thought I would be – doing that at dinner." He sniffs petulantly.

"Whatever, for a guy who lectures me all the time for being on the phone while eating, you were strangely engrossed in your phone." O always knew when to bring back things to use against him.

"I didn't want to be impolite," he says defensively.

Octavia cocks her head skeptically.

"What are you insinuating." he asks flatly, cocking his head back at her. Two can play at this game. 

"Nothing!" she all but trills. "You guys friends again?"

"We were always friends, we just lost touch. But yes, I guess. We –" he stops himself, shifts in his seat. "We might go on a date sometime." He imbues his sentence with an air of I don't really care but he so does. Bellamy's never been good at aloof, especially not with Octavia, who knows everything about him.

"Really?" O asks disbelievingly, which – hey.

"Yes. Maybe. If we win tomorrow." 

"Seriously?"

"Why is it so hard to believe?" He asks loudly, provoking. They get interrupted by the waiter returning to their table with Octavia's salad and their free breadsticks.

In contrast to her brother, Octavia says calmly, breaking off a piece of a breadstick. "It's not hard to believe. Who knows why they do but I'm well aware girls like you, Bell. You just never told me you had a crush on Clarke again." 

His mouth drops open slightly and he leans in to ask furtively, trying to affect an innocent denial even though he'd bet no one would care to listen. "Again?"

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to sit here and make you tell me to my face that you weren't crazy about her in high school. I already know the truth."

"It was nothing," he insists, as if saying it out loud will make it more believable, true. It had been a fleeting thing (he swears), admiration mixed with increasing acceptance of how pretty she was and how smart she was and how she always gave her all at everything. It was easy to dismiss because he had moved away for college a few months later, found other friends, dated other girls. When he had met her again a few years later, he had thought she had gotten even prettier, but she was dating some guy named Finn, which put her firmly in off-limits territory. (The relationship had ended badly, if he recalled correctly, but that was neither here nor there.) "I regret telling you about that."

Octavia smirks. "Well, whatever it was or whatever this is, I hope it goes well for you. But tell her she has me to answer to." It's his turn to roll his eyes but he knows she means well.

"I'll do that," he says. "Can we talk about something else now?"

"I know you're dying to tell me about the team, so go ahead." He grins. He has the best sister in the world. He spends most of dinner updating her on how the team's faring, the latest gossip on Fox and Trina ("They're finally dating?" Octavia had asked, clapping. He wondered briefly if it was weird he was gossiping about his students to his sister, and then wondered if it was weirder that she was so invested in the tale. The answer was a shameful yes to both questions), and his worries for tomorrow. Being able to talk to her, even if it was mostly about the team, helped dissipate that nervous weight in his stomach and when he said goodbye to her that night, he hugged her tighter and kissed her forehead. She gave him a heartfelt 'good luck' and he watched her drive away before he got into his car.

They have an early day tomorrow, but he still stays up talking to Clarke until she makes them both go to bed. As he drifts off to sleep, he makes a mental note to get two coffees in the morning.

Even though he does it every day for his job, he never relishes waking up early and it's especially worse at 5 AM on a Saturday. But he signed up for this (though the reasons are less convincing at this hour) so he has no room to talk. After placing the requisite wake-up calls to the team members, he drags himself to the shower and uses the hot water to wake up properly. He makes it out of his house in 25 minutes, after making sure he has everything he needs – phone, keys, wallet, laptop – and is super fucking glad he remembers his last minute reminder about coffee last night. He gets two coffees from a gas station, one with two sugars like Clarke likes it, and heads to the school. No one's there yet which is good because he has to get the minibus from the back of the parking lot. Once he does, pulling up in front of the school, he spots three sleepy team members waiting. After ushering them onto the bus, which they do quickly, probably so they can claim seats for themselves to sleep in, he waits around for the others and Clarke and whoever she has brought along as judges. She had told him last night that she had two friends who owed her some favors so he didn't have to worry.

Clarke arrives a few minutes later, bringing two people in tow. One of them is Monty, who is stifling a yawn, and the other must be Raven. He also notices that Clarke's carrying two coffees in her hand, matching the two coffees that are waiting in the bus.

"Hey," she says, rather cheerfully for 6 AM. "You know Monty, obviously. This is Raven. They hate me right now but they owe me favors so they can't complain."

"Yes we can," Monty says, on his way to climb into the bus. Raven looks like she's about to fall asleep standing up.

"Do not talk to me right now," she says and with her eyes closed, he doesn't know if she's talking to him or Clarke.

"You can sleep on the bus!" Clarke says, but Raven flips her off as she makes her way into the bus, where she no doubt collapses into an open seat to sleep.

"She's delightful," Bellamy says, a bit puzzled. He's probably the king of bad first impressions though so he doesn't mean it as a knock against Raven.

"She'll be better once she wakes up again," Clarke says reassuringly. She holds out one of the coffees for him. When he chuckles, she frowns slightly. "I know you drink coffee."

"No, I do. I just…" He gestures to the bus. "I got you a coffee too. It's on the bus." He grins lopsidedly at her while he rubs the back of his neck. His hair's still a bit wet. 

Clarke laughs slightly, retracting the proffered coffee. "Great minds think alike, I guess." 

"I'll still take it though," he says, reaching for the coffee. His fingers brush against her hand, which is slightly cold due to the morning frostiness.

"And I'll take yours," she says, smiling widely at him. He's still holding onto the coffee in her hand but she doesn't make a move to let go yet. He grins at her, then ducks his head to hide the warmth on his cheeks.

Someone pounds a fist against a bus window. Clarke lets him take the coffee and then hurries onto the bus. He sighs, takes a sip of the coffee and is pleasantly surprised when he realizes it's exactly how he takes it.

An hour later, they arrive at Kirkwood High and everyone piles out of the bus, more awake than before. He tells Clarke to get everyone to the cafeteria while he parks and goes to pick up information. When he's in the tab office, he gets waylaid by familiar coaches, both from his days debating and also from coaching, and it's hard not to get caught up catching up with them. It's when Clarke steps into the office and tugs on his arm that he realizes that he's spent twenty minutes there already.

"Kids are antsy," she says apologetically after he excuses himself from his conversation with Carroll's coach. The guy's wife just had a new baby and Bellamy has a weakness for pictures of new babies. 

"Thanks," he says, handing her an envelope he picked up. It has the team's codes and schedules for the day. She opens it immediately, scanning the papers quickly. "Excited?"

"Kinda," she admits a bit shyly. "This is fun. I ran into a few old coaches too! And some old competitors too. And Raven's gotten a donut and some coffee so she's actually coherent now." He laughs as they enter the crowded cafeteria; Clarke points out where they've set up camp at two tables near the back of the room. 

"Blake," comes a deep, skeevy voice behind them. He knows who it belongs to but was hoping to avoid him today and try as he might, the rest of the season. The two of them turn around to see Cage Wallace, the coach of Mt. Weather Academy's team. As far as he knows, Mt. Weather's been their rival forever – before he had competed in his first tournament, the seniors on the team had regaled them about how they should never trust Mt. Weather or their debaters. No one's ever pinned down a solid reason why, but there are a lot of vague rumors (they're skeezy, they cheat, they're cruel, etc) and their coaching team – Cage's dad when Bellamy and Clarke were competing and now Cage himself – never did anything to fight their reputation. Bellamy thinks Mt. Weather likes their intimidating mystery thing, but he just hates them, half for nonsensical reasons and half for the Wallaces' actual attempts to tamper with competitions that he's seen firsthand.

"Nice to see you today," Cage says in what is supposed to be a polite, maybe even welcoming to anyone's ears but Bellamy's. Bellamy just nods curtly. Cage turns his eyes to Clarke, interest and curiosity flashing in his eyes and Bellamy takes a slight step forward to put himself between him and Clarke. "Who's this?" Clarke shifts slightly, uncomfortable, but sticks out her hand. Cage shakes it and Bellamy stifles a snicker when he sees the guy wince from the handshake. 

"Clarke Griffin," she says, actually politely. "I'm helping out."

As Cage retracts his hand, he nods at her. "Cage Wallace, Mt. Weather. Good to see a new face. 

"Not that new," she says, undeterred by the charm that Cage is trying to maintain. Bellamy watches her outmaneuver him just by not letting him act like he has the upper hand. "I knew your dad when he was the coach."

Cage's smile turns tense but with a little effort that only they notice, he recovers. "I think he's mentioned you before. Definitely was a fan of Ark." Bellamy scoffs inwardly. Dante Wallace was nicer than Cage, but as if he had any less of the condescension his son has for the Ark debate team.

"The same amount of respect we have for Mt. Weather," Clarke says sweetly. The laugh that rises from his chest has to be transformed into a hasty cough. Clarke rubs his back gently, still smiling at Cage in a way that must unsettle him because he bids them a stilted goodbye and a disingenuous good luck and walks away.

Clarke turns to him and shudders. "Ugh, I hate Mt. Weather," she says. "How are they still that terrible?"

Bellamy shrugs and instead of proposing marriage like he had planned to, he just slings an arm around her shoulders and says, "Probably something in their blood. That's how they know who to recruit." He feels her fit closer to him and he bites back a smile.

"Fucking finally!" Raven says loudly and Bellamy glares at her.

"There are kids around," he warns. All his students roll their eyes at him in sync. It's scary.

"They're not 6," she says dryly. 

"So?" The others groan. Bellamy's just looking out for them. Clarke steps out from under his arm and starts distributing the codes and schedules.

"The first round starts in 20 minutes so you should leave in the next five minutes. Remember what we went over about not entering before your judge is there. Ask for paradigms, ask for prep time to be counted in 30 second intervals, be nice and polite, shake the other competitor's hands afterwards. Don't take it too seriously, it's not life or death," Clarke says, going through all the basics in quick fashion, clearly nervous but excited herself. Bellamy walks up behind her, touches the small of her back briefly.

"Clarke's right," he says. The students turn to him, anticipating the talk he always gives them before rounds start. "It's just the first tournament. No one's taking it for a big deal, it's more to get everyone settled back into the game. Have fun, get a sense of what other people are running, explore a bit, just do your best. I have all the faith in you guys. And remember, no fraternizing with Mt. Weather." He's only 60% serious about the last thing, but they all share a dislike for the team anyways. Two years ago, an Ark debater and a Mt. Weather debater actually dated, but it had ended so badly that no one ever liked to dwell on it. (It involved high heels being thrown at faces, let's leave it at that.) 

They don't do a chant like some other teams do, but he smiles encouragingly at each one of them as they file past him to get to their rounds. Somewhere behind him, Monty says, "They grow up so fast, don't they?" and while Bellamy agrees solemnly (they do feel like his kids sometimes, okay), he's sure he sees a glimmer of tears in Clarke's eyes. She blinks them away fast though, so he pretends he saw nothing.

He only gets to judge the second round before lunch, a novice policy one, because he gets wrangled into the tab room to help them organize a few things. He doesn't see his team until lunch, and only a few are there since tournaments are notorious for running behind schedule. Clarke and Raven are there, though, in conversation, and after he checks in on Fox and Trina and Diggs, he sits down next to Clarke and drops his head into his arms.

"– Please never drag me to one of these things again," Raven says as he feels Clarke rub circles on his back. It's very soothing and almost lulls him to sleep, the exhaustion setting in early today.

He props his cheek on his arm so that they can hear him speak. "What'd you judge?"

"Congress," Raven answers with a disdainful scoff. "If you wanted me to appreciate this debate thing, why couldn't you have gotten me into something that was actually exciting? I think I fell asleep twice. At least." Bellamy could defend it, but Congress isn't high on his priorities and he can't deny how boring it is. He's a bad coach, really. 

"Did you get to hear Kara Kadoo though? She's the favorite to win state."

Clarke interjects, her arm now resting on the back of his chair so that every so often, her fingers draw patterns on his shirt. He tries not to let it show that he likes it. "He means she's his favorite to win state."

He sniffs and shakes his head. "I don't play favorites, Clarke. Kara Kadoo is just a great speaker and actually makes the event interesting."

"He also only refers to her as Kara Kadoo. He says it's a great name," she adds.

"It's a name where you have to say both names! Of course it's great!" Raven just looks mildly disgusted with him. He thinks they'll be great friends.

"And you want to date this guy?" Raven asks with a judgmental eyebrow. 

"Hey," he says immediately because he should be offended, right? Clarke pats his back lightly.

"I like that about him," she says frankly. Bellamy maybe sits up a bit straighter, maybe puffs out his chest a little.

"Don't get sappy on me. You know our pact about sappiness."

"We made that when we were 20." 

"And never set an end date on it! Still stands."

"Fine, I take back what I said. Happy?"

"No," Bellamy replies, even though Clarke was asking Raven. "I liked it."

Both women look at him, Raven with more pity, Clarke with sympathetic fondness. "I'll keep it then," Clarke says, then flashes her watch at Raven. "You're gonna be late for the next round."

"Fine," Raven says airily, getting up and brushing off whatever she thinks is on her shirt. "I can tell when I'm being pushed away!" Despite her act, she grins and even claps his shoulder in what he assumes is an approval. He'll take it.

Once it's just the two of them at their section of the table, he tilts his head to the side to survey her. Clarke looks pretty like always, not even the tiredness he finds on her face obstructing that.

"What?" she asks, her fingers now playing with the corner of a piece of paper in front of her.

"You like me," he answers. He itches to move his fingers closer to hers.

"You're all right."

"You're okay too." Clarke narrows her eyes at him. "Fair play, Griffin."

Indignantly, she straightens up and says matter-of-factly, "Just so you know, I've made all the moves here. It's time to even up."

"Oh, is that how it works?"

"Yes, according to every expert out there."

"Like you?" 

"Like me," she says triumphantly, brilliantly, so much so that he gives in and grins at her. This is the Clarke he likes best; don't get him wrong, he's a fan of every version of Clarke he's encountered but there's nothing – no one – that matches Clarke when she's happy, lighthearted, victorious. She takes on so much all the time that he doesn't get to see this side of her often, but when he does, he knows he's gotten really lucky in getting to see that again. He gets caught up in staring at her, matching her direct look with the same force that he doesn't notice Kirkwood's coach tap him on the shoulder until Clarke clears her throat and breaks their eye contact to greet him. 

"Sorry to interrupt," the guy says, amusement evident in his words. Great. "We need you in the office again." To the man's credit, he doesn't say anything else, certainly nothing about what he must've witnessed, and walks away, but he still feels embarrassed at being caught staring at Clarke like he's 13 and it's his first crush. 

"Duty calls," Clarke says, mock forlornly.

"I'm too in demand," he sighs, standing up. "See you later?"

"I'll be around," she says, straightening up her papers. "I'll probably be in rounds the re –" Bellamy cuts her off with a kiss against her cheek, lingering near the corner of her mouth. This close to her, he can feel the heat from her face. 

As he pulls back, the smirk comes to him naturally as he takes in her blush and her slightly open mouth. "I like you too, Clarke," he says, then makes his way to the tab room. He wants to look back, see that look on her face again, the pleased surprise, but he knows the art of a good exit when he sees one. Maybe there was some truth in Octavia always calling him dramatic.

Fox Riley and Trina Parker from Ark High School win the Varsity Policy division. Bellamy hugs them both when they're back at the bus and even Raven is happy, congratulatory. Clarke's the last one to get on the bus and she winks at him before she sits down next to Raven in a seat near the back.

They make it back home in less time than it took to get there, but everyone's antsy to get home and he's antsy to pull Clarke aside and kiss her, properly this time – not on the cheek, not with him basically dragged away to help run a tournament.

Clarke waits with him by the bus until every student has left, either driven home or picked up by their parents. Raven and Monty have already left in Monty's car and Bellamy hadn't missed their eyebrow waggling before they departed. Once it's just the two of them, he tugs at her hand. The backdrop of the ARK COUNTY CONSOLIDATED SCHOOLS lettering on the bus doesn't exactly fit his idea of romance, but he can't be picky now. 

"So," he says conversationally, tangling their fingers together. She looks up at him under her eyelashes. The streetlights cast a soft illumination on the blonde of her hair, which fades away when she tugs him closer. He smiles against her hair. 

"So," she says near his ear. 

"We won today," he mumbles.

Clarke untangles their hands to wind her arms around his neck. Bellamy rests his hands on her waist. They're still not looking at each other but this isn't bad at all. "No shit," she laughs.

"Were you serious about your deal?"

"I had hoped you would know me enough to know I don't just say things."

He does pull back slightly now, to meet her eyes. She's fighting a lingering shyness with a bold challenge. He's never been good at turning her challenges down so he dips his head down, pressing his lips to hers. Her mouth opens to his easily, her arms locking around his neck. He backs her up against the side of the bus as he kisses her harder, one hand moving up to the back of her neck, then to her hair. She tugs on his hair and makes a sound into his mouth.

"This isn't asking me out," she says breathlessly once they, unfortunately, stop kissing.

Bellamy drops a kiss on her cheekbone, moves further down to the underside of her jaw. He's careful not to do enough to leave marks, although he does really want to sometime. Later, hopefully. He pulls back, relishing in that slightly dazed look on her face, in her eyes. "Go out with me?"

It takes a minute for her to answer, a minute that makes him hold his breath despite the fact that they had just been making out against the side of a bus bit even five minutes ago. "Yeah, you'll do," she says, squeaking out a giggle when he pinches her waist in retaliation.

She gets him back for that though and her way is much more preferable.

-----

VI.

It turns out coordinating a traditional date – dinner and a movie, for example – is a lot harder than one would think. First, every time they try for the first two weeks, they get interrupted by friends deciding they "haven't seen [them] in forever, how are you!" (seriously, he's lived here for five years now – Clarke even longer and it's not like they're recluses) or "oh my god, it's so nice running into you!" It wouldn't be a problem if they didn't inevitably crash their dates. Second, with the season underway, they both get a lot busier and that's not even taking into account their day jobs. They still have practices every day and Saturdays are still early and busy with a tournament every weekend. More often than not, they just try to find time to spend together. He's not complaining though; it takes a lot of pressure off them and he likes watching a movie at Clarke's instead of sitting in some theatre populated by teenagers – a lot of whom are his students – or taking turns cooking for each other. He doesn't know what they are yet, but he's happy.

Because Clarke promised him free food if he helps her bring in some new art pieces that were delivered yesterday, he's at the gallery early Sunday morning. ("Although it should just be enough to just help me, you know.") For all his years living here, he's never been to the art gallery because (and he should probably never admit it to Clarke) he's not a big art fan. He understands the importance of it and does appreciate the history behind artwork (of course) but on a purely aesthetic level, he can't say he's ever felt a connection to something he's seen before. Some things can be pretty but his thoughts don't go more in depth past that. Despite the sleek, modern appearance of both the inside and the outside of the building, the gallery also exudes a homey, comfortable air – it even makes him want to be here.

"Be careful with those!" Her voice is muffled across the distance and he pretends he's going to drop a painting until it actually almost slips out of his grasp. Luckily, he saves it (and himself, probably) before anything bad happens to it and his alarmed glance around the empty exhibition room tells him that she didn't see his almost mistake. Thank God for that. 

"I saw that," Clarke says from behind him and he nearly jumps out of his skin, heart beating fast.

"I – don't sneak up on a guy when he's handing valuable merchandise. My quick reflexes can only save so much," he manages, trying to flash her a suitably charming smile. She rolls her eyes and takes the painting from him, walking back to her office. He follows her inside. It's a fairly large office, but aside from the artwork displayed on the walls and photos in frames on her desk, everything is in disarray. Stacks of paper everywhere, a sweater or two tossed on top of a cabinet, binders piled on the floor. He steps over a pile carefully and stares in abject horror. He's somewhat of a neat freak, doesn't mind inventory even, and definitely keeps his desk clean and recognizable. This is not.

"That was valued at $30,000," Clarke says as she returns from some secret room where he assumes she's locked the painting. All the better to keep out of his clumsy hands probably.

His mouth drops open. $30,000 for a painting? "What the hell kind of people do you deal with?" With a stack of papers in the available chairs, he opts to sit on the edge of the desk. A three hole punch pokes him in the back.

"Rich people," she replies. After rifling through a stack of papers, she moves them on top of another stack (this is ridiculous) before grabbing a binder from seemingly out of nowhere.

As she maneuvers her way through her obstacle course office to him, she says as blasé as she can be given the subject, she says, "My mom bought one last week."

"Clarke! That's great!" Given all he knows about her and her mom's tumultuous history, he knows this is a big deal. Her shy but proud smile confirms that.

"And," she draws out, "it was one of mine." The corner of her mouth crinkles as she tries to fight the smile. He pulls her between his legs and kisses her, meant to be short and sweet but when she bites his bottom lip, all bets are off.

"Way to leave out that important detail," he scolds without force. She runs her fingers through his hair and he sighs into her touch. 

"Didn't want to brag," she explains as she takes one hand away from the back of his head to run her thumb across his eyelashes. It's a featherlight touch and it makes him flutter his eyes closed. 

"This is definitely something you should brag about."

She lets out a laugh, "If it happens again, I'll hire a skywriter."

"That's something only a person who deals with rich people all day would do."

She pulls on his ear and he winces. "Play nice," she threatens, face close to his before she kisses the tip of his nose. He chases her lips for a real kiss.

"So the team's doing well, you sold a Clarke Griffin original to your mom, and you've got a boyfriend who gives up his Sunday mornings to help you. Looks like everything's turning up Griffin," he says, only catching that he's called himself her boyfriend a split second after he finishes speaking. He freezes slightly, barely noticeable to other people – but Clarke's not other people and Clarke's also standing right in front of him. 

Without a pause, she says flatly, "My boyfriend had to be bribed to come here, I don't think I'd count that as a win." Her knowing smile is the only indication that it was a deliberate sentence and it sets him at ease.

"Considering there's no food in front of me and you don't seem very eager to order anything, I could argue a case for me being here out of the goodness of my heart," he points out, once he's back to his relaxed posture, tracing circles against her hips through the fabric of her shirt.

"You just want to make out with me in an empty building," she says, which ‒ fair point. "You're easy to read, Blake."

"Are you opposed?"

She brings her face a breath away from his. "Nope." 

Far be it from him to go against her word.

-----

VII.

There's a ringing, some faint noise, some faint tune, disturbing the peace he's ensconced in, the warmth that's enveloping him. He scrabbles for the source of the noise ‒ his phone ‒ and also realizes that the side of the bed that he's pretty sure Clarke was occupying last night (it could be a dream but the pillow smells like her) is empty. He accepts the call blindly, burrowing back under the covers.

"Hello?" he says blearily, eyes already closed again.

"Morning, sunshine!" comes Clarke's voice, loud enough in the quiet of his room that he has to move the phone away from his ear.

"It's 8 AM, babe," he mumbles. How could anyone be this cheery in the morning.

"It's 11 and I've already been awake for four hours," she says instantly. There are some voices on her end like some people are trying to talk to her. Where is she?

"It's Christmas break." Two days into break and already denied the chance to sleep in like he rarely gets the opportunity to.

"You didn't have to answer," she says smartly and validly. He sighs heavily, then throws the covers off and sits up against the headboard, idly rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Hi, Clarke. Good morning. Where the hell are you?"

"Work. Some people can't afford to stay in bed all day," Clarke teases. He hears her voice fade away from the phone as she must be speaking to someone.

Grumbling, he repeats a would-be stern, "It's Christmas break. Why'd you call?"

"Can't a loving girlfriend call her loving boyfriend every now and then just to hear his loving voice?" The whole referring to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend thing arose partly because it sounded nice at first but now it's to annoy their friends, especially Raven who makes at least three threatening motions with her hand every time Bellamy says the word. (Obviously he doesn't mention that their friends aren't here to hear this.)

"I have been told my just woken up voice is sexy." He can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

"That was a secret you were supposed to take to your grave."

"You can't just give me that kind of information and expect me to keep quiet about it."

"I don't like you anymore." 

"Bullshit." He pictures her grin through the phone.

"Anyways," she breezes past. "I think we need to explore alternative funding for the team. I know the board said we'd reevaluate at the end of the school year but they keep hedging on it when I bring it up in the meetings ‒"

"I love having an inside man, by the way."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a regular James Bond. So they keep brushing me off, which makes me think they are going to fight it." 

Bellamy sighs, runs a hand over his face. This was always a possibility he thought about, the board was never very trustworthy in his eyes and despite the good they do do sometimes, and despite Clarke's presence, he knows that they have to focus on the bigger picture, even if it means cutting educational and arts programs. "So alternative funding sources? Like grants?"

"For the most part. Sponsors, even. I know there are a few organizations ‒ I made a quick list already ‒ that have helped fund a few school teams before. Trin Prep's team gets funding from one. I emailed their coach earlier and she said that it's worked out well for them, so I figure it wouldn't hurt to try."

He's more awake now, but Clarke's on a roll. "Hey, slow down a bit, let me think about it." He doesn't have a problem with the idea of it, although he wishes it didn't have to come to this. There's also the issue of negotiating with the board about accepting the outside funding, which he doesn't look forward to. When the reasons to not do it end up mostly being little annoyances, he decides why the hell not. Clarke was right, it didn't hurt to try.

"Sounds good," he answers. "I'll stop by later to see that list." 

"Great!" she chirps. He smiles. "Now you can go back to sleep, Coach."

"11 AM on my second day of break. You're lucky you have a nice face."

"It does help me get away with everything," she says, and then tells him she has to get back to work. After she hangs up, he lingers on her contact photo ‒ one he'd snapped of her posing with a thumbs up while in his shirt ‒ and smiles to himself before he drags the covers back over his head.

Bellamy arrives at the art gallery with lunch and he's been by enough times that Clarke's coworkers just wave at him in greeting and tell him that she's in her office. The door is open slightly but he knocks anyways.

"I have lunch," he says, brandishing a bag from behind his back and nudging the door shut with his foot. She lights up and gestures for him to come closer and when he gets there, he drops the food on the desk and kisses her hello. He perches at the edge of her desk, tucks some hair behind her ear. She sighs happily.

"I could get used to this," Clarke says before she bites into her burrito. Bellamy agrees, but he's not thinking about the food. It feels normal, it feels good to drop in at her work and bring her food and make her smile.

"I have a generous soul," he jokes but she tilts her head.

"Yes you do." He had meant it to be self deprecating, not a big deal, but she is sincere and looking at him like she believes wholeheartedly in it. He's not good with accepting compliments when he can sense they're genuine, especially bad when they come from the people he's closest to. It's not like he hates himself (debatable when he was 16-22 and was still a major dick); he knows he's overall dependable and loyal and generally nice. It's just always caught him off guard.

"That burrito must be good," he finally says after he shifts in the chair he's dragged from the corner of the office.

"I like to show my appreciation for everyone who brings me food," she says, and he's thankful. He can do heartfelt but it seems weird to do it because of a burrito.

"Do you have other suitors I don't know about wooing you with food?"

"Well, you already know about Christian and Ahran, I guess it's time to tell you about Daniel and Courtney."

"Strangely enough, I heard all those names in the Masterchef season we were watching last night." (He's partial to Elizabeth and Clarke won't let him look up spoilers.)

"Weird!" They grin at each other for a few seconds before she plops a folder onto his lap.

"What's this?" He asks through a mouthful of chips. Clarke scrunches her nose and punches his thigh. She's always telling him not to speak with his mouth full and he usually doesn't except when he wants to rile her up. This wasn't intentional though.

"The list I made. There's about 7 names on there. 

"Jesus, Clarke, this is more like a full information packet on each organization. History, teams they've funded, contact information..." He flips through the pages, still in awe of how much she's collected. He'd assume that she'd been working on it for a while now except he's seen her work and she's great at this stuff.

"I thought you would need to be persuaded or you'd change your mind," she shrugs.

"I trust you." Clarke smiles at him and tugs at his hair as she passes him to throw the bag away. When she returns, she leans on him, hooks her chin over his shoulder. 

"I'm glad you do," she says, pressing a light kiss against his neck. He tries to turn his head to steal a kiss from her but she makes him stay focused on what's in front of him. She started it, he grouses but definitely doesn't jut his lower lip out in what would maybe resemble a pout.

"But you're also stubborn and very 'I don't want to accept outside help'." He opens his mouth to deny it but snaps it shut. It's true, although it's not really a bad thing, is it. "It's not bad," she reassures him right after he thinks that, spooking him. Clarke is undeterred in her take charge, no holds barred voice. He can't deny that's hot. "It works for you usually. I love your determination, but this is a case where we should get help." 

He could fight her on this, some part of his stubbornness begs for it, but he'd already agreed with the merits of her plan. "I agree," he says simply and she scrutinizes him before her face turns into something like relief.

She kisses him soundly before rolling her chair closer to her computer. "You look through that while I catch up on a few things." Bellamy nods absentmindedly, looking through the packet. There are some familiar names, some educational grants that pop up in conversations with his colleagues every now and then, but the others don't ring as clear a bell.

"What's this one?" He asks, perplexed at the only one that has a yellow highlight and a circle around its name. Trikru Foundation. When she raises her eyebrow in question, he shows her the page. Her face falters for a second, recovers right after. 

"I thought that one would be our best bet," she answers, either really engrossed in the computer screen and not typing anything or just not meeting his eyes. He narrows his.

"Why's that?" He skims the page quickly, trying to glean any reason from it, but he's got nothing. All he sees is a long description of its mission statement, littered with emphatic exclamations that seem out of place. Their headquarters is called the Tondc Office, and given that it operates out of Washington DC, he has no idea why they don't just call it the DC office. Whatever. At the bottom of the page is a phone number followed by a Lexa.

She finally turns her eyes on him, her hands in her lap. "I happen to know the person in charge."

"Know how?" He asks curiously, his eyes flickering to the Lexa in Clarke's blocky handwriting.

Clarke fidgets. "Lexa and I used to date and we still keep in touch every now and then and she used to be my debate partner for the few years I did college debate so I know she'd understand the importance of what we're doing and she'd be sympathetic to our budget problems and --" Clarke keeps going on in explanation of all the reasons why this Lexa would agree to help them, but he stops listening because he understands why she looked so hesitant to answer. It's not about her dating history, since she's never given a fuss about his so why should he make a big deal about hers, but she had said it herself, he wasn't good with accepting outside help, but he could do it with exceptions. Exceptions didn't exactly include people that they could get immediately through Clarke's connections.

"Clarke," he says, annoyed. "If you called her right now, would she say yes to giving us funding?"

She bristles, "She isn't like that, Bellamy. She would listen to us and make the decision based on the case we presented, not because we're friends."

"I know you, Clarke, you wouldn't have put this on the list if you didn't know it would be near certain. Why highlight it otherwise?" He tosses the packet onto her desk and she glares at him.

"She is fair –"

"Would we be high priority?" He cuts in.

After a minute, she bites out, "Yes. Happy?"

"Clarke –"

"I know!" She exclaims exasperatedly. "Believe me, I know you hate my connections and that's why I didn't want to bring it up first –" Bellamy feels a stab of guilt but he shakes it off. "But that's just how things have to work sometimes! It's not a bribe, it's not some kind of sneaky deal, they have money, their whole purpose is to give away that money and so what if I know her? Everyone knows someone!"

"I don't want to keep feeling beholden to you!" He yells suddenly, his eyes wide in frustration and nose flaring in anger. Clarke's eyes soften as she kneels down in front of him. He clenches his jaw shut.

"Bellamy," she says with concern, reaching for his hand. He thinks about yanking his hand away so that they don't make contact but he doesn't want to do that; they tangle their fingers together and she squeezes tight. "Bellamy. I've been helping you because I want to, not because I expect anything in return." He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. 

"I know," he says in a low voice. "I know you're doing this because you want to. But you keep doing all these things for us, you volunteer your time to coach – you don't even get paid for it, you give up your Saturdays, you take care of those kids, it's just…" He trails off. She looks imploringly at him and he wants to smooth out the creases in her forehead.

"It just feels like you do so much and I'm not giving you anything to make up for it. To thank you."

"I don't need a thank you," she says fiercely.

"That's not what I'm trying to say," he says, running his free hand through his hair a few times. He doesn't know how to explain it to her, that he knows she doesn't, but it's not how he thinks. He doesn't like owing anyone favors, doesn't like being out of balance with someone.

"Look, you don't need a thank you, but I'm not someone who lets someone help him and not do anything in return. I know the world runs on the people you know and I don't care that you know ten million more people than me, if we go ask Lexa for money, then it'll just be another thing you've done that I can't pay back! 

"I don't want –" 

"It's just the way I work, Clarke!" He shouts, tugging his hand out of her grasp in frustration. She doesn't mask the flash of hurt across her face. "I hate feeling this way. I hate that we aren't equal here." 

She bites her lip and her brows furrow in thought. "Okay," she says, resigned. "We won't call her. We'll look into the others." She makes eye contact with him until he nods shortly. Immediately, she wraps her arms around him, hugging him tight and whispering an apology in his ear. It takes him a bit to hug back but he pulls her into his lap and buries his face in her shoulder, eyes closed, murmuring an apology as well.

This is the first time they've discussed their coaching arrangement like this, brought up the issues that he's been uncertain and guilty about, and it could've ended worse. It's also their first argument about something that isn't just the little things – if Bellamy ate the last donut, if Clarke had really promised to wait for him to catch up on Mad Men, if it was a 6 or 7 am wakeup call – so in a sense, he feels relieved it's out of the way. In another sense, though, it's obvious they have a lot to work on.

"Uh, Clarke?" comes a timid voice behind them. It's one of Clarke's assistants, Harper, and she looks apologetically uncomfortable in interrupting them. They untangle from each other fast, Clarke smooths down her blouse and Bellamy tries to smile at Harper, despite his fading-yet-still-there frustration. He does hope no one's heard their short lived fight though.

"Yes, Harper?" Clarke asks.

"Your friend Wells is here," she says uncertainly, stepping aside to reveal Wells Jaha waving sheepishly at them. Bellamy remembers him from high school. He was the junior class president when Bellamy was a senior. They never ran in the same circles (he and Clarke wouldn't have met if she hadn't joined debate, probably) so he's never talked to him more than the limited small talk the few times he stopped by the debate room with Clarke before he left for his own extracurricular activities.

"Oh, shit," Clarke says, checking her watch. "I lost track of time, Wells, I'm so sorry, give me ten minutes –" She bumps into Bellamy's body as she tries to get back to her desk and he has to steady her. "This is Bellamy!" She says rushed after she makes it to her desk and starts cleaning it up.

He watches her for a moment, feels incredibly fond of her all of a sudden, even though she's not doing anything in particular. 

"Hey," Wells says, distracting Bellamy. He turns to Clarke's best friend, whose hand is outstretched. "Nice to see you again. Clarke said something about the two of you dating but I guess I had to see it for myself." Bellamy shakes his hand and chuckles easily.

"It's fairly recent. My high school self wouldn't believe it either," he says good-naturedly. 18 year old Bellamy wouldn't have believed it, but he had thought about it. A few slash many times.

"Hey, you were somewhat charming back then, I would've considered it," Clarke says, materializing beside him.

"But I'm very charming now and that works better." He shoots her a grin he knows she likes.

"All right, whatever you say. Wells is in town for the holidays and we were going to catch up –"

"You can join us if you want," Wells picks up easily. He has a very friendly face and Bellamy doesn't sense any deception in his offer but he thinks it's best to let them have their time together. 

"I have to pass. My sister's expecting me – uh, if you're free on New Year's Eve, she hosts this party thing and the more the merrier." He turns to ask for Clarke's input, although he realizes he should've ran it by her first, maybe. But when she beams at him and nods excitedly, he feels a lightness in his chest.

"Yes, you should come, Wells! Octavia so wouldn't mind, she invites half the neighborhood anyways and she doesn't even like them." It's an annual Octavia and Lincoln tradition and it was always fun, always had good food, and everyone got wasted before the ball dropped. It was at those parties that he usually caught up briefly with Clarke throughout the night, but this would be the first time they would attend together.

Wells laughs and says that he'll make it. They all start heading for the door, Clarke last so she can lock up, and when they reach the parking lot, Bellamy gives her a chaste kiss goodbye. She clearly doesn't like that but he's not about to make out with her while her best friend is standing not five feet away, okay.

"I'll come by tonight," she promises. He goes to give her another peck but she beats him to it, capturing his mouth in a not so chaste kiss. Although he's mindful of Wells' presence, he falls easily into her kiss, even draws out a whimper from her mouth when he pulls away.

"Can't get enough of me, can you?" He whispers, although the effect doesn't work as well when he's breathless.

"You've got a nice mouth," she replies, somehow able to sound unfocused and in control at the same time.

"Clarke –" he shoots a furtive look at where Wells is standing, but he's fortunately already in his car.

"You are weak, Blake."

He ignores the barb. "What time are you coming over?"

"We'll see!" Clarke shouts as she starts walking towards her car.

"I'm not waiting up for you!" 

"You so will!"

He… had been exaggerating just a bit when he said he was meeting up with Octavia. He hadn't wanted to crash their obvious best-friend-catch-up session so he used O as an excuse, even though he knew she was busy today. With nothing else to do, he decides to call up Miller who tells him that they should meet at The Club. He finds out why once he's there because no one could miss the way Miller's trying to pretend he's not sneaking glances at Monty and even Bellamy can tell Monty's doing the same with Miller.

He rolls his eyes at both of them. This was ridiculous. "Please put me out of my misery and just ask him out," he finally tells his best friend, who immediately turns surly and slouches down in the booth, trying to hide out of sight as if Monty could've heard that (he's halfway across the room).

"Like you have any room to talk, man," Miller says in a hushed whisper.

"Is someone spying on us? No one else is here but that old guy. 

"Shut up. You were so much worse about Clarke. 'Oh god, was she really serious about the date thing? Was it a joke? Do I play it off as a joke if it is? How am I supposed to do that? Miller, I'm terrible at this can you stop playing Hay Fever and guide me in everything I do?'" He does a remarkably good impression of him – if a bit pathetic – but the traitor doesn't deserve to hear that.

"That was... different."

"I bet it is. Leave me to my own tactics, okay? I'm working on it."

"I'll believe it when I see it." 

"Exactly what I said to you and see how that turned out?" 

"Fine, you may have a point there."

"Teaches you to give unsolicited advice ever again." 

"Hey, I called you to hang, not to watch you moon over him." Miller rolls his eyes but sits back up.

"All right, sorry." With that, they move onto different topics – how Miller's dad is doing after his heart surgery, what excuses they'll use to get out of their upcoming college reunion, existentialism and the like (he and Miller met in a freshman philosophy class and by the time they became friends, they both realized what a mistake taking the class was, but they like to pretending to talk about it). When he asks about Clarke, Bellamy makes the mistake of hesitating just a tick, which Miller easily catches. He's always been scarily good at picking up on small cues from people. 

"What was that?"

"Nothing. We had a fight but it's fine now."

Miller looks at him inquisitively but doesn't press him further, which he appreciates. But something nags at him, wants him to run the issue by someone else, someone who has no stakes in it. "Clarke knows someone who will be able to help fund the team but I can't help but feel like it's another thing I'm indebted to her over."

"What are the other things?" 

"Telling me about the budget problem, helping out with the team in general, without getting anything out of it –" 

"Has she said she wants something in return?" 

"No, of course not, but – it's asking so much of her," he says, shrugs like it's not something that's bothering him way more than he knows it should.

Miller is quiet for a moment as he contemplates, rolling the napkin up and unfurling it as he does so. "I don't see a problem," he declares finally. Bellamy looks at him. He hadn't brought it up to seek out a specific opinion (per se), but Miller usually understands where he's coming from.

"You don't?" Just to make sure because he could've heard wrong.

"Nah." Knowing he won't elaborate unless he is asked to, Bellamy waves his hand for him to go on. "Look, she's not asking for anything back, right?" He confirms his question. "You need the money, she's got a way to get it, and as far as I know, there are no strings attached." Miller says this all in a calm voice, logical and careful. It's nothing he doesn't know deep down already, but it's another thing to hear it from a third party who isn't connected to the problem.

"And I know how you get with not wanting to accept help sometimes," because apparently, he's the most open book in the world (or Miller's observant nature has yet to fail him). "But is it worth it to cling to that when you could really use the help?"

He doesn't say anything, doesn't want to admit that Miller's points are incredibly valid. He's well aware of his faults and knows that his stubbornness hinders him sometimes, but it wasn't about being stubborn. It was about not feeling like he would never stop owing Clarke for anything and everything, about part of his pride that wanted him to prove he was good enough to protect his team. But Miller had brought up the point of the team and he knew him well enough to know that he would do what it took for his team.

"Yeah," he says. He could go on, tell him more about what he thinks about it, why he's unsure about it, but there's a bigger part of him that doesn't want to talk about it anymore, let alone think about it. Miller, to his
credit, sees that, and asks him for his opinion on a pick up line he just thought of to use. (It's god awful, but he's pretty sure even Miller is aware of that.)

Despite his best efforts, he is going over Miller's words by the time Clarke knocks on his door a few hours later. After he closes the door behind her, he backs her up against it and shushes her teasing about him not being able to resist her (true) with his mouth until she pushes him away and tells him that she's going to drop the leftovers if he continues. He notices the box in her hand and mutters about bad luck, but she laughs and pats his arm.

"Why don't you have anything in your fridge?" She says, peering into the fridge in question.

Leaning against the kitchen island, he tries to remember why. Oh, right – "Because I was going to go grocery shopping on Thursday but you said there were better things to do and then you took off your shirt and you know how I can't think when you do that."

She looks back at him, smirking. "You're so easy to distract. You should go shopping soon though."

"Yes, mom," he says, though already making the mental note. "How was Wells?"

"He's gonna run for city council," she answers like it's no big deal. "Following in his dad's footsteps and all that." She doesn't sound like she particularly approves of that plan. 

"He'll probably be good," Bellamy offers, although he has no idea if he would be or not. It seemed like the right thing to say.

"He'll be great," Clarke agrees, joining him at the island. "I just thought he'd share my reservations about following in our parents' footsteps."

He tucks a strand of hair that's escaped her ponytail behind her ear. "You said you were getting along better with your mom. 

"We are! Old habits die hard, I guess," she says with a tinge of bitterness. He doesn't understand the pressure of living up to parental expectations like Clarke does, but he knows the art of a good grudge holding more than anything else. 

"Then we started talking about how I was helping out with the team and he's always had a weird sense about when I'm not telling him something so he figured out that it's having some money problems because of the board and tried to come up with solutions and," she pauses for a bit, eyeing him warily, "he agreed that the best solution was to apply for funding from organizations. He even said he could ask around, see if there were any interested parties –"

"Clarke." 

"It wouldn't hurt to ask around," she says, echoing her earlier defense. He sighs, rubs his eyes with more force than he should.

"I thought you were going to drop it."

"I said we wouldn't call Lexa." She doesn't do a good enough job at maintaining a neutral tone.

"I don't really want to spend this time fighting with you about this. Again," he stresses, giving her a pointed look. She glares at his dismissal.

"Kinda seems unavoidable unless we come to an agreement of some sort," she shoots back, crossing her arms. He scoffs.

"You mean, unless I agree with you."

"Did I say that? Tell me where I said that."

"You implied it, babe," Bellamy says dryly, annoyance coursing through his body, and judging by Clarke's similar tense stance, she feels the same. Good. Their disagreement earlier had petered out into an open-ended non-resolution and with nothing settled, he knew it would return sooner or later (he hadn't expected it to be this sooner, but that didn't matter).

"Do you sense I'm implying that you're being unreasonable right now, babe?" Clarke gets right up in his face, and although she's shorter than him (just a few inches, but he takes it), she doesn't back down, using her index finger to stab his chest when she tosses the term of endearment back at him.

"I'm being unreasonable? I've told you my reasons! I don't know why you can't just let something go when you can't get your way on it. I thought you were all about proving me wrong about the whole entitled thing," he all but snarls at her, pushing back against her finger. As soon as he says it, she flushes with anger, eyes narrowing, lips pursed.

"This isn't about me wanting to get my way." It's a quietly dangerous voice Clarke's speaking in, one that he's only heard once before, back when she had gotten sick of his constant taunts about being rich and skating by on her family's name and typical of the princess to make her lackey do all the work for her. It's just as terrifying as it was back then. "It's not a competition, it's about the fucking team, you know – the one that you're the coach of and I just want to figure things out sooner rather than later when you're stressed out about finding a solution that we could've found much earlier! 

"I don't want this partnership or this relationship to be one where I owe you shit every day!" Bellamy yells into her face, his fingers digging harshly into his palm. Before she can say anything, though the drop of her shoulders doesn't go unnoticed, he storms past her, making a beeline for his bedroom. He slams the door shut, the resounding thud cracking through the house, and collapses on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped and head hanging down. There's a few minutes where he can only hear his own heavy breathing, where he waits for a slammed door that he hopes doesn't come. When his door creaks open, he doesn't look up, concentrating on the carpet instead. 

"Bellamy," Clarke says quietly, the darkness of the room swallowing the already low volume. "You already do so much for me." He listens to her walk towards him, itches for her proximity despite everything. When she stops in front of him, he lifts his head slightly, but she places her hand on the back of his neck and nudges his head against her stomach. He sighs when she starts smoothing down his hair.

"Clarke, I…" he says, thickly.

"You calm me down all the time when I get stressed about every little thing. You call me out when I need to be. You make me laugh. You make me happy." She sounds weary, quiet.

"That's just –"

"That means so much to me. You don't owe me shit. Please don't think you have to. If you can't not think that, just know you do more than enough for me." Her murmured words are clear to his ears and he finally lifts his head up, tugs her down so that she's sitting by him on the bed.

"I'm sorry I called you entitled," he says, hoping he sounds as apologetic as the ache in his chest is making him feel.

"And I'm sorry I said you were unreasonable." He can't see her face well enough in the dark but he knows she means it. "I'll really drop it this time."

He stays silent as he goes over a few things, remembering his mental list of options he had made earlier tonight. It had pointed towards it, had told him that was the best choice, even if he didn't like it. Resigned but sure, he says quietly, "I think we should talk to Lexa."

Clarke suddenly gets up and flips on the light, causing both of them to wince at the brightness. "What?" she asks.

"Call her." 

"Are you sure?" Clarke says slowly, like she's not sure if he's aware of what he's saying. "You didn't exactly think this was a good option ten minutes ago."

"I know. It's just… it's good for the team. We'd get the money, right?" He looks up at her, begs her to reassure him. She moves back to her seat beside him.

Clarke doesn't let him down in that respect. "She'll listen to us. She'll understand." Then she pauses, her forehead crinkling. "But I want you to actually be okay with this first. Not because you want to stop fighting. I understand why you have reservations about it." 

He breathes out a shaky sigh. "I am okay with it. I want the team to go on. The kids deserve that. None of my own personal hang ups should get in the way of that." Clarke grabs his face with both her hands and drops lingering kisses on his cheekbones.

"I'll call her about it tomorrow," she promises and he nods. Might as well get it over with. He knows he'll never be happy about it, but he has to think about the team instead. It's easier to process this way.

"Thanks," he mumbles. "God, Clarke, I don't know what I'd do without you."

She laughs softly, her breath fanning over his face. "You'd be fine. You're a hell of a guy, Bellamy."

He snorts. "You're not so bad yourself, Princess." He hasn't used this nickname in forever, but it's meant in good fun and since she doesn't make a move objecting to it, the word feels like a familiar balm on his tongue.

"I'm better than that," she insists with a smile that says she doesn't care either way, but that she's playing along.

"Yeah? Prove it." Knowing she shares his inability to disregard a challenge, the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smile but before it grows into an actual one, she leans forward and kisses him hard, her hands already working on the bottom of his shirt. He doesn't waste time maneuvering them so that they're sitting further in on the bed, lifting her into his lap. Clarke arches towards him when he kisses each inch of uncovered skin from the soon to be quickly disregarded shirt and bra. He drags his mouth across her neck, then her collarbone, sucking hard and eliciting a loud moan that makes him press her down against him. He plants open mouthed kisses across the top of her breasts, dipping down towards a nipple. Bellamy sucks one into his mouth for just a few seconds before she pushes him away, tugging at the collar of his shirt. 

"Is –"

"Take your shirt off," she breathes and once he does, she pushes him onto his back, makes quick work of removing his pants and tossing them with careless abandon (the force of her throw knocks a lamp over but he's never liked it much anyways), and grinds down on his cock, the layers of her pants and his briefs foiling them. It doesn't mean it doesn't feel fucking amazing, though, as he lets out a strangled groan. As she works on the button of her pants, he tries to surge up to get his mouth on her breasts again but the angle of her perch over him makes it impossible. In the process, he gets distracted by her sheer concentration on her jeans, because she looks so fucking beautiful like this, so frantic with how much she wants him, with her hair loosened from the high ponytail, the red on her cheeks, the mark on her neck courtesy of yours truly. After her frustrated whine, he takes over, fumbles with the zipper, but eventually succeeds, unzipping them and peeling them off her legs so that she's only in a pair of light blue panties. They're not the shade of her eyes but he still draws the comparison. 

"Bellamy," she says, jarring him from what would probably have been an ode to her eyes. "Kiss me." One hand at the small of her back, tracing over her soft skin, he fists the other hand in her hair, pulling the hair tie off so that her hair falls to her shoulders, falls forward in a soft curtain around his face as they kiss messily, teeth clashing until they figure out a good rhythm. She says something that he doesn't catch at first, but once he focuses just on her voice, he understands her commanding him to hurry up, stop teasing already, Bellamy, fuck. 

She gasps into his mouth when he moves the fabric covering her cunt aside and presses his thumb against her clit, rubbing it in slow circles as she tries to get him to go faster. His other fingers tease her wet folds, only slipping one in when she pulls sharply on his hair. He loves when she gets impatient in bed. Half the fun in teasing her is waiting to see how long it takes for her to give in.

"You're such an asshole," she groans, urging him to go faster but he keeps at his pace even if it's killing him too. Eventually he adds another finger because even he has limits. 

"You always have a way with words," he mumbles into her shoulder, kissing across the line of it.

"Can't you just fuck me?" She asks in a hoarse, low voice, bucking against him as he finally speeds up the pressure on her clit and the pumping of his fingers.

"Impatient," he says, any other words lost after that when she reaches to palm his cock in retaliation. He retracts his fingers, causing her to make a noise of protest that he swallows in a kiss, and slips the panties off her as she gets him out of his underwear. He reaches into the bedside drawer to grab a condom. Once his cock is free, she stares down at him with half lidded eyes, the blue impossible to see, pink coloring her cheeks, hair sticking to her forehead, and rolls the condom on him, positioning him so that she can sink down slowly, keeping her eyes trained on him the whole time. He fights the desire to close his eyes because he'll never see anything hotter or better than this, Clarke bracing her hands on his chest, breathing slowly in and out and twisting down for a quick kiss that she breaks when she starts rocking on him, slowly at first but speeding up as she goes, lifting herself up and sinking down. She rolls her hips with a practiced ease and he lets her ride him at her own pleasure at first before thrusting back to meet her movements, his fingers digging bruises into her hips.

Clarke makes little whimpers from her mouth, gasps that break off into moans whenever he draws a nipple into his mouth. The noises echo in his ears and he snaps his hips harder, both of them trying to maintain their pace as their muscles scream at them.

He comes first, bucking up into her in a few last weak thrusts, and she whines, trying to chase the edge, so he touches her clit, uses two fingers to make her arch her back, cry out his name and collapse on him.

Later, after Clarke's come twice more (mouth, fingers), she lies on his chest, sleepily drawing her initials on his skin. He pulls the covers over them because she gets insanely cold at night, heightened especially in the winter weather.

"We should fight more often if we can do that afterwards," she suggests lightly, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin.

"How about we hold off on the fights and just skip to the sex instead?"

"You drive a hard bargain," she says, stifling a yawn. "Hey, I just got an idea."

"I think I need to recover fir –" 

"Shut up," she says, laughing as she smacks him. "For the funding thing. Compromise. I'll organize the Trikru stuff but you should look for other organizations you like and see if they'd help. We'll decide after that."

He smiles tiredly, but feels the warm feeling of contentedness fill him. Kissing the top of her head, he mumbles, "You never have a bad idea, do you?"

"When I was 7, I thought it'd be fun to go down a slide head first." 

"Yeah, but we all make mistakes when we're 7. Except me because I, obviously, was a golden child." 

"You were an example to 7-year olds everywhere, Bellamy."

"Damn right. I'll start looking into grants and charities tomorrow. Next week. Sometime between then."

"You better."

He runs his fingers down her spine, using his thumb to caress her back. "We make a pretty good team." 

"Damn right," she says, before she drifts off to sleep.

-----

VIII.

After Octavia's party nearly burns her house down (not figuratively, actually almost happened had it not been for Wells somehow managing to save the day), Bellamy's basically ready to get back to school to avoid more near-death experiences. ("Bellamy, a plant caught on fire. I'd hardly classify that as near death," Clarke keeps reminding him but she had been in the kitchen making drinks for everyone and thus had not seen the horror for herself so her viewpoint isn't that applicable here. There was definitely a heightened danger of death.)

He's spent the rest of the short break applying for funding, which isn't exactly what he had been hoping to do over the break. He never thought he'd be glad for all the grants and fellowships he had applied for back in grad school because this whole process is reminiscent of that. It's both worse and better depending on his mood. Still, he recognizes that Trikru is the most viable option right now, and if he's a bit disgruntled, he tries his best to hide it.

-----

"You're meeting us as soon as your meeting is over, right?" Clarke asks for the third time that afternoon, anxiety crossing her face. Lexa had called Clarke last night to tell her she was in town and if their schedules were free, then she'd meet up with them. Bellamy wishes she had given more of a heads up, one so he has enough time to practice his pitch again and two, because he has a faculty meeting that starts right before the meeting with Lexa. Clarke's been on edge since she stopped by during his prep period, going over the itinerary she had set and reminding him about every detail. It would be annoying if he also didn't feel the same nervousness. If it went well, then they could stop approaching the end of the season with a sort of trepidation, despite how successful they've been this year alone.

"As long as Kane doesn't make us stay after for departmental discussions, I shouldn't be more than five minutes late," he answers again, watching Clarke pace around his classroom. "Clarke, it's going to be fine. Just let her know it's not intentional and I'll be there." 

"I will, obviously, but I want her to get a good first impression of you."

"I can't exactly help that I have a mandatory faculty meeting to attend, you know." She sighs like it's a huge burden dealing with this, which it probably is.

"Can you please act nice later?" She begs, clapping her hands together in a beseeching gesture. He feels a tick of offense at that.

"I know how to behave around important people, Clarke," he says with annoyance. She purses her lips. 

"You're pissy every time we talk about this so it's not a matter of your manners." She's right. Ever since Clarke's called to arrange a meeting, he's been short about the subject. He wishes that it could just be done without all the reminders of how it's being done.

Giving in, he sighs, "Fine. All smiles and civility tonight." Clarke exhales and murmurs a thanks into her kiss.

When the school bell rings to dismiss all the students, she grabs her purse and leaves to join the frenzied crowd heading for the doors. Before she exits, she pokes her head back into his room and says a stern, "Right after your meeting." 

He rolls his eyes at her but shoots her a thumbs up to let her know he'll be there.

Kane doesn't keep them afterwards for departmental discussions but the faculty meeting begins behind schedule and the math teachers start a big disagreement over their textbooks that by the time he's checked his phone for the sixth time, it's clear he won't be making it to the meeting in the five minutes late timeframe. He surreptitiously sends Clarke a message (so sorry, no one will shut up and let us leave. Don't be mad please) during Kane's attempt to mediate the feud between Murphy and Craig that ordinarily he would love to sit back and egg on.

By the time the meeting ends, he's not chancing a look at the clock, just peels out of there and gets in his car. When he arrives outside the art gallery, he's relieved to see two cars parked there still, meaning at least they're still inside – one belonging to Clarke and the other he assumes to Lexa. Bellamy tries to tame his hair to look more presentable and smooths out his button down; it's good enough. A quick glance at the clock in his car tells him he's twenty minutes late so he curses and jumps out, running towards the entrance. Once he gets near the open door of Clarke's office, he slows down, takes a breath to make it look like he hadn't just run a couple hundred feet and gotten winded. 

"I'm so sorry I'm late," he says, his voice still sounding a little winded. Fuck it. "My faculty meeting began late and then a few colleagues started a huge fight. I hope you haven't been waiting long." Instead of the normal set up of two chairs for clients in front of her desk, Clarke's arranged three chairs in the open space to the side. She smiles at him and pats the seat of the chair next to her. Before he sits down, he shakes Lexa's hand. She has a firm grip and scrutinizing, skeptical eyes.

"It's not a problem," Lexa says, without much of the reassurance that comes with a statement like that. However, it doesn't ring false either. It just... exists. "Clarke said it's a busy day for you and we haven't discussed anything yet." She sends Clarke a small smile that he raises an eyebrow at.

"Well, that's lucky for me, isn't it," he says too brightly, so much that Clarke sees right through him and kicks his ankle. He cuts his eyes at her and her eyes tell him to quit it.

"Bellamy, this is Lexa, Lexa, Bellamy," Clarke gestures between the two of them respectively. "Lexa did parli with me at Georgetown, Bellamy did policy with me here at Ark." Her over the top friendliness and introduction of information they already know betrays her nerves. It's obvious Clarke wants the two of them to get along. He's never had an ex meet a current significant other, but he can't imagine it to be very pleasant. Lexa seems okay, given his brief interaction.

"It's great to meet you," he offers.

"It is my pleasure, certainly. Now shall we get to the point?"

Bellamy eagerly grabs onto the change in subject and after sharing a supportive glance with Clarke, he goes into what they've outlined and practiced for this pitch. He begins with a description of what the school board is trying to do and then moves onto how the team's been doing, their various tournament wins, placing in the top 5 at most meets, making the association's top honors lists each week. They've agreed that the best strategy was to show Lexa – as well as any other potential sponsors – that the team has a strong history of success and will continue to do so. After all, why would anyone back a team that didn't show results? He cuts down on the prepared segment on the benefits of debate, since Lexa comes from a background of debating herself, but still wants to remind her that it's not just about winning but how much it helps struggling kids find voices and teenagers really come into their own and find what they excel at. This time, he doesn't mind sounding like a pamphlet. Clarke hooks a finger around one of his when he finishes, in encouragement.

Lexa is silent the whole time he's speaking and stays silent for a few minutes after, which makes him nervous. She doesn't have an easy to read face either, skillfully shielding any emotions from appearing or giving away her thoughts. It's nerve wracking as she surveys him; he has no idea what to prepare for. Lexa's eyes flicker over to Clarke and then back to him. She shifts in her chair, although it doesn't look like it's to be more comfortable. She occupies the seat as if it's a straight backed golden throne, rather than the uncomfortable wooden chair it is.

"You speak well, Bellamy," she finally says, and eyebrow raised. He nods at the compliment. He gets the feeling she wants to intimidate him. "I respect that."

"Thank –"

"The Trikru Foundation will support the team. We can discuss figures after the paperwork is complete." Lexa stands up abruptly, reaching her hand out to him again. He shakes it, in a bit of a daze. Was that it? Clarke had said they would be high priority but that had been a ten minute pitch followed by two sentences. She reaches her hand out to Clarke afterwards but Clarke draws her into a hug and Lexa stiffly returns if.

"Thank you so much," Clarke says, sincerely.

"Of course," Lexa returns. "You asked for my help." Bellamy narrows his eyes at her words; he had hoped to pretend it was his pitch that sealed the deal for a few blissful minutes.

"Bellamy and I both appreciate it a lot," Clarke says and it's his cue.

"Right, yes, this will help us so much. I don't know how to thank you in return," he adds. He doesn't like this feeling of accepting her help this way – since the implication of why she accepted the meeting is crystal clear – but it's too late to back out. It'd be fucking foolish to do so, and Bellamy's pride can suffer a scratch wound.

"No need for that," Lexa dismisses. "We look for partnerships because we believe that there is no I in team." His fortune cookie had said something similar.

"Uh, great. Thanks for meeting us. When can we expect the paperwork?"

She looks down at her phone, types something and then answers, "Within the week. I've just told my assistant to prepare it. Should he send it to Clarke or you?"

"Bellamy," Clarke says. "He's their coach. I don't handle the official stuff." It's a total lie since she's definitely helped him with endless forms but she stands firm.

"That's settled then. Nice doing business with you." Lexa picks up her bag and heads for the open door. "It was nice to see you again, Clarke," she says haltingly as she hovers in the doorway.

"I'm happy to see you're doing well," Clarke says. Bellamy looks between the two in slight confusion. The air is awkward but not hostile, and after Lexa leaves, he turns to Clarke, who throws her arms around him so suddenly and with such force that he stumbles back before lifting her up.

"You did it," she says into his neck where she's curved her mouth into a wide smile.

"We did it," he corrects her, although there's a part of his mind that's correcting even that, wanting him to say she did most of it.

"We did it," she echoes happily. He sets her back down and presses his forehead against hers.

"So."

"So."

"Why were you and Lexa so weird around each other?"

Clarke rolls her eyes at him. "We weren't weird. She was nice, wasn't she?"

"Sure," he says. To you, he adds to himself. "But she was weird around you."

"We just didn't end that well. Towards the end of it, we were fighting a lot while debating and it kind of bled through and then we called it quits." She presses her thumb into the dimple on his chin, tilts his face down for a kiss.

"That sucks," he says.

"It wasn't really a relationship that either of us saw as long lasting," she shrugs. "We thought we were really similar but we aren't. I guess we just thought the other was someone we each weren't." Bellamy tries to read the line of her face, the blue of her eyes, but she's not hiding anything. He hugs her again.

"Sorry to bring it up," he says into her hair. She laughs slightly.

"It's fine. Let's go celebrate, yeah?" He pulls back and raises his eyebrows, garnering him a gentle punch.

"By calling our friends and going to dinner," she reprimands. He doesn't see how treating them to dinner sounds like a celebration, but Clarke is adamant.

"I'm paying?" He wonders as he drapes his arm around her shoulders. She turns off the light and locks the door behind her.

"Maybe we can get Jasper to pay as penance for the insulting us that one time thing."

"Has anyone ever told you they're scared of you?"

"Is yes, many times the right or wrong answer?"

-----

IX.

The kids can predict Bellamy's moods as soon as the last Saturday in January rolls around because that's the official one week until State mark and Bellamy is near unbearable until State is over. They call it the Bellamy Blake Week of Hell.

It's a bit unfair, really, because extra practices are meant to prepare them for next week and they need to adjust to the new pressured situation, but they just don't seem to see it that way.

"It's not because you're running four hour practices," Clarke informs him one night, her legs draped over his lap while flipping through the channels on the tv. "It's because you're super irritable."

"I am not," he snaps, proving her point. He knocks his knuckles against her ankle when she stops briefly at a rerun of Hoarders.

"We are not watching that. You got so freaked out last time and I don't really want to spend another night telling you how I'm not a hoarder."

"I've seen your office!"

"I'm just messy. Big difference."

"Slippery slope." 

Clarke blows him a kiss from the other end of the couch. "I'm glad they warned me about the week of hell. Gives me a chance to play good cop."

He wants to ask if that means he's ordinarily the good cop out of the two of them but that's for another time. "They are exaggerating a lot." 

"They honestly aren't. You've been in a terrible mood." She scoots closer so that she can take his face in both her hands and pecks him on the mouth. "Good thing I know the trick."

He smiles at the kiss and caresses over her pulse in her wrist. "State's stressful and we have such a good shot this year and with the paperwork still not here by now, it's a lot to juggle –" 

"I know," she says, with the air of someone who's been through this already, which is true. This isn't the first time they've had this discussion, ever since that first week after making the deal with Lexa had come and gone without the promised paperwork to seal their funding. Clarke had called her and been told that they were tying up loose ends, but when another week passed, he wasn't so sure. He tries to give the benefit of the doubt, trust in Clarke's trust in Lexa, but it's impossible not to have doubts as time passes and their paperwork still hasn't shown up.

"Lexa gave us her word," she says, the same defense she had given two days ago when he had asked if maybe they had mistakenly sent the paperwork to her office instead.

"And hasn't followed through on it," he says, in the same vein as well. 

She drops her head onto his shoulder and though it comes out a bit muffled, he hears her retort, "Why can't you trust me?"

"I do trust you," he affirms. I don't trust Lexa. "I can't say the same with her."

"Well, trusting me means trusting her too, so just please try not to worry so much because it's going to give you an ulcer with all the other stuff on your plate."

It is easy to trust her word on this. Bellamy wants to push it, but he senses that Clarke's not up for further talk about this, especially since it'll more than likely trigger a fight and they've both had long days. He's not the only one who feels the burden of State breathing down their necks.

Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he stops himself from saying anything further and lets her cuddle into his side. They settle on an Lifetime movie and he tries not to think about everything coming down on him.

-----

X.

February 5, VHSDA State Tournament Day 1, Mt. Weather Academy

On the drive up, the only thing that consumes him is how he thinks he'll throw up any second. (Thank God Clarke's driving instead of him.)

One would think that after five years of this, and that's not including four years of participating (hell, he's won State before without the same level of nervousness), he'd have found a way to control his nerves but it's still a learning curve for him. The weird thing is, he's fine once they arrive to wherever the state tournament is held that year (Mt. Weather in this case, cue collective booing). It's like a switch is flipped and he's much more composed than he was a few hours ago. It might have something to do with wanting to project a strong face for everyone though. 

They leave around 11, in order to make it to their hotel to have a few hours of relaxation before day one of competition starts at 5. This is a routine he's familiar with by now, but there's a lot more people with them this time – a few debaters for whom this is their first State as well as Monty, Miller, and Raven (who was somehow persuaded to judge again). Miller has the unlucky task of making sure he doesn't throw up his breakfast. 

"Are you sure you're not just motion sick?" Miller asks without a trace of sympathy for him.

"It'd be so much better if I was," he answers. "Well, no it wouldn't, it'd be a bitch to drive. I'll be fine though. It's tradition."

"That's a shitty tradition."

"Tell me about it," he mutters pathetically.

"Feeling better?" Clarke pushes back his hair from his face and lays the back of her hand against his cheek. Her skin is warm and he leans into her touch. 

"In a hour or so."

"Poor baby," she croons while smoothing out his forehead. While everyone else is at the hotel pool or in their rooms napping, they're in his hotel room, Bellamy with his head in her lap. It's a bit ridiculous because he's not even really sick but she's comforting and also nervous like him. Everyone seems to understand that and leaves them alone. (At least the team refrained from their now regular breaking out into oooooooohs whenever Bellamy or Clarke ask to talk to the other alone.)

Though lulled into relaxation by her fingers in his hair, he manages to look up at her and say, "It's do or die time tonight." 

To her credit (god he likes her so much), she doesn't make fun of him for what is an admittedly over the top statement. She understands him and tells him about her own worries and stress about the upcoming tournament. It is the culmination of their coaching this year, from the days when he thought he'd be the only coach and would have a decent season to when Clarke joined the team, challenging him to approach his plans and style in a different, more complete way. Even if Ark doesn't win tomorrow, he's never been more glad that she walked into his classroom that day and decided she would help him out.

(Not just from a personal perspective. He does think of the team too.)

At 4, Clarke rounds up everyone and ushers them into his room before they're about to head to the school. They file in one after another, already in their familiar debate-business attire, matching expressions of teeming nervousness on their faces. Oh, does he understand. Although he gives a speech before each meet starts, he saves his actual motivational ones for the bigger tournaments. At first, he had felt weird when one of his debaters had asked him to give them a pep talk, but for some reason, they really enjoyed it, and it actually calmed them down so now he spends way more time than he would admit working on them.

"Okay, uh, I don't think I need to tell you that this weekend's gonna be a big deal. We've been working towards this all season and if I have learned anything this year, it's that I know all your hard work will pay off. Do you know how I know that?" He takes in everyone's faces, waits for the appropriate amount of time. "Because I've seen it. In all the tournaments we've been to this year. In last year's season. In the years before that, if you've been here this whole time. Just because it's state doesn't mean it's anything you haven't encountered before. You've seen this, you've done this, and you can do it again just like you've done every weekend leading up to now. It doesn't matter to us what place you get tomorrow, because we couldn't be prouder to have seen you guys through this year." Raven shakes her head at him (in good fun) and at least Miller and Monty are pretending they're listening. Bellamy catches Clarke's eye and she gives him a big smile, nodding along. 

"At the end of the day, it's not about winning above all else. It's about trying and as long as you try, I'll be proud of you. If we happen to beat some people from Mt. Weather in the process, then that's just an added bonus." Everyone laughs, which dissipates the tension in the room just a little.

"Just do your best, okay? Take it all in. This is state. You made it here." Fox is the one who leads the unexpected group hug around Clarke and him, crowding them together in a big pile of people, carefree laughter in the air. He wraps his arms around them the best as he can and thinks, This is it.

"Have you been watching Friday Night Lights while I'm asleep?" Clarke muses as he gets in the driver's seat.

"Try the History Channel," he sniffs imperiously. He has a brand to maintain after all. 

"So yes." 

He advises her to buckle her seat belt instead (but yes, a little bit of Friday Night Lights).

"And we have to do another day of this?" Monty asks for the third time that night, as if he can't process the answer no matter how many times they've told him. 

"Yes, but only for one more round. I took your names out of the pool for the out rounds since I knew you wouldn't stop complaining. You don't even need to stay at the school tomorrow," Bellamy informs them. Monty and Raven exchange enthusiastic high fives. 

"I don't know how you do this all the time," Miller comments as he steals the last slice of pizza from the box. Bellamy is sprawled out on his bed, exhausted from the long day (and anticipating the exhaustion from the even longer day tomorrow) with Clarke laying on his stomach. She taps her fingers to the beat of the music Raven's put on, albeit at the lowest volume setting. The debaters still have a grueling day tomorrow, but he's not naive enough to think they're all bundled up and sleeping early. It was always hard to sleep right away after the first day, kept up by worries of whether they'd make it past prelims or the inevitable practice of picking apart mistakes made in their rounds. He hopes they get enough rest, though.

"Some people are just born with it," Bellamy replies, although his world-weary tone belies his statement.

"You're so full of shit, man." There's a round of laughs at his expense because they're all really nice to him.

"He just can't complain because he chose this gig," Monty decides.

"It's rewarding," he insists. "Back me up, Clarke."

"It's usually rewarding," she says, but he'll take it. It's more accurate anyways. "Like you guys enjoy your jobs 100%."

"Fair point," Raven concedes. "I do hate my job."

"You work for NASA and you love it," Clarke points out, lifting her head up to give her a look.

"I don't love all the imbeciles I work with. No one could be expected to." Raven launches into a long story about her crew of trainees that she's responsible for, about how they are more interested in wanting to go up into space ("Like who doesn't but time and place, kids.") than they are in working on functioning designs, and about how they always act out of their depth ("I mean, it's not rocket science!" "It actually is, Raven."). All the terminology (he has never really found a need to learn every part of a plane) flies over his head but he pretends he understands while really just shares alarmed looks with Miller.

The familiar chords of Clarke's ringtone start playing while Monty's recounting a story about a horrible customer and it takes her a while to find it, buried under the pillow beside her, but when she does, she greets whoever's on the other line.

"Hey. No, I'm not that busy, uh hold on –" Putting a hand over the speaker, she slips off the bed and points to the door. "I'm gonna take this outside, it's too loud in here," she tells him and he nods at her before ducking at a breadstick Raven's tossed at him for not paying attention to Monty's story.

Clarke still hasn't returned thirty minutes later, even though all the pizza's gone already and the conversation has lulled down to focus on the shitty movie they're watching. (Every now and then, Octavia shushes him for making a snide comment about what's happening. He can't help that it's all wrong. It's not in his nature to let it go unnoticed.) On the one hand, it could just be a long phone call, maybe her mom was calling to catch up or something, but because he's Bellamy and he isn't an optimist, the thought that it's something serious, something bad immediately comes to him. She's been gone for a while, after all. Maybe he should check on her. He swings his legs off the bed and throws away the empty boxes off the floor and the other bed (everyone he knows is way too messy for him). After making sure he has his key, he texts, where are you to Clarke, and fortunately, she replies back a minute later: Pool. Frowning at the message and not even aware that it was still open at this hour, he pads out of the room in search for the pool.

He finds it after getting lost for a bit – thank you, lack of signs – and the pool room is empty save for Clarke, who's sitting on the edge of the pool, her legs dangling in the water while she stares up at the ceiling. 

"Clarke?" At the sound of his voice, she turns around abruptly, startled.

"Oh, hey." She waves a hand at him, gesturing for him to sit down by her so he does.

"What's up?" Clarke doesn't reply for a while, preferring to draw figure eights in the water.

Then, "That was Lexa. On the phone." Bellamy frowns instantly, his eyes narrowing. He hadn't expected that.

"Was she… wishing us luck?" He tries, baffled still. 

Clarke lets out a dry laugh, more like a scoff. "More like telling me that she can't fund us because they've decided Mt. Weather is a much better fit for them." It's eerie how little emotion she delivers the bad news with, how, if you didn't understand the context, you wouldn't interpret it as something devastating.

After a pause where he tries to process it, to catch up with her words, "What?"

"That's why the paperwork never got here," Clarke begins blankly. She's stopped moving in the water now. "Because they – because Mt. Weather had approached them too about funding and they eventually decided to go with their team and she didn't tell me right away because she didn't know how to –" A rising panic crawls its way into her voice, although her face remains remarkably devoid of any indication that she is upset. He wraps his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side, and she automatically buries her face against it.

She takes a second to collect herself, but keeps talking afterwards. "And she said it was just a business decision, Mt. Weather has more prospects for long term success in a partnership, they have more established plans, an established record, and hopefully," she spits out the word as if it's a sin, "I'll understand her reasoning but it's already a done deal." She presses her face closer against his shoulder; he feels her shudder as she tries not to cry and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know if he can say anything to make her feel better, make this all better because their only funding security has just fallen through. He hadn't liked the idea of partnering up with Trikru, with Lexa, at first, but he had grown to accept it as a necessity and now what? Nothing?

Instead of betraying his own turmoil, he strokes her hair, which calms her down slightly. She's always been good at composing herself but he wishes she would let herself cry like she wants to.

"She gave me her word," Clarke says miserably.

"I know." Bellamy tries to add as much conviction in the next sentence as he can so that they can both believe it. "It'll be fine."

"Do you really believe that?" She lifts an eyebrow and levels him with her wry gaze. She knows he doesn't.

"No," because he won't lie to her. "But it's not the end of the world. We made it through half this season without any promise of funding from them. From anyone. We just focused on the day to day. Let's just keep doing that."

She bites her lip, then makes a small noise of agreement. "What do we do?"

"Just get through tomorrow," he says because that's the only thing he can say. It's a non-answer, doesn't solve anything, ignores the problem that's just been ripped open again. But right now, they can't do much else but make it through the tournament. "We'll figure something out."

She sniffles a bit before running her fingers through her hair, pulling it up into a messy bun. Her eyes are a little red, but aside from that, nothing looks amiss. "Can we figure it out later?" 

"Yeah," he says. "Of course."

They fall into a comfortable silence, listening to the hum of the lights and observing the small ripples their feet make in the water. "Thanks for not saying I told you so," she teases slightly, though it comes out as more serious. 

"I wouldn't have done that anyways." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I trusted you," he says simply, intertwining their fingers. "I may not have trusted her but I trust you."

-----

XI.

February 6, VHSDA State Tournament Day 2, Mt. Weather Academy

Because everyone passed out in his room, he and Clarke crash in her and Raven's room, which earns them a round of whistling and terrible innuendos over breakfast, even though, as he finds himself clarifying for some reason over and over to their friends, all they did was sleep. They had crashed as soon as they got into bed, woken up at 5 AM, and got to work. The weight of Lexa's decision trails behind them but Bellamy adopts a dogged approach in ignoring it.

He jokingly credits his pep talk for three Ark teams breaking past prelims – Fox and Trina, Will and Spencer, Petra and Elisa. It's more than he could've hoped for, even buoyed by the kind of unexpected hopefulness you can't help but have as the day goes on and your teams continue to win round after round. Petra and Elisa don't make it past octofinals, but they're sophomores and will have more years to climb higher. Will and Spencer lose in a very close decision during quarterfinals but they admit they were out-debated. Fox and Trina, though. They're unstoppable.

He gets the news as soon as he steps out of the round he's judging, a semifinal Lincoln-Douglas one where both competitors had proved why they deserved to be in that semifinal. They had been so good that it had even been easier to tune out thoughts about Fox and Trina in their own semifinal, wondering how they were doing, if they would win, if he had to comfort them in case they didn't. Bellamy's the first out the door, having made up his mind about the winner quickly despite how strong the round had been (the affirmative side had overall been stronger) and he doesn't expect anyone, let alone Clarke, to ambush him the second that door closes.

He doesn't actually know it's Clarke at first because it happens so fast, a blur of blonde hair that whips past him, her grip pulling his arm down the hallway.

"What's – Clarke? Why are you, what the hell –" He sputters as he gets dragged through the hall.

"Hurry up," she urges, although that is easy to say when she's the one whose arm is being pulled out of its socket basically and tossed around like a doll (basically). As they round the corner into the main area outside the cafeteria, where there's a crowd of people gathered around, excitedly talking and hugging or trying not to cry, he registers that some event's finals must have been posted.

"You need to turn your ballot in because –" Clarke doesn't get to finish that sentence because two smaller bodies slam into them into a poorly executed hug, voices competing with each other to be heard.

"We made it we made it –" 

"We're in finals –"

It's Fox and Trina who are responsible for this, their words getting less coherent as they speak although there's very little more information he needs than we're going to finals.

"Because they just made it to finals," Clarke says somewhere over his shoulder, sounding amused and excited and proud all at the same time. 

It takes him a few seconds to fully soak in the revelation but once he does, he grabs both his debaters, his finals-making team, and scoops them into crushing hugs, his LD semifinal ballot crumpled in his hand. "You made it to finals!" Bellamy repeats again and again, like that's all he's able to say. (It does really get the point across.)

After the girls go celebrate with the rest of the team and then to prepare for their final round against Mt. Weather (of course it had to be this way), he finally turns in his ballot, ducking away from the glare that's sent his way when they examine the condition of it. Nothing can touch him now; he's exempt from judging another round because he's got a team in finals, his team made it to finals, and well, he hasn't collapsed from exhaustion yet, so all in all, there's nothing to complain about. He and Clarke even find a dimly-lit corridor to make out in ("This is wildly irresponsible," Clarke gasps while he presses sloppy kisses along her collarbone.) for a few minutes before he figures they should return back to the team. The round starts in an hour and it's going to be a tense wait.

"D'you know what this reminds me of?" Clarke whispers as they sit in the auditorium where the State Policy Debate final round will begin in half an hour. Just a few early birds like them are there scoping out seats and saving them for their teams; Clarke and Bellamy are there because everyone had snapped at them for their hovering over Fox and Trina, asking them if they needed anything, any help, food, advice. Finally, Trina, who was normally the shyer of the two, had sat them down and said, "You guys are stressing us out. We're fine. We love you, but we can do this." If Bellamy had children (real children, not surrogate ones from the debate team), he would imagine his simultaneous hurt and fulfillment was what parents felt when they realized their kids were self-sufficient.

"Our state final."

"Yeah," she says, nostalgia creeping in. "I was so nervous, just pacing around outside and you yelled at me, told me to calm the fuck down and I got so mad at you and asked why the hell weren't you nervous and –"

"And I said that I was terrified even if I wasn't pacing around like an idiot, I think that was the word I used, and then you threw yourself at me –"

"I was hugging you!"

"Threw yourself at me and I –"

"Got freaked out and almost cried –"

"That's not how it happened, stop telling it wrong. I told you, you just surprised me, that's all –" 

"So you didn't hug me back at first but I told you to hug me back and then you did and it actually calmed us down." Her voice gets softer at the end and he peeks a look at her. The tiredness that had lined her face earlier is gone, replaced by a youthful happiness, a look of content. If he had a mirror, he'd bet he has a look matching hers.

"Yeah, it did. You've always had that effect on me, I think," he admits.

"Back atcha." Clarke leans her head on his shoulder and he drops his own on top of hers as they both stare at the stage where Fox and Trina will be stepping onto soon, while he and Clarke will be sitting in the audience to see how far they've come.

He doesn't remember much of their own state final, actually, just the before and after, the awful anxiety of wanting to win but trying to keep hopes low so they didn't have to face disappointment, followed by an hour and a half of some of the best debating he and Clarke had ever done together, capping out his final year in high school debate in true fashion, winning 5-2, burying his face in Clarke's hair, the elation spinning around them when their names were announced at the awards ceremony. The details are a blur but he remembers the heightened emotions, both the good and the bad, vividly.

Bellamy also remembers a sticking thought he had back then, while reveling in this monumental victory with Clarke, and that was that he was so glad Clarke's the one he's sharing it with. Nothing much has changed, then.

Trina steps up to the podium, nods at Fox, the scarily stoic opposing team from Mt. Weather, and then at each one of the seven judges. "Before we begin," her voice booms out, smooth and confident, poised and unwavering throughout the auditorium with the help of the mic, "I'd like to take this time to congratulate the negative team from Mt. Weather for making it to finals and to thank my parents for supporting me all these years, Fox for being the best partner I could ever ask for, and finally, our coaches for always doing everything they can to help us and for never letting us down." There's a lump in his throat, and his eyes are stinging a little. Bellamy doesn't have to look over at Clarke to know she feels the same.

"Is everyone ready? Then let's begin with contention one: inherency…"

It's a fucking whirlwind of the next few hours, of nearly crushing Clarke's hand in his as the round goes on, of drumming his fingers against the cafeteria table as they wait for the awards ceremony to start, of holding his breath, of staggering back, almost falling into Clarke as they announce Fox and Trina as the 2016 Policy debate champions. The clapping and cheering around him is deafening, roaring in his ears. He gets jostled around a few times as he can't do anything but stand there stunned, but in a good way, in a great way. Clarke links her fingers behind his neck, pulls his face down towards hers, and he stares into her blue eyes until he closes his, lifts her into a hug, chants in her ear: thank you thank you thank you.

They still have Districts, hopefully Nationals, still have to figure out how to convince the board to keep them on, but when they drive home with that silver trophy in its own seat, he can't bring himself to care about everything else.

-----

XII.

"You're on the right track, definitely, but you need to dig deeper. What you have so far is an easy summary, it gives just the minimum amount of information but for this topic in particular, there's so much that's been written about it that it'll end up sounding like a literature review if you're not careful." Cynthia Anderson's not a bad writer, but she's always struggled with focusing on the depth of an issue, rather than the breadth. Bellamy's asking for one final paper for his class, but since he had designed it to elevate the way they traditionally approached writing, he holds a paper review session every other day during his sixth period prep to answer any questions. 

The state trophy sits gleaming inside a glass cabinet in the back of his room.

Cynthia's eyebrows furrow in concentration. "Oh, okay, so do you think if I focused on a more narrow aspect of the topic, it'd work better?"

"That sounds like a great idea. Do you have any –" The door slams open, revealing an out of breath Clarke. He looks up at the clock, wondering if more time has passed without him realizing it, but no it's 2:45, and while Clarke is never unwelcome (obviously), she rarely shows up at the school at this time. Ever since the season ended, she's spent more time at the gallery, where Bellamy will come by after school with some food.

"I need to talk – oh –" Her eyes widen when she sees that he's actually busy for once (he doesn't blame her for assuming he would be, he rarely is busy at this time except for his new review sessions). "I'm sorry, I – um, I'll wait outside." She nods at them and bolts out of there so quickly that he stares after her, wondering what just happened in the past minute.

"Uh." 

"Maybe you should go check on her?" Cynthia says, concerned. She tries to peer through the open door to catch a glimpse of Clarke.

"Uh, okay. You fine?"

"No prob, Mr. Blake, I think I've got my new topic already," she looks much more assured than she was when she had come in for the session. Well, at least he was useful today.

"Great, um, see you later." As soon as Cynthia leaves, he peeks out into the hallway, spotting Clarke standing with her head against the wall.

"Come on in," he gestures, both bewildered and charmed. She follows him into his classroom, shutting the door behind them with a heaving sigh.

"I definitely didn't know you had a meeting with someone, you usually are free this period –"

"I'm doing a new review session thing for their final papers."

"Oh. Well, I'm sufficiently embarrassed for the week." 

"Just the week?"

Clarke glares at him. "Shut up. I have a real thing to tell you."

"You have a habit of interrupting my prep period to tell me stuff." He flashes back to August, when she had knocked on his door, informed him of the team's financial troubles, told him he wouldn't be alone. At the time, it had felt so overwhelming, unsure of how he – how they – could do anything about it, but he can see the trophy out of the corner of his eye and he lights up with pride when people ask him about it, so the memory's much more positive now.

"You'll like this this time," she says, doing her best but failing at containing her smile.

He crosses his arms, Try me. 

"The board has finally decided on what they're going to do with the team." This, he's interested in, after waiting an entire month since the board began their final budget deliberations. It had been remarkably easy to compartmentalize their worries until the season was over, a few weeks after state, but after that, he and Clarke had worked on going back to their original plan of using the success of the team to show them why they needed to keep it. Clarke had figured that a state championship was exactly the kind of leverage that could do the trick. Maybe it had worked after all.

"Are you going to keep me waiting forever?" At his hint of frenzy, she smirks but then breaks out into a genuinely happy, big smile.

"Funded through the next three years."

Bellamy slumps back in his chair as she delivers it, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. Fucking finally.

In true Clarke realism, she adds, "This is just a temporary fix, though. We'll have to really find another source next year." He laughs, lighter and more unburdened by anything than he has in the past month and a half. He'll start tomorrow if he has to.

But he doesn't want to talk about that now. "We'll? You actually want to come back and coach with me next year?" He picks out, teasingly, smile curving along his face. 

Clarke lets out a disbelieving snort, a I can't believe I like you you're so lucky you have me noise (no arguments here), "Someone's got to keep you in line."