Work Text:
i’ll be home for Christmas (if only in my dreams)
Clarke’s earliest memory of Christmas is sitting on her father’s lap at age four or five, candy cane in hand, as he sits at his desk and rattles off orders for holiday products into his phone. For as long as Clarke can remember, the holiday season has always been intrinsically linked with her father’s career. The decorations, the presents, the preparation … it always seems to tie back to Home & Hearth.
Most children associate the holidays with toys and Santa Claus, but for Clarke, Christmas means work. It means days spent up at the office sitting next to her father as he calls out orders to his employees. It means restocking shelves and placing orders and decorating the tree they set up in the center of headquarters every year. Even before Clarke was hired as an official employee of Home & Hearth Gifts, Clarke spent most of the holiday season helping out around the company. When she was young, her father gave her only the easiest, most manageable tasks – delivering messages to employees, distributing Christmas cards and hanging up flyers – but even still the holidays were never a time for sitting at home and baking cookies and exchanging gifts like regular families did. Instead, the business became Clarke’s home, and Christmas was merely the product being sold.
It wasn’t conventional. Or traditional. But Home & Hearth had always been comfortable – familiar – and it meant spending time with her father. That was last Christmas.
It would never be the same again.
One year - that’s how long it took for Clarke’s world to fall apart.
Just one week after she announced her engagement to Finn Collins Clarke’s father breathed his final words in his sterile hospital room, his hand pressing a cold, smooth weight into her palm. Two months later and Clarke finds herself here: jostling against the worn seats of an old bus in her ruby evening gown – mud splattered on the hem and a tear in the side – wondering how the watch on her wrist could feel so heavy, when the empty space on her ring finger is so light.
“I hate Christmas,” she mutters as she stares out the window, watching the mud on the road splash the side of the bus as it speeds across the countryside.
Even still, the smooth, wooden box in her hands reminds her of why Clarke is on this bus to begin with. To anyone else, the box might look old-fashioned, but to Clarke it is everything – it is all she has left. The carved snowflakes on the top carry an echo of the words her father whispered to her in his dying breath: “The letters, Clarke.”
Christmas is about work – it always has been. Clarke just didn’t think she’d have to do it without her father at her side.
***
By the time Clarke arrives in Snow Falls, the sky has long been dark, no stars visible through the thick layer of clouds hanging over the town. It is only after stepping out of the bus onto the snowy sidewalk in her sparkly red pumps and her matching holiday pea coat that Clarke realizes she is sorely underdressed for the weather. Coming from New York, she is no stranger to the cold, but in her half-drunken haste to pack her bags and just get out Clarke neglected to take certain factors of importance into consideration. It’s winter, for one. And on the ground, there’s – well – snow.
Clarke sighs and turns toward the bus driver, who is observing her with a glint in his eye that appears to be mild amusement. And, yeah. Clarke’s certain she must be quite the sight to see, with her ruined party gown and her running mascara, and the two jumbo-sized bags at her side – standing at the centre of this tiny, snowed-in town. But god, does he have to be such an asshole?
Trying not to pout, Clarke sets her jaw and asks, “Excuse me, sir, but do you know how I can find a taxi in this town?”
The driver merely regards her for a moment before chuckling. “There ain’t no taxis in Snow Falls, lady. Unless you got folks coming to get you, you’re walking.”
At that, Clarke’s mouth drops open, sure she can’t be hearing him right. No taxis. Clarke makes to ask him to repeat his words but to her dismay the bus driver is already closing his doors and starting to drive away. On to pick up the next walking tragedy, she thinks ruefully, glaring at the license plate as the car bumbles down the road, kicking up mud in the process.
Luckily, it doesn’t take Clarke long to confront the map posted by the bus stop to find directions to the nearest inn in Snow Falls. Unfortunately, she has no choice but to get there by foot. In platforms. Dragging two admittedly overstuffed bags behind her in the cold.
So maybe she didn’t entirely think this through. But, really, Clarke can’t be responsible for her drunken and emotional actions when they’re so clearly Finn’s fault. After all, she didn’t cheat on her fiancé. Or lie about her intentions. Or pretend to care when she didn’t. So, in the end, who’s really to blame for her spur-of-the-moment impulsive decision to skip town and come here?
Certainly not Clarke.
Grudgingly, Clarke grips the handles of her bags and starts her trek across town to the inn, wincing at the sound of the mud sloshing against her bags as she drags them through the mud. She’s certain they’ll be positively ruined by the time she reaches her destination and it’s just, well. They’re expensive. And they were a gift – from some connection in Paris. Not to mention, she can feel the cold biting against her ankles and the exposed line of flesh on her leg where she tore her dress after tripping on it as she stumbled out of Finn’s apartment. Soon enough, she won’t be able to feel anything at all.
Gritting her teeth, Clarke trudges onwards, trying not to twist an ankle or wipe out on a particularly tricky patch of ice.
It’s going to be a long night.
***
It takes Clarke half an hour to arrive at Snow Falls Guest House Inn. By the time she walks through the door, Clarke has lost feeling in all of her extremities, is soaked to the bone, and ready to kill. At this point, she simply cannot be held accountable for her actions. If anyone is concerned, they have Finn Collins to thank.
It really doesn’t help matters that when Clarke, seething, approaches the front desk, the hotel clerk behind it lets his lips parts slightly in shock and raises his eyebrows as he takes in her – admittedly shocking - condition.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “Prince Charming kick you out of the ball?”
And yeah, maybe he doesn’t mean it, but after everything that’s happened, that fucking hurts.
“Listen,” she says, dropping her bags on the ground and slamming her hands against the counter. “I just spent three hours on some smelly old bus with a moody driver and walked for half an hour in the bloody snow carrying two suitcases with no assistance because its 2017 but apparently this town still has no goddamn taxis. I can’t feel my legs, my feet hurt, and my dress is ruined. I do not have the time, nor the patience for your jokes right now. I have had a terrible night and I just want a room and some fucking peace.”
Shaking his head slightly, the man holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Noted.” And it would feel like a victory but that asshole has the audacity (the audacity) to look amused.
“Good,” Clarke says, but crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes. “Then let us get on with it.”
The clerk doesn’t acknowledge her, instead turns to his screen. “You have a reservation with us?”
Clarke shrugs, and stares down at herself, drenched in her party dress, and the haphazardly packed suitcases at her feet. “Do I look like I’m very put together?” If the situation were different, she might even laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
The man glances over her briefly before turning back to his screen. “I will take that as a no.” Then he smirks slightly. “Shall I put you down as … Princess?”
If someone said this to her three hours ago, she might just be able to take it. But as it is Clarke has reached her limit.
“Excuse me, sir. I’d like to speak to your manager.”
“Well, then. You’re in luck,” he says ruefully. “You’re looking at him.”
Clarke splutters, “You?”
“Now I know it may be hard for someone like you to believe that us common folk might actually own a business of our own, but, yes.” Jaw tense, he extends his hand out to her but – this time - when he speaks, he doesn’t quite manage to mask his disdain. “Bellamy Blake, owner of the Snow Falls Guest Inn. Its been an absolute gift making your acquaintance tonight, Miss …”
“Clarke.” She hesitates, long enough for Bellamy to raise an appraising eyebrow, but she realizes that telling him her real last name might not be the best idea. She doesn’t want to risk the off-chance that someone might recognize her as Jake Griffin’s daughter. “Um, Walters. Clarke Walters.”
“Oh-kay,” he says, pulling back his unshaken hand. “How long will you be staying with us?”
“I don’t know.”
Bellamy blinks. “You don’t know,” he repeats slowly.
Clarke can’t do anything more than shake her head, because its true. She in no way thought this through. Her dad is dead. Her fiancé is a lying, cheating jerk and her mother just doesn’t understand. She has no friends, no allies on her side, and no home to go back to. All she has left is this box of letters and the town her father was born in. And now – she realizes – this man who thinks she’s a raving lunatic, essentially having a break down in his lobby in the middle of night in her fucked up clothing and her running makeup. Suddenly, the weight of her situation, of her loneliness, hits Clarke and she feels her eyes burning up because she is alone.
Maybe Bellamy notices the sudden shift in mood, because he doesn’t push her on it. “All right, then,” he says slowly. “Then I’ll put you down for tonight for now and you can sleep on it. I’m going to need your credit card information and a form of identification, though.”
After she hands it over, Bellamy looks down at it and his expression changes to something she can’t identify. “New York, huh? What brings you down here?”
My dad is dead and my fiancé cheated on me and I have no one I can trust and I needed to leave. I needed to leave because I have been swimming all my life but I can’t stay afloat anymore because nothing is right and I’m drowning. I’m drowning – but I need to breathe and this town is the only place I could think of where the tide won’t follow.
“You ask too many questions,” she says tightly, because she figures ‘I don’t know’ is not an adequate answer.
“Just doing my job,” he responds and, after a few more moments, hands her back her ID and credit card and then takes a key that is hanging on the wall behind him and offers her that too. “Second floor, up the stairs on your right. Have a great stay.” His smile is tight – Clarke doesn’t think she imagines the sarcasm in his voice.
“Will do,” she replies with equal measure, and grabs her bags to go up the stairs.
“Hey, Princess?” Clarke rolls her eyes but turns around anyway. “A word of advice: I hear that wearing your crown while sleeping can cause brutal headaches.”
Honestly, fuck that guy.
***
*EIGHT MISSED CALLS FROM FUCKBOY FINN*
*THREE MISSED CALLS FROM MOTHER DEAREST*
FUCKBOY FINN [12:43AM]: Clarke, I’m sorry about what you saw but I swear there is an explanation!!
MOTHER DEAREST [12:56AM]: What happened?? Finn seems upset.
FUCKBOY FINN [1:03AM]: Please answer my calls – I WILL make up for it, I promise
MOTHER DEAREST [1:21AM]: Where are you? The party is over.
MOTHER DEAREST [1:53AM]: Clarke, this isn’t a joke. I need to know where you are.
FUCKBOY FINN [2:01AM]: At least tell me where you are, your mom is worried
MOTHER DEAREST [2:20AM]: As the new CEO of Home & Hearth you are a symbol of this company – this running off and skipping town business is extremely unprofessional and creates a horrible image of both you and the company. I don’t know what has gotten into you but this is not what your father imagined for you.
FUCKBOY FINN [6:24AM]: Clarke
FUCKBOY FINN [6:24AM]: I miss u :(
FUCKBOY FINN [6:25AM]: and I love u
MOTHER DEAREST [8:17AM]: Finn told me you had a fight and returned his ring. You can’t just cancel an engagement, Clarke. It’s bad PR. If the public doesn’t think you can handle a marriage than how do you expect them to believe you can handle a corporation? You need to reconsider.
***
The first time Clarke saw The Box was when she was seven years old. It was Christmas Eve and – like any other day during the holidays – Clarke was sitting in her father’s office. This time, she was not listening as he talked to businessmen on the phone or helping stick price tags on products or any other various tasks. Instead, she was using her crayon set to design Christmas cards, lifting them up every once in awhile to show her father what she had created. Usually he would smile lightly, say, “looks great, kiddo” and then return back to work, but today was different. This time, her father was already watching her when she went to show him her next design, eyeing her with a funny expression.
She couldn’t identify it as a kid – it only left her feeling confused. Looking back, Clarke recognizes it for what it was: uncertainty. She never did find out the exact source of it, but looking at where she is now, Clarke can wager a guess. Maybe her father saw in her that something wasn’t quite right, that she wasn’t made up for the business industry. Maybe he could sense her inadequacy, even at such a young age. Could predict all of her future mistakes as though the colours she transferred onto her cards transmitted some sort of power of foresight.
Whatever it was – and perhaps in spite of it – that day her father decided to bring out what, in Clarke’s mind, came to be referred to as The Box.
“Do you know what this is, kiddo?” he asked her.
Clarke didn’t. Perhaps it was vaguely familiar - the simple snowflake design was pretty, but not extravagant – there was nothing particularly special or memorable it. “It’s just an old box.”
Her father smiled slightly. “No,” he said slowly. “This old box contains every single letter, journal entry, and document that ever went into creating this business. And one day it will be yours.”
At the time, it meant very little to Clarke. Her father was dramatic, he appreciated symbols, and the box was nothing if not symbolic. Her father didn’t talk about the future of the company very often with her but – even as a little girl – she always had this sense that there were plans in play that involved her, yet no one seemed interested in talking to her about it. Now, things were changing.
“I won’t be around forever, Clarke. And eventually you will have to run this place, but there are conditions.” He paused, perhaps for effect, or to let his words sink in. “These letters contain all the information you need to understand the, ah, spirit of this company. It’s far too early to read them now, but one day – I hope you will read them all. Can I trust you to do that?”
Clarke nodded. What else was there to do? Her father asked her for something, so of course she would do what she could to make him happy. “That’s not soon, though, is it daddy?”
He smiled softly and reached out to ruffle her hair. “No, Clarke. That’s not for a long, long time.”
Perhaps she didn’t truly understand the weight of it at the time – what it would mean to take over the company after her father. All the media, the attention – the constant eyes and judgement and ridicule. Handling hundreds of people and constantly working to satisfy the millions of others on the market. Maybe Clarke didn’t fully let it sink in that one day her father would be gone, and she would be left behind to carry on his legacy. She always knew that eventually; Home & Hearth Gifts would be passed on to her; she just didn’t ever think it would be so soon.
Sixteen years later, her father was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. He had no symptoms, and the doctors were at a loss as to how the tumour had passed by their notice, but it didn’t change the fact: her father’s lifeline was a ticking time bomb and Clarke never figured out how to stop it.
Even now, she still hasn’t opened the box, still hasn’t started to read the letters. She promised her father when she was seven years old that she would take care of his company. But did she ever consider that maybe she’s just not capable of doing that? Did she ever consider that now that its hers, she might not want it?
***
It’s mid-morning when Clarke walks down from her room to the lobby. The night before she didn’t take the time to really appreciate it in all of its glory but now that she’s well-rested and has the opportunity to really look around, Clarke realizes that the inn is beautiful. Separate from the main entrance is what appears to be a dining area, with dark wood tables and old-fashioned sofas. A large fireplace makes the room warm and cozy and Clarke can tell that whoever designed the room was aiming for a homier feel than you might find at a regular hotel. A girl with caramel coloured hair walks around offering cookies and eggnog to the guests, and garlands of holly are strung around the stair railing, around the fireplace, and in other various places in the lodge.
It would be easy to stay here, Clarke thinks. It would be easy to forget everything that happened and move on, if she could only remain in this little town forever.
“Enjoying the view?”
A voice startles Clarke out of her thoughts and she turns to see Bellamy has approached her on her right. With his presence, the previous night all comes rushing back, causing her to grimace. She’d been a mess – she still is, really – but at least it isn’t as glaringly obvious.
Clarke considers responding with something sarcastic, but there’s a part of her that does feel a bit guilty about how she reacted to him, despite the circumstances, so instead she tries for honesty. “It’s lovely.”
He seems startled by her response, like he didn’t expect her to possess a single kind bone in her body. “It’s a work in progress.”
As he moves closer to her, Clarke finally allows herself to look at him fully. His dark hair is casually mussed in a way that feels unintentional, yet suits him all the same. Atop his nose sit a pair of black, rounded frames that cover a pair of deep brown eyes. Clarke realizes, with a jolt, that if she hadn’t already talk to him, she’d even describe them as being warm. Kind even. His lips are slightly upturned into a soft smile as he regards her and Clarke notices him tugging lightly on the sleeves of his dark red sweater, almost like a nervous habit. After a moment, he looks away from her and down at his hands and – god.
Is he shy?
“I came down here to pay. For last night.” Clarke doesn’t think she imagines the way Bellamy grimaces at her mention of the previous evening, and Clarke feels that pit in her stomach again.
“Of course,” he says, terse. “The machine is at the front desk.”
Clarke follows him over awkwardly, hugging her stomach while she waits for him to get the transaction started. There isn’t the same banter as last night, both of them appearing – overall – much calmer. It isn’t quite like a game of tug-o-war anymore but the tension is still taught enough Clarke feels that if she were to reach out she might be able to grab onto it and pull on it like a rope.
Finally, after a long and painful moment of silence, Bellamy hands over the machine for her to enter her credit card. It doesn’t take long for the error message to pop up when she does. Blinking, Clarke stares at the machine.
“I think your machine may be broken.”
Bellamy sighs. “Let’s try again.”
Clarke does. The error message returns, glaring at her.
Well. Fuck you, too.
That’s when Clarke notices the message on her phone. Up until now, she had been determined to ignore all of Finn and her mother’s pleading, but this time she can’t run away from what is staring her in the face.
MOTHER DEAREST [9:35AM]: This behaviour is unacceptable. I have disabled all of your credit cards until you start talking to me again.
“Shit,” Clarke breathes. She is so, completely screwed.
Bellamy’s voice is bored when he asks, “What? Daddy cut you off?”
She should be angry. She should snap at him and accuse him of unprofessionalism but she can’t. She can’t because - god – he’s right. He’s right but he’s also so, so wrong, because it wasn’t her dad who cut her off – her dad is gone, and he’s never coming back. She should do something, but she doesn’t.
She’s so tired.
She’s tired of always feeling one edge away from crying, she’s tired of always running away, she’s tired of being broken and used and let down. Most of all, she’s tired of her own naivete, to believe that she could just run away from her problems and they would disappear, that the people of Snow Falls would accept her, or that changing her last name could really make her a different person. But it doesn’t.
She is Clarke Griffin, and her mother will never let her forget it.
Her hands are shaking now, where she holds her phone, and she her eyes burning. She doesn’t want to cry in front of this man, doesn’t want to be the subject of his jibes and ridicule. But she can’t leave either.
“Look, I – I have some cash,” she starts, her voice trembling. “I can pay you for last night and – um.” She chokes. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe I can find somewhere else …”
Somewhere else that will take me in for free, she doesn’t finish, because she knows it sounds ridiculous, because who would take in her – the poor little rich girl – when she has nothing to offer?
“Hey, hey, hey,” Bellamy says, coming out from behind the desk to grab onto her shoulders. His brow is furrowed, and he is wearing an uncharacteristic look of genuine concern. “We’ll figure something out, okay? If you need help getting back home -”
“I am not going home,” she snaps, then chides herself. “Look, I appreciate it, all right? But there is no way I’m going back to New York. I can’t.” Her voice cracks on the last word. Just the thought of facing her mom, and Finn, and all her coworkers is enough to make her want to hurl. “I’ll get a job – or something, and find somewhere to sleep. I just … I need to think.”
Bellamy lets his hand drop and watches her for a moment, his lips tight. He appears to be fighting himself on something, opening his mouth only to let it close again, and shifting on his feet. It might even be a funny sight to see, if Clarke were in the laughing mood.
Eventually he swallows, and she sees his jaw clench. “Do you bake, Princess?”
Clarke considers him, arching an eyebrow. The answer is “no” … technically.
But, well, Clarke’s always been good at poker, and this is her last hand.
“Sure,” she says. She hopes it’s convincing.
***
Clarke’s luggage is moved to a closet-like room on the bottom floor of the inn, near the kitchens. There isn’t much in it, besides a cot that creaks when you sit on it, an aging sofa, and a small bathroom with leaky pipes. Old brown paint is peeling off the walls and it must be poorly insulated because – aside from feeling like she just walked into a freezer - Clarke swears she can hear every word being spoken in the kitchens beside her. It’s a far cry form her luxurious and cozy quarters she spent the previous night but, at least its clean – if not well-maintained - and she has a roof over her head at night.
When Bellamy offered her the job, he told her that – on top of her pay – she would be allowed to stay in this room for as long as she needs to be in Snow Falls. That is, so long as she keeps up a good work ethic and assists her new co-worker, Monty Green, in the kitchen. Otherwise, the deal is off, and Clarke returns to New York.
These are the terms of her job. Really, Clarke doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Unless she goes crying to her mother to enable her credit cards, and that’s something she just won’t do.
So leaky pipes it is.
***
It doesn’t take long for Monty Green to find out that Clarke isn’t really a baker.
For one, she accidentally ruins an apple pie when she doesn’t use the unsalted butter and it comes out tasting like it spent a nice long afternoon soaking in a bucket of sea water. Then she accidentally mixes up the measurements of sugar and flower for the oatmeal cookies, making them come out tasting kind of like someone threw a ball of sand in her mouth. Monty – to his credit – takes these casualties with grace, but by the time Clarke messes up the second batch, his suspicions are evidently high.
“You don’t really bake, do you?” he asks her, as she empties out her cookie tray into the trash. She winces as she hears the clang the can makes as they hit the bottom.
“What gave it away?” Clarke asks weakly. “Was it the pie at the bottom of the trash, or the cookies on top of it? Or maybe it was the part where I forgot to separate the eggs?”
Monty sighs, but he doesn’t seem frustrated – for which she is thankful. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but … what are you really doing here, Clarke?”
She was really hoping he wouldn’t ask that question.
“To be honest, Monty …” she starts, “Everything in my life has been just going wrong lately and I really need the job. I really, really need the job.”
He considers this for a moment, and Clarke appreciates that there doesn’t appear to be any judgement in his eyes. Or pity. Instead he appears like he’s facing a math problem: with no emotional attachment, just critical thinking.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Then I’ll teach you how to bake. This is something we can work on.”
“Thank you.”
Monty glances at her, nods briefly.
“I mean it. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
He just shrugs. “It’s what we do around here: help people.”
Clarke accepts that answer, nods, and without saying any more they get to work. By the end of two hours, he has taught her how to bake gingerbread men, shortbread cookies, and sugar cookies. Clarke’s don’t turn out perfect, but it’s a work in progress. It’s not until the gingerbread cookies come out of the oven that Clarke really finds where she excels however. When Monty brings over the stuff for the icing, Clarke smiles. She may not be a baker, but she does know how to paint.
Really, how different can this be?
After she has completed icing all the gingerbread men and started on the sugar cookies, Monty approaches her and gives her work an approving nod. “You’re good at that.”
From that point on, it is silently decided: Monty bakes, Clarke ices. Its an arrangement that works for both of them, and allows them to get the work done efficiently while playing into their strengths. There’s something to be said about working in harmony with another person. Monty isn’t much of a talker, but his presence is solid. Comforting. Even though she barely knows him yet, Clarke feels like if she needed to talk to someone, she could talk to him and he wouldn’t judge her. It’s a feeling Clarke never came to be familiar with at the Home & Hearth office. There, everything was under constant and unrelenting supervision – Clarke spent her days feeling like she had to hold her breath as she walked from room to room
They finish the baking for the day at about five o’clock, when Monty tells her that she should go get something to eat. “I’ve got clean-up covered,” he says. “Go take a break.”
Clarke hangs up her icing-covered apron and turns to face him. “Are you sure? I can stick around.”
He waves his hand at her. “No, no. It’s your first day. I’ll do it today.”
Hesitantly, Clarke nods and turns to leave but stops in the doorway. “Thanks for everything, Monty.”
He smiles. “See ya tomorrow, Clarke.”
It isn’t much. But today Clarke accomplished something – without her mom, or her dad, or anyone else there to hold her hand. Finally, she feels like she’s allowed to grow on her own.
And that’s something.
***
Returning to Clarke’s dark, musty room feels a little too depressing to consider, so instead Clarke heads back up to the lobby, stopping to grab her notebook on the way. She glances at her father’s box of letters when she does, but looks away just quickly. She may have made progress today, but there are some things she still isn’t ready to face. Turning away, she heads up to the main entrances and finds herself an isolated arm chair and curls into the cushions. After standing all day, it feels good to let her feet rest.
After settling in, she cracks open her sketchbook to a blank page and considers it, holding the eraser of her pencil between her teeth. It’s always been a habit of Clarke’s, when she’s thinking. Her mother used to chide her when she saw the teeth marks on her pencil, going off into some spiel about how it was unhygienic and “unbecoming” of a girl like her. Even so, Clarke never did manage to shake it. Her own small form of rebellion at the time, she supposes.
The sound of a mug being placed no the table beside her startles her from her thoughts, and Clarke looks up to see that Bellamy is beside her now, staring down at her. “One hot chocolate for one very special princess,” he says. This time, however, she finds there is no derision in the way he says her nickname. Instead, there is a glint in his eye.
“Sorry, I didn’t order –“
“It’s on the house,” he interrupts, and takes a seat on the arm of the chair beside her, his arm casually slung over his knee.
His smile is soft when she looks at him, and his glasses give him a look that seems friendly and approachable. Like your community librarian you’ve know all your life. Or that neighbour you talk to once in a while when you pass by them on the streets who bakes you a casserole every so often. The image is enough to make Clarke crack a smile. In any case, he seems far more relaxed than in any of her previous encounters with him.
She accepts the mug gratefully, feeling her cheeks heat up a bit. She knows they’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and Clarke can’t help but feel a surge of embarrassment and shame over how she initially reacted when she got here. He’s been unimaginably kind and generous to her – offering up her room, and her job, and now this – and she’s acted like a spoiled, well … princess.
“Hey, Mister – er – Blake –“
Bellamy scrunches up his nose. “Call me Bellamy.”
“Right. Bellamy,” she amends. “I just … I want to say thank you. For everything you’ve done for me. You had no reason to help after how I treated you, but you did anyway. And …” she hesitates, continues anyway, “I’m sorry for how I acted, when I first came here. I was a total bitch and I don’t blame you for not liking me. The past few months have been pretty rough and I guess it finally got to me. Its not an excuse, but - you should know it has nothing to do with you. And I’m sorry.”
She catches her breath as Bellamy watches her. His face is hard to read but the expression in his eyes is intense. Eventually he nods softly and gives her a half-hearted smile. He’s off-put by her apology, she realizes, like he’s not used to receiving them.
“I know you’re going through some shit right now, Clarke,” he says quietly, soft. “It was almost four in the morning when you got here - emotions tend to be high. I’m not proud of how I acted, either. We can start over,” he hesitates, almost nervously, “If you want that.”
In the back of her mind, a voice tells Clarke that this is supposed to be a serious moment. That she should nod and perhaps offer her hand to shake – like how she always addresses others in her business deals, or when she is talking to a superior. Bellamy is, technically, her boss, after all.
But the way he’s tugging on the hem of his sleeves – that nervous habit again – and is staring at her almost shyly from behind his glasses, likes he’s concerned about her reaction, is endearing. Far more than she’s willing to admit. Clarke isn’t quite sure how it happened that in the past twenty-four hours this man has turned from being absolutely despicable and infuriating to, well, cute. But here she is – staring at him as he bites his lip, waiting for her response, and all she can think about is the way his hair curls just so around the rims of his glasses, the way his hands are playing with the threads of his sweater, all the freckles on his tanned skin she didn’t notice before that remind her of stars and how she finds it all disgustingly and undeniably adorable.
Biting her lip to hide her smile, she says, “I’d like that.”
Bellamy’s face immediately brightens, and Clarke’s cheeks heat up again. God, since when did he have this effect on her?
“But,” she starts before he can say anything, “the term ‘Princess’ is officially off-limits.”
To her dismay, Bellamy positively beams at this. “I make no promises,” he pauses, then adds, “Princess.”
As he walks away, he has the audacity to actually grin at her: an all-consuming, shit-eating grin that takes up his entire face and makes the room feel about two shades lighter. Clarke’s mouth falls open to protest against his complete and utter disregard for her words because since when does he have permission to be that radiant?
Yeah. This is going to be a serious problem for her.
***
In the days that follow, Clarke falls into something of a routine. Every morning she gets dressed and heads to the kitchens to help Monty with the baking. Most of the time, they don’t speak much, but the silence is a welcome change to the everyday bustle of office life and the dreaded small talk that inevitably accompanied every social event her mother forced her to attend. Life in Snow Falls is far quieter than life in the city, but it is comforting in a way Clarke never guessed it would be. Here, people don’t look at her like they used to: with a mixture of disregard and contention. In New York, she was the spoiled daughter of Jake Griffin – multi-millionaire and business man extraordinaire. People either cozied up to her looking to leech off her wealth or turned their noses up on her and brushed her off as being a spoiled brat who’d never known anything besides the silver spoon in her mouth. Here, no one knows who Clarke is, and for the first time in her life, she knows what it feels like to be treated as a normal person.
Work in the kitchen can grow tedious and tiring, but at the end of the day Clarke always feels invigorated knowing that for once – for once – she can honestly say she achieved something on her own, without her parent’s bank account to aid her.
Every day, after her shifts, she goes back up the lobby. Usually Bellamy visits her to chat after his shift and – on the days when he works overnight – she brings him a coffee from the kitchen. It’s a bit symbolic, if she’s honest: a regular form of reassurance that the tentative peace they have built between them remains intact.
It’s a simple form of living day-to-day, but the reprieve from life in the city is appreciated, and it gives Clarke a way to avoid confronting Finn and the soul-sucking grief that has struck her small family. While the texts from the people back in New York haven’t quite stopped coming in, they are in fewer numbers now. Sitting down with Bellamy and talking about other things provides a welcome distraction from her problems and – besides – if she admits it to herself, she actually enjoys talking to him. He’s relaxed and down-to-earth and has the kind of dry sense of humour Clarke has always appreciated, yet was never deemed acceptable in her old social circles. And, for reasons completely unbeknownst to her, Bellamy seems to like having her around, too.
One night, after tossing and turning for what feels like an eternity, Clarke finally rolls out of bed and delicately pads upstairs to sit in the lounge. She has her sketchbook in hand, in case inspiration hits her. Lately, she’s spent a lot of her free time drawing – it was a hobby her parents always assumed she would eventually outgrow but, as she entered her teen years, it became just about the only thing that kept Clarke content. Soon enough, the charcoal became Clarke’s closest friend, and when life became too hard to face, she learned to lose herself in the pages.
When she reaches the lobby, she sees that Bellamy is still there, sitting behind the counter and reading some kind of book. In spite of herself, her pulse jumps. As Bellamy sees her draw near, his eyebrows fly up in surprise. But as quickly as he loses it, he regains his composure and snorts softly. “Nice pajamas.”
Clarke looks down: she’s wearing her red onesie – the one with all the dancing snowmen on them. It never occurred to her that it might be viewed as childish to someone watching but – then again – she hadn’t thought about Bellamy still being awake at this time in the evening either. At least, she thinks, Bellamy seems more charmed by her attire than anything. Flushing, she pulls out the spare chair behind the desk and sits down next to him.
“You’re still up,” she says blandly, not knowing really what to say.
“As are you,” he remarks pointedly.
Clarke shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”
If she’s honest with herself, she can’t stop thinking about Finn, and how stupid she’s been in all the time she’s known him. Clarke first met Finn Collins when she was 22, after graduating from business school and her dad hired her on as an official employee of Home & Hearth gifts. He was already working at the company, just a year older than her, and he immediately took a fancy to her. It didn’t take long for them to hit it off. He asked her out on an official date two month after she started working and she said yes.
They’d been dating for almost two years when he proposed to her. At the time, he seemed like the perfect fit: he was smart, outgoing, came from a good family, and was – of course – absolutely and completely infatuated with her. At least, that’s what she thought. Her parents both agreed that he was a suitable man to marry, but then - he always did play the perfect gentlemen. The act fooled them all, even herself.
That’s why it stung so much when she walked in on him after the party with … her. The woman he was kissing was absolutely stunning – even in the dark, Clarke could tell that much. It was no wonder why any man would be attracted to her, with her long dark hair and athletic body; Clarke just never thought Finn would be the one to leave her standing in the cold. In her mind, she could still hear the sound her ring made as the diamond hit the metal table she threw it at. Clarke didn’t stay long enough to see their expressions – she was already running away, back to her apartment to gather up her clothes and just leave.
How long will it be, she wonders, until she can fall asleep and stop thinking about him, or her dad, or any of the other ghosts she left behind to wander the streets of New York that she frequents in her dreams at night?
“Hey.” Clarke is pulled out of her reverie to see Bellamy staring at her with his eyebrows furrowed. He nudges her arm gently. “Everything okay?”
There’s no question of telling the truth so instead she just shrugs half-heartedly. “Sure.” Her words ring hollow – even she can tell that. She just hopes that Bellamy won’t push it.
She should know by now that her luck never lasts.
“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice rumbles and, even now, the way he says her name like that – both soft and commanding – still manages to startle her. “Can I ask you a question?”
Clarke isn’t sure what it is, exactly. Maybe it’s the way Bellamy is staring at her - with those eyes that are always so full of what seems to be ten conflicting emotions all at once - or maybe it’s her own exhaustion and the way that words always seem to fall freer at night, or perhaps it’s the way Bellamy softly called her by her name instead of Princess. Maybe it’s just him. But for whatever the reason, something compels Clarke to nod her head, even though she has spent the last week running away from every question thrown at her at all costs.
“What made you come here?”
Clarke shifts uncomfortably. She still isn’t quite ready to face this, with him. “If I recall correctly, you already asked me that question.”
“And if I recall correctly, you also told me to fuck off that night.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “Now you’re just talking out of your ass.”
“It was implied.” Clarke might even feel bad about it, if he wasn’t smiling and looking at her like … like that.
She doesn’t know when this happened, when it started feeling comfortable around Bellamy, like she could talk to him if she wanted to and he would actually listen to her. Despite all the teasing and the daily banter, she knows that Bellamy has actually started to care about her like he does Monty and Harper and the other people who work for him. And, in some twist of fate, Clarke knows that she’s started to care for this snarky inn owner, too. It’s not something that she has ever vocalized before and maybe its not even something she’s ready to face. Clarke didn’t come to Snow Falls to get attached – she came to move on, gain closure. But she still can’t even read her father’s letters or respond to Finn’s texts, so clearly, she’s managed to fail on both accounts.
“There are just some things in my life that I need to deal with,” she offers, hoping it will be enough of an answer for Bellamy.
“And you deal with them by running away?”
She narrows her eyes at him. “Who ever said I was running away?”
Bellamy shrugs, but she knows the subject hasn’t really been dropped. He has an odd expression on his face, one she doesn’t recognize. It’s contemplative, and almost nostalgic. “Did I ever tell you that I used to live in New York, too?”
Clarke starts at that. In her mind, Bellamy has always been completely separated from her old life – he is an entity that has only ever existed in Snow Falls. Perhaps, she realizes, she was wrong to think of him in that way, to believe even for a moment that this town she’s started to make her home in could ever truly exist in a vacuum.
“No,” she says weakly. “You didn’t tell me that.”
It shouldn’t be such a shock to her system, this small part of him that Bellamy has revealed to her. But it is, because now he no longer completely matches the picture of the person she has created in her head. And she can’t stop thinking about who he was, before he came here. What he was like.
“Over the years that I’ve spent in Snow Falls, I’ve learned that the only thing that really brings city folks out here is when living at home becomes too painful.” He pauses. “The people who move here? They’re all running away from something.” He shrugs, turns his glass in his hand. “What else would compel someone to come all the way to a place like this?”
She considers that long enough to recognize the truth in his words. She doesn’t want to admit it, and god knows she can’t admit it to him, but Bellamy is right: she is running. She’s running from her mom and Finn’s indecency and her dad, but she’s running away from everything else, too. From all her new responsibilities, from all the social norms and expectations. She’s running away from Home & Hearth, from the life that was set up and mapped out for her long before she had any say in the matter.
It’s just a shame that it took her this long to figure out that none of it is what she ever really wanted.
She thinks of her mother’s constant derision and judgement over how she chose to direct her life, the way some people viewed her at the office – like she could never understand what it was like to really work a day in her life – or the constant belittling and gossip of the other socialites she was forced to socialize with at events. She thinks of Finn, and the subtle way in which he belittled her, how he would always look at her with strained disapproval every time she had a little too much to drink and started talking about art school, or when her skirt was just a little too short for the office, or when she spent too long talking to other guys. She thinks of the way that she only ever felt like she was enough for him when she molded herself to be the perfect paper-cut-out billboard girl – the image he had in his head. Everything other version of her that existed, he snuffed out and stifled at every opportunity he had.
“Bellamy?” Clarke says after a moment.
He hums in acknowledgement.
“Has anyone ever made you feel like you were … inadequate?”
It takes Bellamy a long time to respond, long enough that she begins to wonder if he didn’t hear her. Or worse: if she overstepped. Maybe she was wrong to come here tonight, to ask him this question. Maybe a part of Bellamy still views her as the spoiled princess that snapped at him the night she arrived in Snow Falls.
But, just as her doubts begin to creep in, she hears his voice. “Yes,” he says.
It’s short, perfunctory. He doesn’t elaborate, but Clarke doesn’t need him to. For now, Clarke is content in knowing that for this – at least – she doesn’t have to be alone. Because everything she’s feeling, maybe Bellamy has felt it, too.
She thinks the conversation is over, and is about to leave, when Bellamy speaks again.
“Clarke Walters, if someone ever makes you feel like you’re not enough, then you can tell that person to fuck themselves and shove their worthless mouth up their own pretentious asshole.”
Clarke nearly chokes at his bluntness and asks, bewildered, “How do you just say things like that? Like it’s nothing.”
“It’s simple,” he says. “I just stop caring about the people in my life who obviously never gave a shit about me.” He props his feet up on the desk and rests his neck against the back of his chair. “Once you figure out how to do that, you can do whatever the hell you want.”
This bitterness in Bellamy’s voice is something new and unencountered. Clarke recalls what Bellamy said before, about how people run away from their lives when it becomes too painful to bear and – vaguely – she wonders if he was talking about himself.
What are you running from, Bellamy? she wants to ask. Who made you think this way?
But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans back in her chair and considers his words in silence, wondering vaguely how she came to be in this position, when the words of this man she just met started to matter so much more than the people she has known her entire life.
Maybe, she thinks, she never really knew them at all. And they didn’t know her either.
***
It’s a week and a half before Christmas when two kids rush into the inn, skates in hand, their parents trailing behind as they shake their heads fondly. Clarke can’t help but smile at the scene at the same time as she feels a sense of loss, knowing that it’s far too late to really have that with her family. On impulse, Clarke begins to sketch out an outline of the scene she has in mind. It’s difficult, she finds, creating an image out of her head with no picture or scenery to use as a guide, but she uses the family as her inspiration. On her days off, Clarke tends to spend her time in the lobby drawing. It’s become habitual, really, and the familiar environment is comforting to her. At any given time, she can look around and seek out a familiar face or return to her room to rest. It’s a feeling of relaxation she’s never truly experienced, but knows she could easily get used to.
Clarke is just shading in the dark colour of the little girl’s skates as she twirls on the ice when she senses a presence by her shoulder. She doesn’t need to look to know who it is. Bellamy, she’s realized, has this uncanny habit of randomly turning up out of seemingly nowhere to check on her. If she said as much to him, he would object to say that the only reason she never sees him coming is because she’s “off in her dream world”. He never says it in a mocking way, like Finn used to, and for that Clarke is thankful.
Smiling, Clarke turns her head to look at him. “Don’t you have a job to be doing?” she teases him.
He smirks back, that god-awful enchanted smile of his. Asshole.
“Wouldn’t be a day at the inn if I didn’t come by to pester my favourite princess,” he responds, and takes a seat on the arm chair next to hers. “Besides, I’m not working today.”
Clarke raises her eyebrows at this. “Bellamy Blake, known work-a-holic, is taking a day off?” She offers up a theatric gasp. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
He grunts in response, and Clarke grins. “Monroe and Harper decided that apparently, I work too much, and an intervention was needed.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t see why it matters to them what my work schedule looks like, but – to make a long story short – they stole all my shifts.”
Clarke almost snorts at the way he uses the word “stole”, like it’s such an injustice. But she can’t disagree with Monroe and Harper – everyone knows that Bellamy works himself too hard. It’s like he’d rather die before he encounters the day where doesn’t have to take responsibility for every little thing that goes wrong at the inn. Or, she considers, maybe he just doesn’t trust anyone but himself (his confidence in his staff is unparalleled, clearly).
“It’s because you get kind of grumpy when you work a lot,” she offers instead.
Bellamy, to his credit, looks positively scandalized by this accusation. “Hey, I resent that,” he says. “I am nothing but a beacon of light day after day. I mean, shit, I give the fucking north star a run for its money if you ask me. I practically light up this entire building with my sunny personality each and every-“
He doesn’t get to finish because Clarke is laughing too hard. “Please. Your mood swings could rival a PMS-ing teenage girl.”
“Well,” he says pointedly, “I make you laugh, don’t I?”
And, yeah, he’s got a point there.
She shrugs and bites her lip to hide her smile, turning back to her sketchbook, but she can feel his eyes burning into her. The thing is, he does make her laugh, and Clarke likes being around Bellamy – more than she ever intended to. If someone told her a few weeks ago, she would scoff in their face. But, somehow, this man – as moody as he can be sometimes – has squeezed his way under her walls and through her barriers into her orbit.
She wish it didn’t scare her so much; yet, she can’t bring herself to pull away.
“Are you drawing the Snow Falls ice rink?” Bellamy asks after a moment and she realizes that he isn’t actually looking at her, but at her drawing.
Clarke flushes, tempted to close her sketchbook. She doesn’t usually let people look at her art – not even Bellamy – with the exception of her cookies (although, can those really be considered art?). She doesn’t, instead lets his eyes roam over the page and watches as his lips part. If Clarke wasn’t so self-conscious about her work, she might think his expression was even akin to awe.
“I’ve never actually seen it,” she admits.
Clarke hasn’t really seen anything in Snow Falls besides the Inn, if she’s honest. With the exception of the first night she arrived here, she’s pretty much been cooped up indoors the entire time, with no desire to venture beyond its doors. Its ironic, really, considering the very reason she came here to begin with was to explore the town her father was born in. But she won’t even walk outside.
“You’re kidding,” Bellamy says and, after a moment of consideration, he stands up and brushes off his jeans. Extending his hand out to her, he says, “Come on, we’re going out.”
“What?”
“We’re going skating,” he says and - for a moment - with his glasses off-kilter and his messy hair and crooked smile, he appears so boy-ish Clarke thinks she feels a part of her heart jump.
“But – Bellamy, I don’t have skates,” she protests.
“We’ve got tons of extras in storage – I’ll steal you a pair before we leave,” he reassures her, then shakes his hand impatiently. “Now are you going to leave me standing here, or are you going to quit being lame and take my hand?”
She takes his hand, and when Bellamy pulls her up to standing, his smile is positively blinding.
Maybe, she thinks begrudgingly, the north star thing isn’t completely ridiculous.
***
Snow Falls is far livelier and welcoming in the day, Clarke finds, than it is at night. A constant ring of children laughing and shrieking fills the air, and she can hear birds whistling in the breeze. Ringing of bells signal the opening and closing of shop doors, and various people rush in and out carrying boxes and bags filled with all sorts of goods. Snow Falls – she realizes – is a very festive community. But then, that shouldn’t surprise, considering she’s seen the Inn. Carollers seem to line every block, and the street lamps are decked out in holly. It seems that every door they pass has a wreath attached to it.
These are the things Clarke didn’t appreciate as she walked these streets in the dark, her emotions running through the roof, and her body practically paralyzed from cold. But now, with a clear mind (and a significantly warmer jacket – thank you, Harper) she can appreciate the town in its full beauty. It’s easy to see why Bellamy never returned to New York. There’s something about the easy nature of the people here, and the spirit of the small shops and cobbled streets, that carries itself in the air.
Bellamy and Clarke don’t speak for most of the way. Instead, Bellamy lets her observe the people and the places of Snow Falls, as their frost-coated breath mingles in the air. After the silence has stretched on between them for too long, he interrupts her thoughts.
“Have you ever considered becoming an artist, Clarke?”
The topic is so out of the blue that she almost stumbles. No one has ever asked Clarke that question before. At least, not without some sort of mocking or derision attached to it.
“I took a few classes in business school, but …” She shrugs. “It was never really option.”
“Why not?”
She shakes her head. “My parents always wanted me to go into business. I guess I just … never really considered anything else as a path for me.”
“You could still do it, you know.” He says. “It’s not too late.”
There’s some merit to his words – she’s young and has all the time in the world. Maybe, for Clarke Walters, it would be an option. But Bellamy doesn’t know who she is, she realizes with a string of guilt attached, because if he did then he would know that there is no future for Clarke Griffin that doesn’t involve Home & Hearth Gifts.
“Maybe,” she says instead, cursing herself when her voice cracks. “It’s not like my art is anything special anyway.”
“It is.”
The conviction in Bellamy’s voice momentarily throws Clarke off-guard. The only other time she’s heard him say something with such complete intensity on her behalf is when he told her that anyone who made her feel inadequate could go fuck himself. The strength of his feelings startled her then and they startle her now. She realizes, with some level of regret, that no one has ever spoken with such confidence about her art or anything else in regards to Clarke before.
No one but Bellamy.
“You are special,” he says, softer this time. When he sees Clarke’s stunned expression, however, he seems to realize the implication behind his words and looks away, sheepish. “You should know.” With that he turns his face into his scarf as he looks down at his feet, and distractedly kicks a ball of snow on the sidewalk.
Is Bellamy Blake … blushing?
For some reason, the possibility makes Clarke unimaginably giddy. Grinning, she reaches out to grab his hand impulsively, causing him to snap his head back at her, his mouth parted. They’re both wearing gloves, but she can feel the heat from his hands radiating through the fabric and it causes something in her chest to twist unpredictably.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and moves closer in to him, seeking out more of his heat.
Bellamy looks like he wants to say more – and maybe he would have – but then Clarke sees the rink, and stops in her tracks. In the back of her mind, she knows (she knows) that this fear is irrational. It’s just an ice rink. But Clarke can’t stifle the feeling …
“Hey,” Bellamy squeezes her hand. “You all right?”
“Ummm,” Clarke starts awkwardly. “This would probably be the appropriate time to tell you that I don’t actually know how to skate.”
“You’ve never skated?” There’s no judgement in Bellamy’s face, just pure and utter shock. Perhaps the only time that Clarke has ever seen Bellamy appear so scandalized was when she told him she’s never actually read The Odyssey (“but Clarke, this book is a fucking classic”). He spent the next hour practically scoffing every time she spoke to him.
“I mean, I’ve tried it. Once. When I was seven,” she grimaces. “But then that Molly Straits pushed me over from behind because I beat her during the spelling bee and I scraped my knee against the ice and it was horrible, Bellamy. It was horrible.”
Bellamy’s expression of horror is already shifting into a massive shit-eating grin that is spreading all over his face and she realizes – with a jolt – that he’s laughing at her. That jackass just heard her childhood trauma and has the nerve to actually laugh about it and – yeah – he makes it so easy to hate him.
(She doesn’t, really.)
“Fine, then I’ll teach you how to do it,” Bellamy says, taking her skates out of the bag he brought and already loosening up the laces.
Clarke opens her mouth to protest but he stops her. “Sit down and put on the damn skates, Clarke.”
So she does.
***
Skating with Bellamy is not as hard and nerve-wracking as she thought it would be. For one, he holds onto her hands the whole time, keeping her upright, and always reaches out a hand to steady her whenever she loses her balance. He’s a patient teacher, and doesn’t seem to mind when she makes him go slow or grabs onto his shoulders when she trips over a rough patch. To his credit, he only actually laughs at her once, when she slips and practically does the splits over the ice before he manages to catch his waist. He claims it was more because of her expression of utter terror than anything else, though.
“Told you I wouldn’t let you fall, Princess,” he says after.
She wishes she could swat the smug look off his face, but when she tries she accidentally loses her balance, causing him to reach out and catch her again, and that just makes it worse.
They’re onto their fourth lap around the rink, and it’s practically deserted by now. People must be out eating lunch, or completing their last-minute Christmas shopping, she figures. In any case, she doesn’t mind. At least there’s no one around to watch her make a fool of herself and, she has to admit, spending time alone with Bellamy outside of the bustle and guise of professionalism of the Inn is pretty nice. Even if she does practically have to crush his arms with her grip in order to keep herself from falling over.
“Just relax, Princess,” he says. “I used to do this all the time when I was teaching my sister how to skate.”
Clarke slips again, but this time she barely acknowledges Bellamy’s arm around her waist because she’s too busy thinking about the fact that she’s spent essentially all of her time with him for the better part of the past few weeks and in all that time he never thought to mention the fact that he has a sister. In fact, when she thinks about it Clarke realizes that she doesn’t know anything about Bellamy’s family. Or his life in New York.
This, she guesses, is their silent agreement they made that night in the lobby: to understand that they once led very different lives without pushing or asking questions. After all, that’s why she still hasn’t told him her real name. Or about the reasons she left her old identity behind.
But this time Clarke can’t help but ask. “You have a sister?”
She wonders if she imagines the way Bellamy winces as he nods. “A younger one.” He hesitates, before deciding to continue. “Octavia.”
Clarke wants to ask him to tell her more, but Bellamy’s face is pained in a way she has never seen it before, and she decides not to push him. Clarke isn’t unused to Bellamy’s shifting moods. Sometimes when he’s with her he’ll seem to almost … blank out for a moment, and become very silent. In those moments Clarke knows better than to ask what he’s thinking of, but she’s always assumed it had something to do with his life in New York and – seeing his expression now – she assumes it has something to do with his – his sister. Octavia.
He clears his throat. “That was a long time ago, anyway.” His voice cracks and it’s clear that he wants to change the subject, so Clarke lets it go, squeezing his hands.
“So,” she says, breathless, “I think I’m ready to try this on my own now.”
Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her. “You sure?”
Not really.
“Absolutely,” and then Clarke gives him what she hopes is her most blinding smile.
Bellamy smirks. “Brave Princess.” And, with that, he lets go.
Clarke is so not ready.
For about five seconds after Bellamy lets her go she glides smoothly across the ice. Unfortunately, she spends the next twenty seconds pinwheeling wildly as she grapples for purchase on something – anything. Tragically, that something ends up being Bellamy’s chest and when she collides into him she sends them both flying into a broken pile of fabric and limbs on the rink’s cold surface.
Groaning, Clarke lifts her head up from Bellamy’s chest, cautiously inspecting the body below her for injury.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly, her face burning as Bellamy turned to squint up at her. His hair is even messier than usually and he appears especially rumpled.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Just a little blind.”
That’s when Clarke notices his glasses on the ice a few inches away from her thigh and she realizes, with a considerable jolt, that this is the first time she’s seen Bellamy without them. He doesn’t look all that different, really, but she notices now that his glasses tend to soften the sharp planes of his face whereas, without them, his cheekbones stand out. And – like this – the light snow falling from the sky falls on his exposed eyelashes …
“Right,” Clarke says, forcing herself to look away from him to find his glasses. When she does, she props them on his nose after confirming that there are no cracks or scratches. “All better,” she says, allowing herself to smile at the way his eyes seem to clear up now that he has them back.
“Are you all right?” he asks her, reaching out to wrap an arm around her waist, and Clarke giggles in spite of herself.
“I’m the one who knocked you over, idiot.”
“You’re telling me,” he snorts. “Molly Straits has nothing on you, Princess.”
As soon as Clarke thinks up a snarky remark to reply with, the words die on her lips. As if forgetting himself, Bellamy reaches up suddenly to brush a strand of her hair out of her face and behind her ear. Clarke feels herself tensing up instinctively. This type of banter is something she is used to expecting from spending time with Bellamy, but the tension in the air feels as though it has intensified by tenfold in the past minute and, with that realization, she knows this is different.
But Clarke can’t bring herself to pull away.
Bellamy’s hand is still on her face, this time cupping her jaw, letting his thumb softly graze her cheekbone, and Clarke swears she can hear her frantic heartbeat through her layers. Their faces are so close, their noses are practically touching, and Clarke can feel the mixture of their breath in the crisp air.
God, has Bellamy always had this many freckles?
Her heart leaps into her throat, and Bellamy’s lips part. She leans closer, her nose lightly nudging his as her hair falls into his face. “Clarke,” Bellamy breathes. And god. No one has ever spoken her name like that, like she hung the goddamn stars.
But then she hears that shrieking again, the kind that promises children are near, and Clarke remembers she is in a public place.
Sighing, Clarke pulls away from Bellamy and rolls off of him, cursing the stars for letting her fall on top of Bellamy on a bloody ice rink, of all the places, instead of in a different context. Brushing the snow off her pants, Clarke manages to pull herself to standing (which, on her skates, is something of a miraculous feat).
Bellamy, on his part, is very silent when he pulls himself up beside her. He gives her a quick look up and down, but – she notices – strategically avoids her eyes. “You better hold onto me on the way to the bench.”
So she does.
They don’t talk about what just happened, what was about to happen, and Clarke can’t help but feel like she’s been punched in the gut. Perhaps she misjudged the situation. Maybe Bellamy doesn’t feel the same way about her at all. She just thought … the way he looked at her …
Swallowing, Clarke forces herself to raise her head.
This is why she didn’t want to get attached. This is the reason she ran away to begin with. After what happened with Finn, you’d think Clarke would have learned.
But could she really have imagined the way he said her name?
Shaking her head subtly, Clarke forces herself to snap out of it. Nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen. The moment they shared on the ice was a mistake, a momentary lapse of judgement. And Clarke wasn’t walking that road again. It was officially decided.
Maybe it’s time Clarke did the thing she really came to do.
***
The walk back to the inn is a lot longer than Clarke remembered it being on the way there. And, with the new awkward silence, significantly more painful. Without saying anything, Clarke listens to the sound of her and Bellamy’s feet hitting the cobblestones as they walk, and watches out of her periphery the way he keeps his eyes firmly trained on the path ahead, never glancing over at her.
It stings more than she is prepared for.
When Clarke is unable to take the silence any longer she lets out a deep breath. “My father was born in this town.”
Finally, she feels Bellamy’s gaze back on her but doesn’t look over to meet his eyes just yet. She knows she’s surprised him, with her admission, but it only seems fair, considering what he learned about his sister earlier. Looking around at Snow Falls now, Clarke can practically see the inspiration for Home & Hearth Gifts piecing together in her mind. She suspects his upbringing here played a key role in his career path later in life but – of course – there’s no way she can tell Bellamy that.
“My dad. He, um,” she hesitates, decides to continue, “He died a few months ago.”
It feels like letting a weight off of her shoulders, admitting this to someone – finally. Clarke didn’t realize what holding in this part of her had done to her over the past few weeks. Even in New York, the topic of her father’s death wasn’t something she could just freely talk about. At the office, it was almost a taboo subject. It was like all her coworkers had silently agreed not to mention the topic to Clarke. Finn never was much of a support system and her mother … well, her mother dealt with grief in her own way. One that didn’t leave much room for Clarke. She knew that everyone was just trying not to upset her, but in their attempt to treat her with kid gloves, it made it seem as though Jake Griffin had simply been forgotten and buried under the aftermath of his own death.
Clarke feels, more than hears, Bellamy’s sharp intake of breath beside her as he took in her words. “Jesus,” he breathes. “That’s why you got so upset when I made that comment before, about your dad …”
She knows what he’s talking about – when she found out her mom had cut her off. Bellamy had assumed it was dad, but he didn’t know.
“Clarke, I am so sorry. God, I am such an asshole.”
“Bellamy, you had no way of knowing. It’s okay.”
She stops and reaches out to grab Bellamy’s shoulders so he’s forced to look her in the eye. To her dismay, he looks absolutely destroyed, and his expression pulls at Clarke’s heart despite every promise she made to herself earlier that she wouldn’t walk down this path again. But god. She hates this new distance between them and just wants to close the space in any way she knows how.
“Well,” he says softly. “I’m still sorry.”
The guilt practically radiates off him and Clarke feels herself drawing closer to him despite herself. Responding, he reaches out and finally (finally) pulls her into his arms, allowing her to nuzzle her head in he crook between his shoulder and his neck. Bellamy’s never held her like this before, but his arms twist around her almost instinctively, pulling her tight against him so that any space between them is extinguished. Clarke doesn’t want to cry, but Bellamy’s body is warm – his arms solid - and he’s holding her in a way she hasn’t been held in so, so long, and she’s just so tired of acting like she’s okay because she’s not.
“I’m so tired of being strong,” she whispers brokenly.
Bellamy’s voice is deep above her, and comforting. “Clarke, letting yourself feel doesn’t make you weak.”
And so, just this one time, with Bellamy holding her, she allows herself to break, her tears soaking into Bellamy’s neck and his scarf muffling her sobs. As her body trembles with her emotions, he fastens his arms around her tighter.
She doesn’t know how long they stand this way, but when her tears finally dry up, she turns her head so she can see Bellamy’s chest. He adjusts his head to accommodate her new position, turning his mouth into her hair.
“You know how you asked me why I came here?” When she speaks, her voice sounds raw. Bellamy hums in acknowledgement against her hair.
“Well,” she begins shakily, “There were a lot of reasons for leaving, but I guess the main reason I came to Snow Falls was because of my dad. I just thought that maybe, if I came here, it would make me feel closer to him.”
It isn’t the full truth, but it’s a starting point. And Clarke hopes that – one day – she’ll get there in full.
She feels Bellamy nod against his hair, and the deep intake before he speaks. “After my mom died a few years ago, I spent a long time trying to figure out how to come to terms with it. I ran through all the ways I could have stopped it – over and over – in my head. Eventually I realized that sometimes in life, shit happens, and there’s nothing you can do about it but just keep breathing.”
“How do you move on from something like that?”
Bellamy pauses, and for a moment everything is silent before he finally sighs. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
Its not the answer Clarke wants to hear but, she realizes, maybe there is no perfect answer when it comes to grief. “Do you think we’ll ever reach that point?”
His reply comes slowly. “I hope so, Clarke.”
***
By the time they reach the inn, the sky is already getting dark, and the air is turning colder. The rest of the walk home was spent in silence, but – unlike the previous one – it felt comfortable, like an acknowledgement of everything Clarke and Bellamy had been through. They didn’t need to talk about it any longer – they just knew. When Clarke and Bellamy walk through the doors to the inn, it is with a new understanding of each other and Clarke can’t help but feel better for it.
After Bellamy shuts the door behind her Clarke reaches to pull off her scarf, hanging it up on the rack. It isn’t until Bellamy walks right into her that she notices his glasses, and has to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. After walking in from the cold, they have completely fogged up, making it look like someone painted his lenses white.
“Slow down,” she says, smiling, and places a hand on his chest to stop him. “How can you see?”
“I can’t,” he says gruffly. “Obviously.”
The fog is already fading, but Clarke takes his glasses off anyway. And there they are: those damned cheekbones again. Bellamy is staring down at her, the corner of his lips turned up crookedly. His expression is soft and maybe it would surprise Clarke if she hadn’t already seen it before.
“What was that for?” he asks. “The ice will be gone in a minute.”
“I just wanted to see your eyes,” she responds and, before he can react to that, she lets her smile fade for a moment. “We’re okay, right?”
“Always.” And his voice is unimaginably soft.
“Good,” she whispers, and gently places his frames back on his nose. With that, Clarke moves away from him and heads back to her room to wash up. She doesn’t look back over her shoulder, but Clarke can feel Bellamy’s gaze on her back that makes her pulse jump in a way that was all but unfamiliar to her up until this afternoon.
A lot can happen in a day, she thinks to herself as she heads down the stairs, nearly running into Monty in the process.
Monty regards her for a moment, narrowing his eyes. “Well, you’re looking uncharacteristically cheerful today.”
Clarke just laughs, because – what the hell, “It’s Christmas, Monty. Of course I’m cheerful.”
That only makes her laugh again when she realizes the irony of her statement.
Christmas means work – it always has – but, for once in her life, Clarke thinks it might mean something more.
***
To Clarke’s relief, Finn has finally stopped sending her texts filled with empty apologies and desperate pleas for her to “come home”. She only briefly considers what it says about him – and their relationship itself - that he would give up on her so quickly. But maybe that’s something she should have considered a long time ago.
Her mother, on the other hand, does not give up so easily. After threatening to call the police to organize a search party because “my GOD, Clarke, for all I know you could be dead in a ditch!” Clarke is finally persuaded to send a short text with simply the words: “I’m fine. Don’t look for me.”
For now, it will have to be enough. In any case, her mother has stopped threatening her with the police call, so it feels like a win.
Clarke is working late in the kitchens tonight, currently icing the new Christmas-themed cakes they’ve just baked while Monty prepares a batch of mini pecan tarts, when Bellamy walks in, dropping Clarke and Monty’s jackets on the only somewhat clean table in the room. “We’re going out,” he says, and it’s with a kind of finality Clarke is unused to hearing in Bellamy’s voice.
Monty glances at her and his expression is clear: what the fuck?
It’s rare for Bellamy to leave the inn on a weekday except for work-related reasons, and its even rarer for him to barge into the middle of the kitchens and tell them to stop what they’re doing. In fact, it never happens at all. This is a definite first.
“Um, we’re kind of in the middle of baking, Bellamy,” Monty says.
“Is there anything in the oven?”
“Well, no, not yet-“
“Then it can wait until tomorrow,” Bellamy says cheerfully. “Gina’s holding a Christmas party at the brewery tonight and I told her we’d be there. I’ve got all the necessary shifts covered so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Are you sure?” Clarke asks, but she’s already hanging up her apron.
“Positive,” he says. “Its time you started meeting some of our friends, Princess.”
For once, the prospect doesn’t scare her.
***
It takes them half an hour to clean up the kitchen and get all the unbaked pies into the freezer. Generally, its unheard of to leave the treats like this unless the recipe calls for them to sit, but Bellamy is uncharacteristically insistent that this is a special occasion and sacrifices must be made. So that’s how they end up here: walking side by side on the snowy sidewalk with Monty and Harper chatting up ahead. It was an unspoken agreement of Bellamy and Clarke to give the pair some privacy since its pretty much obvious to every single person (except for the two involved, apparently) that they are both ridiculously, head-over-heels in love with each other. Clarke’s never seen anyone manage to crack Monty’s dry persona quite so effectively – seeing her reserved partner-in-crime grow all bashful and sensitive is a sight to see.
But, Bellamy informs her, she hasn’t seen Monty and Jasper together when they’ve been drinking. Apparently, that’s an image she won’t forget for a long, long time.
It takes her awhile to notice that Bellamy is staring at her with a funny expression on his face, but it makes her feel suddenly self-conscious when he does. She’s never liked being under scrutiny (unfortunately for her, scrutiny was a full-time position back at Home & Hearth).
“What,” she asks, her cheeks flushing.
“Nothing,” he says distractedly and – shit – he’s staring at her mouth. “You just have some frosting on your lip.”
So why don’t you do something about it? she doesn’t say.
He does. Just not quite how she imagined it. But when Bellamy reaches out to gently wipe away the powdered sugar from the corner of her mouth with his thumb, she shivers all the same.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
No.
“A little,” she lies, because its easier than admitting what effect he has on her.
When he offers her his navy scarf, she accepts it anyway, and tries not to be too obvious when she buries her nose into it to catch the scent of his cologne.
***
There are more people at Gina’s Brewery than Clarke was expecting, for such a small place. Before they entered the building, Bellamy had leaned over to her ear and whispered “don’t expect a New York club”, as if to lower her expectations. But Clarke finds she likes it better this way, anyway.
When they walk through the door the crowd gives a large whoop and multiple people come over to pat Monty and Bellamy on the back and say “hello” to Harper. It’s clear that everyone in this town is intimate with each other in a way that Clarke has yet to experience firsthand. Maybe, she realizes, that’s why Bellamy was so adamant that she join him tonight. If she’s planning to stay in Snow Falls for an extended period of time, she needs to expand her social circle beyond her coworkers at the inn.
The brewery is cozy – as many places in Snow Falls are, Clarke is finding – with wooden furniture and chairs and various holiday decorations spread across the store and hanging from the walls. Behind the bar a girl with curly hair is chatting up customers, her face friendly and warm. On the other side of the room, there is a lounge area with old sofas and a fireplace at the end of it that some people are sitting and roasting marshmallows at the same time as they down their beers.
Over the next half hour Clarke is introduced to dozens of new people – mutual friends of Bellamy, Monty and Harper – and Clarke finds that, while she’s never actually met them before she feels that she knows them already from Monty and Bellamy’s descriptions. A boy she later identifies as being the infamous Jasper barrels through the crowd and throws one arm around Monty, the other holding some wicked-looking drink that Clarke can’t identify. It’s only nine o’clock, but its clear that half the people in the room are already drunk.
“Yeaaaaaaahhhhhh, man,” he slurs, still squeezing Monty’s shoulders who – in turn – just grins. “You gotta try the punch.” He then looks over at Clarke, who is staring, and winks at her. “Special recipe from your very own.”
“That,” Bellamy whispers into her ear from over her shoulder, “is Jasper.”
Monty and Jasper do one of the most elaborate handshakes she’s ever seen, leaving them both grinning and laughing and – okay – Bellamy’s right, because it is rare to see Monty Green so laid back as he is with his best friend. Bellamy continues. “If I were you, I would steer clear of the punch.”
Judging by the way Jasper practically topples on top of Monty, Clarke guesses that’s probably a good idea.
Just then a nice-looking guy with dark skin comes over, nursing a beer. “What’s up, man?” he says to Bellamy, who grins in turn and pats him on the shoulder in that way that guys like to do when they see each other. “Haven’t seen you around much, lately.”
“It’s been busy at the inn,” Bellamy responds. “Christmas and all. Jackson here, tonight?”
The guy shakes his head and, based on what Bellamy has told her, Clarke realizes this must be Miller. According to Bellamy his relationship with Jackson had been a surprise to everyone, something they’d managed to keep secret for months. But when the truth came out, everyone was happy about the match.
“He had to work late at the hospital tonight.”
Bellamy nods, then seems to remember himself as his eyes meet Clarke’s for a moment. “Hey, Miller, this is Clarke. She’s visiting from New York.”
Clarke knows her cue: she smiles and extends her hand to Miller’s empty one, which he takes to shake firmly. “Nice to meet you,” she says, pleasantly.
Miller nods, subdued. “How long you stopping in town for, Clarke?”
This question throws her off guard. Its one she hasn’t allowed herself to consider – how long she’ll be in Snow Falls for. In the back of her mind, she’s always known that she can’t really stay here forever. She has a family to return to – as small as it may be. And a company that is her responsibility now. Eventually, she’ll have to face the problems waiting for her back home, no matter how much she longs to run away from them forever.
But, even though it pains her to admit, she’s created a life here, too. There are people that she’s come to care about – friends. This is the most relaxed and at peace Clarke has felt in months, years even. She’s not ready to say goodbye but, she thinks with a jolt of fear, the day will come eventually. And probably sooner rather than later.
“Haven’t quite figured that out yet,” she offers awkwardly. “There are some things I need to finish first.”
To her relief, Miller seems to accept that as an answer and doesn’t push the subject. He’s not much of a talker, she notices. But maybe, Clarke decides, that’s why Bellamy likes him. Miller gives a little nod and says, “Cool. I’m going to get another drink, but see you guys around?”
Bellamy gives a short nod. Clarke wonders if she imagines the way that Bellamy has tensed up beside her during the exchange, or why he seems so unsettled when he finally turns to her.
“I’m going to go around and say hello to some people, but you should go talk to Gina,” he nods his over to the curly haired girl she saw behind the bar earlier. Right now, she’s talking to Monroe and Clarke gives a sigh of relief at seeing a familiar face. “She’ll hook you up with a drink.”
Clarke nods. Okay. And when Bellamy sees her affirming look he leans in and gives her shoulder a quick squeeze – casual, but solid – before fading into the crowd. When she looks back at the bar, Gina’s staring at her already. It feels like an invitation, so she walks over, trying not to think too hard about Bellamy’s look that he gave her. The way she feels like he’s avoiding her, but she doesn’t know why.
When she reaches the bar, Monroe is saying, “Nice talking to you again, Gina,” and is already turning to leave with her drink. She notices Clarke, nods, “Hey.”
Clarke smiles at her in turn, awkward, and faces Gina, who is beaming at her as she polishes a glass in her hand. “You must be Clarke,” she says, and Clarke is surprised that she already knows her name. Extending her hand, she says, “I’m Gina. Bellamy’s told me a lot about you.”
After she registers this fact, shaking Gina’s hand, she lets the surprise hit her. From the way Miller didn’t seem to know who she was, Clarke assumed that Bellamy hadn’t really talked to anyone about her. But Gina seems to know exactly who she is, and she has a strange glint in her eye that Clarke doesn’t know what to make of.
“Can I get you a drink?”
Clarke looks at the menu. She’s not really feeling in the drinking mood, to be honest, but Gina’s waiting – staring at her expectantly – and she is in a pub, after all, so it feels like the appropriate thing to do. “A rum and eggnog would be great, thanks.”
Gina nods approvingly and gets to work on the drink, glancing up every now and then as she does. When she hands the drink over, Clarke smiles gratefully. “Thanks.” She goes for her wallet, remembering that her cards are still disabled, courtesy of mother dearest. Clarke grimaces. “You take cash, right?”
“Oh, please,” Gina says. “It’s on the house.”
Clarke goes to protest but Gina waves her off. “If you’re Bellamy’s date, then you must be cool. I’ve got this one covered – you can get the next.” With that, she winks at Clarke and she feels her cheeks burning up.
“I’m not-“ she starts. “Bellamy’s not my-“
Gina raises her eyebrows at this. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. I just thought … with the way he talks about you.” She smiles sheepishly. “I haven’t seen him like this in awhile – ever, actually.”
Clarke doesn’t know what to do with this information, so she bites her lip and grabs the drink, trying not to squeeze it too hard. “Well, I can confirm that our relationship – it’s not like that.”
“Noted,” Gina says. She seems distracted for a moment, and Clarke considers leaving, but it seems rude to just ditch the bartender when she’s been so kind to her already, so she waits instead. “You know, Bellamy and I tried dating once,” she mentions casually.
This is news to Clarke. She shouldn’t be surprised, really, with how fondly Bellamy talks of Gina and – god knows he’s not an unattractive guy. It makes sense that someone would … think of him in that way. But she just never really thought about what Bellamy’s love life looks like before. At Snow Falls Guest House, it never had a place in his day-to-day activities around the inn. She chides herself, silently, for not considering that beyond being her boss – technically – and Clarke’s friend, Bellamy has his own life, too.
“Huh,” she manages, because there isn’t much else to say.
“Bellamy’s a great guy,” Gina continues, and there’s no bitterness in her voice. Just detached fondness. “But it didn’t work out. He just wasn’t that into me, I guess, and we were always better off as friends, anyway. But with you …” She shrugs. “All I’m saying is that he deserves to be happy.”
Clarke nods, because Gina’s right: Bellamy does deserve to find happiness. But there’s no way she can explain to this woman that she can't give that to him. Not while her other life in New York exists – and it always will. When she takes a sip of her eggnog, it tastes more bitter than sweet, but it has nothing to do with the alcohol.
Clarke reaches out to squeeze Gina’s hand. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Don’t mention it.” Gina smiles at her, but it’s not as bright as earlier. “I’ve got some orders I have to take care of, but let’s talk again, okay?”
“I’d like that.” Clarke realizes, as Gina walks away, that she means it.
Clarke is still thinking about the other woman’s words – about making Bellamy happy – when someone slides into the seat next to her. It’s a woman, she realizes, with blond hair braided intricately down her black, and she’s staring at Clarke in a way that always made Finn jealous whenever they’d go out.
But Finn isn’t here right now.
“I’m Niylah,” the woman says. Her voice is smooth, and has a pleasant lilt to it that makes Clarke smile.
“Clarke,” she says in turn.
“I saw you come in with Bellamy,” she says, and there’s something Niylah’s voice that Clarke can’t identify. “You’re not from here, are you?”
Clarke shakes her head. “New York.”
“A city girl, huh?”
There’s no judgement in Niylah’s voice, just intrigue, and Clarke finds herself leaning into it despite herself. Maybe it’s the rum that is slowly warming her insides, but Clarke likes the way this girl talks. “You could call me that,” she says slowly, taking a sip of her drink and arching her eyebrows.
“So,” Niylah continues casually, “Are you Bellamy’s new girlfriend?”
Clarke can’t stop her eyes from rolling. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Niylah leans closer, flipping one of her braids over her shoulder, and looks Clarke up and down. She doesn’t attempt to hide the way her eyes slide hotly over Clarke’s legs, or the bust peeking out of the collar of her blouse. “Perhaps they’re trying to find out whether you’re on the market, or not.”
Niylah is close enough that Clarke can smell her perfume now, and it smells sweet. Nice. This is an invitation, she knows, and there’s a part of her – the part of her that is still hurt from Finn, that just longs to be touched like she is something special – that wants to accept it. Niylah’s pretty – those big, sultry eyes of hers, and her elegant cheekbones – there’s no denying it. And she’s looking at Clarke like she’s something desirable, and something in her expression promises that she’ll treat her like she is, too.
For every string that pulls her in closer to Niylah, there are two others that pull her away with equal force. No matter how much she wishes that they weren’t, Gina’s words are still ringing in her ears, about making Bellamy happy. How she hasn’t seen him like this with anyone before Clarke … and she knows feeding the hunger in Niylah’s eyes would be a mistake.
“I’m not with anyone,” Clarke tells Niylah, gulping as the hope flares in the woman’s eyes, “But I’m not on the market right now, either.”
With that, the flame dies, and Niylah moves back, restoring an appropriate amount of distance between them. She can’t quite hide her disappointment, but Niylah respects her words, smiling half-heartedly.
“Bad break-up?” she asks.
Clarke smiles, but she’s sure it appears more like a grimace. “Something like that.” Before she moves away from Niylah, she turns back and taps Niylah’s wrist lightly. “It was nice meeting you.”
She means it, and she hopes Niylah can tell. Maybe, under other circumstances, she’d like to get to know this woman quite well. But as it is, Clarke knows that when she inevitably leaves Snow Falls she can only afford one broken heart.
“You too, Clarke,” she says, and she has to keep herself from getting lost in her subtle accent. Vaguely, Clarke wonders where she is from. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t be,” she promises, and moves into the crowd.
It’s time to find Bellamy.
***
She finds him in a crowd of people, some of whom she recognizes. He’s laughing when she sees him, drink in hand, and his posture is more relaxed than she’s used to seeing. When Bellamy notices her, his face breaks into a wide smile and, for just that moment, Clarke allows herself to forget the awkwardness between them earlier.
When she approaches them, he extends his arm to wrap it around her waist. The touch is new and surprising, but not unwelcome, and Clarke finds herself leaning into it. He leans his head down to ask, “Gina took care of you, I hope?”
Clarke can smell the alcohol on his breath and smiles when she realizes that Bellamy is drunk. That, at least, explains the arm around her waist and the lazy look in his eye when he stares at her. But his smile is sweet, and the look in his eye is gentle when he looks at her. Clarke is unused to seeing Bellamy look this unguarded but the heat emanating off his body and into hers is nice, and she likes this relaxed side of him.
Clarke nods up at him, and is thankful that no one seems to be paying attention to them at the moment, sharing this small space together. “She’s nice, Bellamy.”
“Yeah, Gina’s great,” Bellamy says. For a moment Clarke thinks he won’t say anything else, but then he leans down so his mouth is next to her ear. “So are you, though.”
Clarke shivers at his words, but this time she can’t blame it on the cold. Not when he’s staring at her like that, and rubbing his thumb absentmindedly against the strip of skin that is peeking out underneath her sweater. It pains her, really, when he does things like this. Because she can’t pretend that she doesn’t want to move closer to him just as surely as she can’t pretend that she won't have to leave it behind one day, too.
She doesn’t have a chance to say something, though – to move away, perhaps – when Jasper, now sufficiently wasted, breaks through the crowd. When he sees Bellamy and Clarke standing together, his face breaks into a wild grin, and he glances up at something above their heads. Clarke instinctively follows his gaze and feels her cheeks burning when she realizes that her and Bellamy are standing directly underneath a mistletoe.
When Bellamy has spotted it, she feels her heartbeat pick up. What are you going to do about it? she wants to ask.
But as much as she wants to speak those words, wants to challenge Bellamy, she also knows that doing so would be a mistake. So instead, she leans up and presses her lips to Bellamy’s cheek, letting them linger there for a few seconds more than might seem appropriate for two friends.
If anyone asks, she’ll blame it on the alcohol.
The kiss on the cheek doesn’t stop the crowd from hooting anyway, and Jasper – for his part – just claps his hands slowly before eventually moving on to the next attraction. Bellamy stares down at her, his lips parted slightly in an expression akin to awe. His gaze causes her to flush, but she likes the heat, and the way that his arm around her warms her insides. She could stay like this – just leaning into Bellamy as the crowd moves around them – forever, she realizes.
If only it were that easy.
***
Four days before Christmas, Bellamy invites Clarke to come over to his place. Its not a date, she tells herself as she spritzes on some perfume anyway. And hell, it certainly is not a date even if she does put in her favourite pearl earrings.
Right?
Clarke sighs, briefly considers whether curling her hair would be too much, before eventually deciding not to. After all, Bellamy said they were just going to drink some wine and watch a bad Christmas movie, right? It’s not like she needs to dress up.
(She kind of wants to, anyway. If only to see what Bellamy Blake looks like when he’s stuttering.)
Glancing at the clock on her wall, she sees that the time is almost seven o’clock, when Bellamy said he would meet her in the lobby. Giving one last fluff of her hair, she grabs her phone and exits the room, turning off the lights as she goes.
He’s already waiting for her when she enters the lobby, wearing a signature burgundy sweater, and his glasses perched neatly on his nose. His face brightens when he sees her, and he stands from his seat to walk over to her, practically beaming.
“Hey,” he says, and she smiles at him. “It’s snowing pretty heavily out there, so you might want to bundle up.”
Through a quick glance out the window, Clarke can see that Bellamy is right. The sky is already dark, and the winds are so heavy that she can hear it whistling against the glass of the windows. Snow is falling heavily.
“Looks like a storm is coming,” she remarks casually, as she pulls on her jacket and her mitts. Bellamy waits for her to be ready before opening the door for her.
It’s just as cold as it looks outside, and even Harper’s jacket isn’t quite warm enough to keep the wind out of it but luckily, they aren’t walking for long. Bellamy’s place is attached to the property that the inn is on, and it doesn’t take them more than a few minutes to reach it. Bellamy opens the door for Clarke and when she steps in, she is greeted with warm air and the scent of pine.
After he shuts the door behind her, Clarke allows herself to take in her surroundings. Bellamy lives in a bungalow, and she can see that it is separated into four main areas: a kitchen, media room, dining area, and a door that appears to be leading into Bellamy’s sleeping quarters. A fireplace of impressive stonework not unlike the one in the inn adorns one wall in the media room and she sees that the place is mostly made of dark-panelled wood. It’s nice, homey. She can imagine getting used to living in a place like this.
Bellamy takes her coat and then leads her into the media room. She notices that he already has a bottle of wine pulled out and a platter of cheese, crackers, and an assortment of things to nibble on too.
“Wow,” she teases, “Very fancy.”
“Only for you, Princess.” His tone is casual, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that makes Clarke’s cheeks heat up and look away.
It’s not a date, she repeats in her head.
It’s getting harder and harder to believe it.
Eventually, they decide to watch The Holiday. Mostly because its happens to already be on TV, and because Clarke and Bellamy are far too indecisive to pick anything off of Netflix. Bellamy, she discovers, is just as much of a cynic as she guessed, and groans at all of the romantic parts and cracks jokes during the love scenes (which is, like, the entire movie).
Clarke can’t help but roll her eyes at him when the movie is over. “God, I didn’t know you were such a romance hater, Blake.”
“I’m not a romance hater,” he protests, and she can’t help but giggle at his offended expression. “This is just so ridiculous.”
“What’s so ridiculous about it?”
“Well, I mean, they barely know each other, for one,” he starts, “And this movie makes it seem like you can just run away from your problems and move to a new town and fall in love with a complete stranger and – ta-da – just like that, your problems are solved.”
It’s now that Clarke realizes how close she and Bellamy haven’t gotten over the course of the movie. She’s leaning up against his side, her chin resting on his shoulder, and his arm is behind her, letting her cuddle in closer. Something about his words makes his mouth go dry.
“Is that really so hard to believe?” she breathes.
Clarke watches as Bellamy swallows and his jaw clenches. Without the sound of the television in the background, she can’t ignore the way that Bellamy seems to catch his breath, or the sound of her own blood rushing through her ears. He shifts on the couch, and Clarke moves with him. She’s tired of ignoring this thing between them – this connection. And now that they’re alone together, she’s not sure how long she’ll be able to.
“It just feels more complicated than that,” he says quietly, and she catches the way he’s looking at her – like he wants to move closer, but is holding himself back. “That’s all.”
“Bellamy …” she begins to say, but a loud crash interrupts her, causing both Bellamy and Clarke to jump.
Bellamy looks at her with wide eyes, before saying, “I think it came from outside.”
She follows him with her arms crossed as he opens the door to look outside. A whoosh of wind blasts into the house and Clarke shivers from the cold. She can hear the wind rushing around outside, and the speed of it almost sounds violent. It is far more intense than when she first came here. After a moment, Bellamy returns inside and pushes the door shut, deadbolting it.
His face looks pale. “It’s completely white out there. There’s no visibility whatsoever. I don’t think the storm will be letting up anytime soon.”
It takes her a moment to recognize his expression as apologetic, and then another to realize the implication behind his words: if the storm doesn’t pass, Clarke won’t be able to get back to the inn before the morning.
That means she’ll have to spend the night here, with Bellamy.
“Oh,” Clarke says, and her mouth feels dry. “What do you think the crash was?”
Bellamy shrugs. “A tree maybe. Or one of the chairs from outside being blown in the wind. It’s hard to see anything out there right now.”
“Right,” she says.
Bellamy sighs. “Look, Clarke, I’m really sorry about this.”
Clarke scoffs. “What are you apologizing for? You couldn’t have stopped this.”
“It’s not that – I just, I should have looked at the weather forecast before inviting you here. Then, maybe, you wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.”
“Bellamy, I told you: it’s fine,” she reassures him, moving closer. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Are you sure?” He still seems frazzled. “You’ll have to stay here … I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“Are you uncomfortable?” she asks suddenly. A part of her is scared to hear his answer. Maybe that’s the real reason why Bellamy is so bent out of shape over the storm right now. She knows that he likes her, but she doesn’t want to feel like an intruder in his home.
“What?” he asks. “No, of course not, Clarke. I’m fine.” He smiles shyly. “Just wanted to check on you.”
She smiles, relieved. “There are worse things than spending the night at the place of someone I like, Bellamy. I think I’ll be okay.”
His concern, at least, is endearing.
This time, when Bellamy looks at Clarke, she swears he’s actually blushing.
“Now, I believe we were discussing the pros and cons of falling in love with small town strangers over the holidays, weren’t we?” Clarke says as she moves back to the couch.
For some reason, that only makes Bellamy blush more.
***
It’s one in the morning when the conversation starts to slow down. Clarke knows, in the back of her mind, that they’ve talked this long to avoid the question of sleep and – in particular – the glaring fact that there’s two of them, and only one bed. It’s such a cliché, really. But since the storm still hasn’t let up, this is the situation they’re in.
The threat of sleep looms over her head, promising to overcome her, but for now Clarke is content to sit with Bellamy on the couch, her head on his shoulder, as the last of the wine warms her chest. It’s comfortable, like this, sitting in silence with Bellamy. She absentmindedly plays with his hands, liking the way that his fingers seem to intertwine perfectly with hers.
Maybe that’s the wine speaking. Or maybe it’s just Clarke.
After a few minutes of saying nothing, Bellamy reaches out to tap on her watch lightly, and Clarke feels her heart constrict. “Your watch is off,” he says oddly, like it’s something that he’s just now noticed and is pointing out as a means of starting conversation.
“It doesn’t work anymore,” she swallows. She still doesn’t know exactly what went wrong, but one day when she woke up, she found the hands on the watch just woudn’t turn anymore. The day her father’s watch broke, Clarke thinks something inside her did, too. “But, um, it used to belong to my father.”
He doesn’t say anything to that at first – he doesn’t really need to. She knows that Bellamy understands what she’s going through, why she’s here, even though she hasn’t told him everything. He was right before: she’s running away.
Instead, Bellamy tightens his arm around her and pulls her closer. His touch tells her everything she needs to know: he’s here.
When Clarke looks up at Bellamy’s face, however, he appears far away, like he’s playing a scene over and over in his head that is happening in a place miles away. Or, perhaps, a very long time ago. She’s not unused to him getting like this, but usually Clarke ignores it and lets Bellamy deal with whatever he needs to on his own. She figures that if he wants to tell her what’s bothering him, he will.
But this time he looks so sad that Clarke can’t bring herself to just ignore it. She wants to know what plagues him. She wants to know him.
The man he tries to hide.
“Hey,” she says gently, reaching a hand up to tap his chin. He stares at her, and when he does, his expression is melancholy. “Bellamy, can I ask you something?”
He doesn’t say anything more and Clarke knows that Bellamy probably knows what question she’s about to ask, but he just nods slightly in response. Her breath catches.
“Why haven’t you gone back to New York?”
There’s no emotion in Bellamy’s face when he says, “There’s nothing for me to go back to.”
“Then why are you so sad?” she asks, and he tenses up at that. “We’re all running from something. Isn’t that what you said?”
Bellamy doesn’t say anything, but she sees now that he’s trembling, and his eyes are wet. When he looks at her, it is with an expression so broken, Clarke feels something inside her crack. Shifting, she places both hands on either side of his face, so he has no choice but to look at her. “Hey,” she says softly. “You can trust me.”
He reaches up to grab one of her hands with his own and squeezes it lightly. “I know,” he says.
And then he tells her.
“Living in New York, with my mom and my younger sister Octavia …” He gulps. “It, uh, it wasn’t always easy. My dad left when I was young and there wasn’t always enough money, so my mom …” He pauses. Clarke squeezes his hand. “She resorted to other … methods. Other ways to get money to support us. At first she tried to hide it from us, but I could tell. She always went out in the evening and came back late at night. She tried to cover up the bruises, but I noticed them – on her face, and her neck.”
Bellamy takes a moment to catch his breath, and Clarke realizes that there’s another emotion he’s holding in: anger.
“After awhile, Octavia started to suspect too. And that was before my mom started taking men home. I tried to take Octavia out of the house when it was happening, but …” He shrugs. “There wasn’t always a warning, and eventually I ran out of excuses.”
Clarke wants to say something, anything, but what is there to say really? She can imagine a little Bellamy, having to go through this, all while trying to protect his little sister in the process, and that image is enough to break her heart. But there’s nothing she can do to change it – it happened. Instead, she winds her arms around Bellamy’s waist. She may not be able to turn back the clocks, but she can give Bellamy this comfort.
“It fucked her up, you know? It fucked up both of them. The money my mom brought in still wasn’t enough and she ended up spending most of it on alcohol anyway. Her way of coping, I guess. At first she tried to take care of us, but later … she just cracked. It’s like she forgot we were even there. And Octavia? She never got over that.” His voice is shaky when he starts speaking again. “She’d always had a temper, a rebellious streak, but I thought – I guess I thought that maybe if I tried hard enough to protect her, if I could be the parent that my mom wasn’t for her, maybe I could keep her from ending up in a bad place. But it didn’t work. Octavia was determined not to listen to me; she was angry, at my mom and … at me.”
“I managed to get some scholarships to a local university when I was in high school, and a loan from the bank. I thought that, maybe if I could get educated then I could get a real job and turn our situation around.” Bellamy laughs bitterly. “Of course, that’s not how it worked. Octavia got involved with some bad people in high school – drug dealers, at first. And then worse.” He gulps. “My mom ended up dying while I was away at university – alcohol poisoning. To be honest, it was a long-time coming. With her addiction, it always felt like an inevitability. But Octavia blamed me. For not being there, for not fixing my mom’s addiction, for not preventing everything that happened before that in the first place. She even blamed me for dad walking out.”
“Bellamy …” Clarke starts, but he’s not finished.
“She had this boyfriend, some guy … I never met him – all I know is that he was part of some crime ring. He promised Octavia all sorts of things: money, freedom. Things that had never been ours. I tried to keep Octavia from that lifestyle but she already had her mind set, and she got off on that way of life. You know, always living on the edge, running from scene to scene in escape of the law, always gaining more and more with every risk she took. He pulled her further away from me with every day. And, when Octavia turned 18, she ran off with him. She just left – no note or anything. I woke up one day and she was just gone. I waited. I waited for so long, but she never came home.”
Bellamy is crying now, and she wants so badly to take away his pain, but there’s nothing she can do.
“I haven’t spoken to her in over seven years. I don’t know if she’s alive … or if she’s dead, or what – I don’t know what happened to her.” Clarke lets Bellamy bury his head into her chest, pulling them both back into the couch as she runs her fingers through his hair. “I was supposed to protect her. God. When she was little, she looked up to me. And I let her down. Maybe if I’d been around or, or – maybe if I tried harder to stop things from happening, it would have turned out differently …”
“Bellamy, look at me.” Clarke grabs his face in her hands, and forces him to turn his eyes to her. “What happened is not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done to change what happened, okay? You did everything you could.”
Their faces are unimaginably close now, Clarke practically on top of him in her attempts to comfort him. All this time, Bellamy has been carrying around this weight on his shoulders, and she had no idea. All this time. The idea of it almost breaks her, but Bellamy is holding onto her like she’s a lifeline and – for him – she needs to be strong. She reaches up to cup his cheek, wiping at the tears under his eyes with her thumb.
“I need you to know that this was not your fault,” she says softly, leaning her forehead against his.
It takes Bellamy few minutes to stop trembling, for the last of his tears to dry. When his eyes finally seem clear, and he looks at her again, Clarke leans back to caress his face. He leans into her touch, closing his eyes and she wonders, in all the years since he finally came here, has he ever voiced these thoughts aloud? Has he ever allowed himself to feel it?
“You’re going to be okay,” she whispers next to his ear. “We’re both going to be okay. One day.”
They have to be.
Clarke brushes his hair away from his face, tapping his glasses, and Bellamy pulls her hand away. He pulls his head back slightly, so to look at her. When he speaks, his voice is even.
“How can you look at me like that after what I just told you?”
Clarke is startled. “Like what?”
His eyes are searching hers, pleading with her for something she can’t identify. “Like I mean something.”
“Because you do.” Her voice cracks. “You mean everything to me, Bellamy Blake.”
It’s true. Clarke needs this man – this man who has been so kind to her and completely turned her world around – to know his worth. To know what he means to her. Her words seem to change something in him. His face softens and his lips part, as if to breathe her name. But when she looks into his eyes, she see’s something else, something she’s noticed before but never allowed herself to give in to: longing.
What Clarke feels for Bellamy cannot be described as friendship. No, she knows it goes so much deeper than that – it goes deeper than anything she has ever felt. No amount of running away or avoidance could ever change it.
Clarke is tired of running. She just wants to feel.
Bellamy brushes a strand of her hair out of his eyes. “Clarke,” he whispers, “I really want to kiss you right now.”
His words are all the push she needs and, suddenly, Bellamy’s lips are on hers. It’s soft and yet frantic. Both passionate and intimate. For a moment in time, Clarke allows herself to give into the desperation. All her pent-up emotions of hurt and want and desire to tell Bellamy how much she cares about him, everything that he means to her, is released all at once. She’s longed for this human connection for so long, but it wasn’t something she could receive from just anyone. She needed Bellamy. She needs him.
Bellamy lets out a sigh, and winds his arms around her back, pulling her closer to his chest and lets his fingers trail through her hair. Clarke’s nose bumps his glasses, and she feels Bellamy actually smile underneath her mouth. Which, of course, makes her smile too because – god – he makes her feel happy, and at home, and whole.
At the back of her mind, Clarke knows that this might be a horrible mistake. She knows that its bound to end, that this moment won’t last forever. But god – kissing Bellamy feels so right. And maybe, just maybe, it’s worth the risk.
Dragging his lips away from hers, Bellamy gives Clarke a peck on her cheek, before moving to plant a soft kiss on her neck, and then again on her collarbone. She tilts her head to give him better access, but he pulls away completely, moving his thumb so it’s grazing her jaw.
“Are you tired?” he asks suddenly, and it’s then that she realizes how late it is.
“Not anymore,” she tells him, and goes in to kiss him again, but he turns his head so that her lips land on his jaw instead. It’s a lie – she knows – but Bellamy’s hands are hot and feverish where they touch her skin under her sweater, and she wants to get lost in them. Clarke turns her head so that she’s mouthing at his neck now, pulling at the skin softly with her teeth -
“Clarke,” he says and something about the pleading in his voice makes her stop her movements. She pulls her head up so it’s level with his, and his eyes are staring at her so intensely she thinks she might burn from the heat in his eyes. “Do you want to move to the bedroom?”
After a second, she nods, and Bellamy grabs her by the waist to lift her off of him, before taking her hand and pulling her off the couch behind him. Never letting go, he leads her into the bedroom. It’s then that the exhaustion finally hits her, and Clarke allows herself to collapse onto the bed, pulling Bellamy behind her. Lazily, they both discard their clothing until they’re only in their undergarments and climb under the covers. Now, Clarke is far too tired to do anything else besides wrap her arms around Bellamy, planting a soft kiss against his exposed collarbone. His skin is warm against hers and she finds herself enveloped in it when he wraps his arms around her torso. Before drifting off, Clarke vaguely recalls Bellamy leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, and the deep rumble of his voice as he whispers, “Thank you.”
***
In some ways, working at the inn is exactly the same as it was before, but in other ways, Clarke is aware that everything – including the way she approaches the world – has changed. Monty gives no indication that he knows something has happened between Bellamy and Clarke and, for the most part, she thinks they do a pretty good job at hiding it. When they pass by each other in the hall, they treat each other the same as they did before the night spent at his house, offering light teasing and banter that Clarke has come to associate with her interactions with Bellamy. The one thing that does change in the days that follow is that Clarke finds herself going to Bellamy’s place after she finishes her shifts, and falling asleep with his arms wrapped around his waist and his lips buried in her hair.
They don’t talk about it, this new intimacy they share. It’s easier to treat it as a simple, undefined thing rather than attempt to put a label on it. To address their relationship would inevitably mean addressing the future of it, and that’s something that Clarke still just isn’t ready to face. So when Bellamy tightens her arms around her in the middle of the night and presses a kiss to the crook of her neck, she allows him to offer her this small comfort, and every time Bellamy’s expression turns dark, she pulls him in closer and lets his head fall against her chest.
It’s nice, this arrangement they have. Giving comfort and receiving it in turn. Working by day and falling into bed with each other at night.
But it doesn’t change the fact that Clarke Walters is an imposter in this town - Home & Hearth is waiting for her, and she knows this momentary peace won’t last forever.
Even still, Clarke allows herself to pretend this could be her forever for two short days before her past finally catches up with her.
In her heart, Clarke knew that her life in Snow Falls would inevitably come crashing to an end, but seeing Finn Collins standing in the middle of the inn’s lobby is still a shock to her system all the same. Upon seeing her, he lets out a relieved smile and rushes over to her, pulling her into his arms. It feels like someone dunked a bucket of ice water over her head, and when she finally manages to extricate herself from his grip, Clarke grits her teeth.
“Finn, what the hell are you doing here?”
“It was a bit of a guess, really,” he starts, “but eventually your mom noticed your dad’s letter box missing, and she assumed that you came here. Turns out you’re more predictable than you think.” He grins at her, but Clarke doesn’t have time for his teasing.
“That’s a shame, then,” she says, “because I’m not leaving.”
Finn sighs, and it’s that trademark sigh of his: the one he uses when she’s done something he doesn’t approve of. Perhaps whenever she accidentally spilled something on her dress, or filed something wrong, or when she stayed up too late painting. “It’s Christmas Eve, Clarke. It’s time to come home.”
“What makes you think that home is with you?” Her nostrils flare. “What don’t you understand about me throwing my ring back at you?”
Finn blinks, and pastes that expression on his face – the one that he always used to guilt trip her, to make her feel like she’s done something wrong. “Clarke, I told you I’m sorry. And I can explain. What you saw – it’s not what you think.”
“Then what was it?” She narrows her eyes. “Tell me, Finn. What about you kissing another woman am I not understanding?”
When Finn looks around nervously Clarke realizes that she has raised her voice. “We’re not doing this here. I’ll explain in the car.”
“I told you already: I’m not coming.”
Finn lets out a breath of clear exasperation. “You don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, Clarke.”
Clarke scoffs. “Of course I do. Since when have you ever dictated what I can and cannot do?”
Finn rolls his eyes and nods his head over to the front desk, where Clarke realizes – her heart dropping as she does – Bellamy is standing. His head is faced firmly forward and his face is stony – he won’t even look at her. “Your friend over there told me that your stay expires today, Clarke. You either come with me – back to your real life – or you can try your best on the streets. It’s your choice.”
For once, Clarke has nothing to say. Her mouth suddenly feels like sandpaper, and her eyes feel as though they have been dunked with acid. She doesn’t want to cry – not here, not in the middle of the lobby. And certainly not in front of Finn – she’s shed enough tears for him already.
But Bellamy won’t meet her eyes. And that fucking hurts.
God, would he really throw her out? Just like that?
Finn places his hand on her arm and says softly. “I’ll give you a moment to gather up your things. When you’re done, I’ll be waiting in the car out front.”
Clarke is still staring blankly in front of her when Finn walks away. Once he’s exited out of the door, she stays where she’s standing for a moment, flinching at the sound of the bell ringing as the door swings shut behind him. She shivers at the gust of cold air that flew in the room behind him and – steeling herself – finally gains the courage to approach the front desk.
Bellamy barely looks up when she approaches him, his jaw clenched tight. “Bellamy …” she starts.
“Well, would you look at that. It’s Home & Hearth’s very own princess.”
The venom in his voice startles Clarke into silence. She’s not unused to him using her nickname, but he’s never said it like that. At first, it was a way of teasing, and later it became a term of endearment. But now Bellamy spits it out like it’s something poisonous, something wrong. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Her mouth is dry.
“Tell me: at what point, exactly, were you planning on telling me that your name isn’t Clarke Walters, or – I don’t know – that you have a fucking fiancé?” When Bellamy looks at her, finally, his eyes are cold. Their usual warmth is completely sapped out of them and as each second passes it becomes harder to believe that he ever used to look at her like she meant something. Like she was special.
All she can do is shake her head, trying to tell him he’s wrong, trying to tell him that there is too much he doesn’t know. She ran away from Finn. Hell, she left him. “It’s not that simple …”
“Of course it’s not. It never is with you,” Bellamy shoots back. “You know, when I first saw you I thought you looked so familiar. But Walters? I didn’t know that name.” He shakes his head, laughing humourlessly. “Guess I had more important matters to be concerned about in New York than your rich, petty dramas.”
She told herself she wasn’t going to cry, but the tears bead up in her eyes anyway. This isn’t the Bellamy she knows. This isn’t the Bellamy she woke up next to this morning, the one who wrapped his arms around her waist and laid his chin on top of her head as she brewed the coffee. This isn’t the man who told her that her art was special and kissed her like she was the finest piece of all. That Bellamy would never say these things; he would never stare at her with those empty eyes and talk to her like she means nothing.
“God, Bellamy, I wanted to.” She’s pleading now and she knows it, but Bellamy isn’t listening.
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” He says, but nothing in his eyes are laughing. “How you felt so goddamn entitled to know every single detail about my life, and yet you couldn’t even tell me your last fucking name?”
The tears are flowing freely now and Clarke can’t hide them. She wishes she could turn back the clock, she wishes she could fix this.
“Tell me what I need to do.” She sobs. “Whatever it is – tell me how to make this right.”
When Clarke sees the hollow look in Bellamy’s eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, she knows it’s already too late.
“If I were you, I’d pack your bags, Princess. Your carriage is waiting.”
With that, he turns on his heel, and leaves her standing in the middle of the lobby, the tears leaving tracks down her face. She knows that these will be the marks that Bellamy leaves. Because – really – how could she ever believe that she could leave Snow Falls, without taking scars with her? It seems, she can’t go anywhere without carrying pieces of the people she leaves behind, and Clarke knows that Bellamy’s face of potent disappointment and regret as he walked away from her will stick around in her memory for a long time to come.
Swallowing, Clarke turns to look at the door leaving the lodge. She doesn’t want to pack her bags, doesn’t want to leave behind the friends she’s made and the people she’s come to care about and the very last thing she wants to do is get in that car with Finn Collins. But she remembers the way Bellamy looked at her – his eyes so full of disdain – and she knows that she can’t stay.
***
The car ride back to New York is long and painful, consisting primarily of Finn’s long string of excuses and flat apologies and Clarke glaring out the window, wishing that she was anywhere but here. She listens robotically as Finn recounts his perspective on the events that transpired the night she left in such a hurry: his elaborate story of his genius ex-girlfriend, Raven Reyes, who moved to Japan to help develop some version of the latest technology that will supposedly "irreversibly change the world". As Finn tells the story, it was “obvious” that the relationship had ended, but Raven still harboured feelings for him and when she moved back in the Winter, she sought him out.
“She’d just started kissing me right before you walked in,” Finn explains. “I tried to push her away, but you’d already seen.”
Clarke doesn’t feel the need to point out that she distinctly remembers seeing him kissing her back, or the way his arms had been wrapped around her body, his hands tangled in her hair. She also doesn’t bother mentioning all the “business trips” Finn liked to take while they were together, and how no one else in the company ever seemed to be a part of them. Or the way Finn would haphazardly shut his laptop screen whenever she walked in the room and would get frustrated every time she peeked at his text messages.
Maybe, a week ago, she might have. Maybe she would have yelled and cried until he gave her a real answer. But now, Clarke feels nothing at all. She feels as though the car is moving through a haze of fog, and Finn’s words are muffled in her ears like she’s listening to them from underwater. She just feels numb and empty, and everything to do with Finn and New York and her life before Snow Falls seems hollow and pointless. It doesn’t matter how many times Finn apologizes, or all the ways in which her life has let her down anymore – she can't imagine ever caring about any of the petty drama and way-of-life of the Upper East side ever again.
But she doesn’t have a choice. This is her life now, and there’s nothing she can do to twist the hands of fate.
So when Finn talks, she doesn’t argue. She doesn’t protest, or challenge him, or lose her temper. She just sits and listens, silently willing herself to accept that this is the way things will always be. Clarke might as well start getting used to it now.
As Finn’s voice drones on, Clarke’s attention is attracted to the snowflake-carved box in her lap. After leaving the inn, Clarke realized that her father’s watch was no longer on her wrist, and she must have left it somewhere in Snow Falls. Finn refused to return to the town and, if Clarke didn’t already feel so numb, the loss may have been enough to cripple her. But as it is, she feels as though she is moving through life in a heavy fog: lost and directionless, with no familiarity anywhere in sight. Everything is muted, including the pain in her heart she feels at the missing weight on her wrist.
But with the watch gone, these letters are the only surviving piece of her father that she has left. For so long, she was too traumatized, too scared, to read them. But now, Clarke has nothing to lose, so she undoes the clasp on the front and finally allows herself to look at the contents inside.
To her surprise, there is a poorly folded piece of paper sitting on top, with her name haphazardly scrolled on the front. Curiosity fueling Clarke just as much as emotion threatens to overcome her, Clarke tenderly reaches out and pulls out the piece of paper, finally opening it to read:
Clarke,
I lay in my hospital bed as I write this, and I have only ten minutes to do so before the nurses come in for my treatment. Its getting harder for me to focus lately, and I don’t have the energy to do much more than sleep. If you’re reading this, then it means my time has finally been used up, but there are some important things I need to tell you.
You are an incredibly intelligent, strong, and capable young woman and I have no doubts that my legacy will be in good hands with you. But I also know that you are special, Clarke, and you are talented, and while Home & Hearth Gifts may have been my dream, it might not be yours. You have such a great spirit, Clarke, and I am so proud of the person you have become. I hope you continue to pursue your art and your own personal satisfaction, no matter how society pressures you to give it up.
The business world has a nasty habit of stifling those whose dreams lie outside of it. I want you to know that your happiness is my greatest wish for you, even if Home & Hearth isn’t a part of it. If you have to give up the company to achieve it, that choice could never disappoint me.
Try not to miss me too much when I’m gone.
I love you so much,
Dad
For a long moment after finishing the letter, Clarke sits in stunned silence. Of all the things she thought might be waiting for her inside that box, it wasn’t this. All this time, Clarke thought that in order to honour her father she had to take care of Home & Hearth Gifts for him but, here he is, setting her free. Even after death.
No matter how hard she tried to deny it to herself, Clarke knows that there’s only one place where she’s ever felt truly and honestly happy. Clarke Griffin may be a lot of things, but she sure as hell is not a quitter, and she would be a fool to let herself give that up.
“Stop the car.”
“What?”
“I said, pull over.”
“Jesus, are you out of your mind?”
Finn clearly isn’t listening, but Clarke doesn’t have time for this. There’s a bus up ahead leaving to go back to Snow Falls and there is no way in hell that she is going to miss it. Reaching out, Clarke grabs onto the wheel with both hands and turns it sharply to the right, pulling them off the road and into the snow-covered grass beside it.
“What the fu-“
Clarke doesn’t stay long enough to listen to Finn as he prepares himself to go on another rampage. She’s already opening the door and stepping out of the car, shoving her father’s letter into the inner pocket of her peacoat. The air is cold, but she doesn’t feel it. Her heart pumping in her chest warms the blood in her veins.
“What has gotten into you? Clarke, we have to go home,” Finn protests, as she goes to shut the car door behind her. He’s staring at her like she’s a dog gone rabid.
“That’s what I’m doing,” she tells him and – for once – she has no fear. The weight on top of her shoulders is gone, and, as Clarke rushes forward to the bus stop, waving her hand at the driver to wait for her, she realizes that she’s never felt so light.
***
The sky is dark and it is late in the evening when Clarke finally reaches Bellamy’s doorstep, having made the half hour trek across town through the snow. Harper was startled, but not unhappy, when she turned up in the lobby, and informed her that Bellamy had the night off and would probably be spending it at his place. All she can do is bang the knocker and hope with all her heart that he opens up. The few seconds she waits on the step for Bellamy to answer, blood rushing in her ears, are perhaps the most painful seconds of her life.
When Bellamy finally opens the door, he doesn’t quite have the chance to school his expression into one other than shock. “Clarke?” he asks, tilting his head when he sees her, and opens the door wider. “Jesus, you’re soaking.”
Clarke can’t do much more than follow them into the house, trying not to let her teeth chatter too much. She looks like a mess – it’s true – but coming here was important. And when Bellamy turns around to take in her wet and freezing form, she can’t help but think of the last time they were in this situation – the night they first met – and how everything seems to have changed since then.
“Let me get you something to change into,” he says off-handedly, and his voice sounds rough.
She briefly allows herself to ponder over the way Bellamy’s eyes seem red – like he’s been crying – and how he doesn’t seem angry in the way he was earlier: just tired. But before she can speak, he’s disappeared into his room, rummaging through the drawers. Through the doorway, Clarke can see his unmade bed, the sheets rumpled the way they left them that morning when they got up, and feels a pang of loss in her chest.
When Bellamy returns, it’s with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants in hand, which he hands to her awkwardly. “You know where the bathroom is,” he says, and Clarke smiles grimly – because his words are reminder of everything they used to have, but do no longer.
Silently, she nods, and heads to the washroom to change out of her wet clothes quickly. In the process, Clarke catches her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is wet and tangled, and in Bellamy’s oversized clothes and her own absence of makeup, she looks very small. If her mother could see her now, she wouldn’t recognize her own daughter. Even still, there is a fire in Clarke’s eyes that she never used to have before, and that spark is what gives her the courage to exit the bathroom, and face Bellamy once more.
When she enters the kitchen room, Bellamy is leaning against the counter, playing with the hem of his sweater. She allows herself a small smile at the familiar gesture, before approaching him slowly. His pants are too long for her, so she pulls them up to prevent them from dragging on the floor.
“Thanks for the clothes,” she says awkwardly, and he nods once. An acknowledgement. But there is no emotion attached.
“I thought you left with your fiancé,” he says flatly.
“He’s not my fiancé,” Clarke tells him, and that – at least – raises a reaction out of Bellamy. He swallows, and his eyebrows raise ever so slightly. Clarke knows that this means he’s listening to her, so she takes a deep breath. “I called off the engagement before I ever came here. We weren’t together when I – when I was with you.”
Bellamy’s gaze softens almost imperceptibly at that, and Clarke catches him shift on his feet, but he still appears skeptical. “Then why did you leave with him?”
Clarke can’t help but let out a hysterical snort because – fuck.
“God, Bellamy, what choice did I have? If I didn’t, you were ready to throw me out on the streets.”
He flinches at that, but doesn’t let up. “If you really believed that, Clarke, then why are you here?” His voice holds none of the judgement or disdain from earlier; instead, Bellamy sounds confused, like he honestly, genuinely can’t figure out why the hell she would show up on his doorstep after what transpired.
Clarke sets her jaw and wills herself to stare Bellamy directly in the eye as she says, her voice shaking ever so slightly, “Because I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
Bellamy’s jaw ticks at that, and he looks away from her quickly. There’s so much wrong between them, but Clarke wants nothing more than to fix it. She just has to hope that he wants that, too.
“Bellamy, I know that I hurt you, okay? I know.” She reaches out to grab his hand, forcing him to acknowledge her. When he does, his eyes burn into hers with their intensity. “I never meant to. I wanted to tell you who I was – I did. But I didn’t know how.”
That manages to pull a bitter laugh out of Bellamy. “It’s pretty damn easy, Clarke. All you had to do was introduce yourself like a normal fucking person.”
Clarke winces. She knows that explaining to him that its not that simple won’t work, so she has to show him. “I’m sorry,” she says, and her voice sounds broken – even to her own ears. “You don’t know how much I wish that things had gone differently between us, that I wasn’t so afraid all the time. I wish I was strong enough not to run away from my life back in New York, but you were right before: because I can’t stop running. It’s who I am. But I don’t want to feel that way anymore.” Clarke registers that Bellamy hasn’t let go of her hand, and that gives her the strength to continue. “If you ever cared about me – even a little bit. Then please, please just let me speak.”
Bellamy doesn’t say anything, and Clarke feels her heart fill with the slightest amount of hope at that. Because, if he won’t stop her, then maybe he still feels something. Maybe its not too late to turn this around. Taking a deep breath, Clarke begins to tell her story.
“When I was little, I always used to help out at Home & Hearth along with my father. I didn’t love it there – every hour I spent there I wished that I could spend drawing in my sketchbook or painting, but those things were looked down upon by the people my parents were associated with, and my presence made my father happy, so I stayed.” She pauses in the story for a moment before continuing. “That was before my dad died. When he did, the entire company just lost meaning for me. I never loved it and my dad … he was the only one who made it bearable. After he wasn’t around, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Then I found out that Finn – my fiancé – was cheating on me and … it was the last straw. I was heartbroken and humiliated and I just needed to get out.”
Bellamy seems to be registering her words. “I just don’t understand why you had to lie about who you were.”
“I hated who I was,” she tells him, her voice cracking. “My last name was a symbol that represented everything except me. Anyone who heard it immediately associated me with my father, with the company – no one actually gave a shit about me. I just wanted a fresh start, Bellamy. I wanted to go somewhere that no one knew who I was and forget about the life I left behind. There were so many times where I wanted to tell you, but admitting the truth would mean admitting that I don’t belong here. And I wasn’t ready to face that.”
When Bellamy doesn’t say anything, she moves in front of him so he is forced to look her in the eye. “When I came here, I was determined not to get attached. I was planning on staying here for a little while and then skipping town again – it wasn’t supposed to be long term thing. I never meant to …” She stops herself. “I never meant to start caring about you, but the more I got to know you …” She shrugs helplessly. “It was too late. Because – whether you like it or not, Bellamy Blake – you’ve made a place in my heart and I can’t get rid of it now.”
Bellamy searches her eyes, as though he can’t quite believe her words. His expression is sad, but all the anger has completely dissipated from his eyes. He looks like the man she knows, the one who took her in when she had nowhere to go, and the man who held her hands as she ice skated, and wrapped his arm around her at Gina’s party. But even still – there’s this distance between them.
“I just wish that you could trust me,” he says quietly.
“I do trust you,” Clarke responds indignantly. “God, Bellamy, can’t you see that? That’s why I’m telling you all this, that’s why I came back. I’ve never been able to fully trust anyone in my life, until you.”
Bellamy meets her gaze for one long minute in which his expression is unreadable, before finally saying, “You know, I’ve never told anyone that story about my family before. When I found out who you were, I guess I just thought … How could someone like you ever want to know someone like me?”
Clarke takes a step forward, intertwines one hand with his. He doesn’t pull away. “You really think, after everything, that something like that would make a difference to me?”
“Did you really think, after everything, that knowing who you really are would make a difference to me?” he challenges in turn.
Clarke thinks if her heart beats any faster, it might explode out of her chest. “Does it?” she breathes.
Bellamy looks pained by her question. “It doesn’t matter to me where you’re from or what family you came from, Clarke. I just want to know you – the real you.”
“Then you already have her.” They’re standing so close now that Clarke thinks she might be able to count all of the freckles on Bellamy’s nose, if she tried. “Every moment I spent with you, every day and every night – that was me. That’s who I really am, Bellamy. I never pretended with you, and just because my name isn’t Walters, it doesn’t change that. What I felt, what I feel – that was real. And it still is.”
When Bellamy doesn’t say anything, she takes a deep breath. “If you still can’t stand to see me … if you want me to leave, then I promise you: in the morning, I will go. You don’t ever have to see me or talk to me or think about me every again. I needed you to know the truth, but …” She hesitates, threatening to break her own heart. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll do it.”
When Bellamy’s eyes meet hers, its with warmth and sincerity. But the emotion in them threatens to consume. His words that follow are gentle, but decisive. “That’s not what I want.”
In that moment, it feels like all the air is rushed from Clarke’s lungs. “Then tell me.”
When Bellamy’s lips touch hers, she swears that she feels all the broken pieces in her come together. This kiss is slower, gentler, than their first. When Clarke’s lips move against Bellamy’s, she finds that there is no more desperation attached to them, just passion. And something else – a much deeper emotion that Clarke has never been brave enough vocalize. But one day, when the world feels right again, Clarke promises herself that she’ll name it.
Clarke winds her arms around Bellamy’s neck as the kiss deepens, letting her fingers run through the silky strands. Bellamy lets his hands roam her back, touching her with a kind of reverence she’s never experienced in the years she was with Finn or anyone else. Never with anyone but him. The thought makes her heart soar in ways she never thought possible, and she presses her chest closer to his, desperate to close any space remaining between them.
The ring of the bell as the clock strikes midnight is what eventually tears them away from each other, but when Bellamy’s lips break away from hers, he is never far away. Pressing her forehead into his, Clarke breathes, “It’s Christmas, Bellamy.” And the thought that its Christmas, and she gets to spend it with him, makes her heart so full that it must be close to bursting.
“That reminds me,” he murmurs, brushing his lips lightly against hers. “I’ve got something for you.”
Clarke parts her lips in surprise, curiosity overtaking her. Bellamy momentarily extricates one hand from where it is wrapped around her to reach into his pocket. When he pulls it out, she sees that he is holding something round, light glinting off the metal rims: her father’s watch.
“You must have taken this off last night and forgotten to put it back on in the morning,” he says, and his voice is sheepish. “By the time I noticed, you were already gone.”
“I thought I lost this forever,” she says breathily. When Clarke takes the watch from his hand, her eyes are burning, but its not just because of her father but because of him: because of Bellamy. She doesn’t know what she ever did so right in her life to deserve someone like him. “I was worried I lost you forever.”
“I’m here to stay, Princess,” he whispers in her ear, and presses a kiss to her temple before pulling her back against him, securing her head under his chin.
With Bellamy’s arms wrapped around her waist and her head resting against his chest, Clarke thinks that maybe the poets were right: perhaps home is not a place, but a person after all. And maybe the true spirit of Christmas has nothing to do with the tree, or the presents, or even the holiday itself, and everything to do with the people you’re with.
“Merry Christmas, Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice rumbles above her, and that’s how she knows it’s her best one yet.