Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Chancellor Griffin?" Lieutenant Miller poked his head through one of the double doors, looking apologetic. "Bellamy—er, Councilman Blake is here."

"Not a councilman yet." Kane frowned, looking even sterner than usual. "I'm not vacating this seat for…" His eyes darted to the clock. "…thirty more minutes."

Clarke hid a smile behind her hand. Marcus Kane was still a stickler for the law, although he'd loosened up a bit over the years. The stern face was more of a mask now, and the people loved him despite it, ever since the bomb over a decade ago that had left his mother paralyzed and hundreds stranded in Tesla station. Kane had risked his life crawling through a ventilation shaft to save them. Now he was one of the old guard on the council, about to retire…in half an hour.

Clarke dropped her hand, putting on her serious chancellor face. "Please tell Mr. Blake I'll speak to him after this council meeting is over." She spoke the words in a crisp, clear tone, all too aware that the subject of their conversation was probably standing on the other side of the closed door next to Miller and listening to every word she said.

The lieutenant shifted his eyes to the side. Probably looking at Blake. Clarke raised an eyebrow. "Is that all, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, ma'am." He dipped his head briefly, shutting the door behind him.

Clarke folded her hands on the table in front of her. "Now. Where were we?"

"Clarke," Wells said in a low tone. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

She shot him a look that said Nice change of topic, Wells. He'd been her best friend for the better part of thirty years. They didn't even need words to communicate anymore. He just looked back at her stubbornly.

Glancing around the table, it was clear the other council members were interested to hear her answer. Clarke sighed and rubbed a hand across her forehead. "We've discussed this to death. Class tensions were at an all-time high during my predecessor's term." She shot an apologetic glance at Wells. It hadn't been his father's fault, but rather how Ark society was structured. It could have happened at any time, but it'd been Thelonius Jaha a rebel group of workers had tried to assassinate with that bomb, secretly led by former Chancellor Diana Sydney. Sydney and a dozen others proven to be in on the plot were all caught and floated, but tensions had remained high for years afterward. "I'm going to do everything in my power to keep that from happening again. Everyone should be represented here." She glanced meaningfully around the table. "Besides, he won the popular vote by a landslide."

Kane shook his head. "Bellamy Blake is too charismatic by half. He could convince a starving man to give him his rations for a year." He scowled. "Wipe that smile off your face, Councillor Jordan. This isn't a laughing matter."

Clarke glanced at Jasper out of the corner of her eye. He was their top chemist, the youngest council member, the first former juvenile delinquent to be elected…and still terribly intimidated by Kane. The goofy smile dropped off his face.

"Do I detect a note of jealousy, Marcus?" Clarke swiveled her head back in the other direction to glare at her dad's engineering buddy. He slouched back in his chair, grinning at her, unabashed.

The corner of Kane's lips slanted up. "Hardly." Wick was one of the few people who could get him to smile. The two men had a good-naturedly antagonistic friendship that Clarke couldn't begin to understand.

"I agree with the chancellor." Verne pushed her long black hair over her shoulder and met Clarke's eyes across the table, giving her an encouraging smile. "I was the first council member from Agro station in decades, and it seems to be working out fine."

“Agro isn't full of disgruntled workers," Wells insisted, his dark eyes serious.

Wick popped his council pin off his collar and flicked it carelessly onto the table, starting it spinning like a top. "Seems to me the best way to gruntle them is to put one of them on the council."

Clarke's eyes darted to Ursula. She was the oldest council member, a sweet grandmother with strong opinions, but she rarely voiced them until appealed to. "Bellamy Blake was voted into office, everything fair and official," she said smoothly. "It's useless to argue against the same process that gave all of us our own seats, whether we like the results or not. Unless you intend to unretire, Marcus?" She gave him a small smile.

He fidgeted in his seat, a rare sight to see. "No. My mother needs my full attention at present."

Clarke could see the stubborn light still glinting in Wells' eyes, so she grabbed her gavel and rapped it on the table before he could say anything else. "That's quite enough discussion about Bellamy Blake," she said sternly. "We still have three issues to vote on." She gestured at Jasper. "Councilman Jordan, you're up."

He sat up straighter, flicking through his tablet to find his presentation. He'd come up with a new process for growing vegetables with his best friend Monty Green, but since every tiny change on the Ark had to be voted on by the council before it could be implemented on a wide scale, they needed to follow protocol. Clarke pushed the inconvenient irritation on the other side of the door out of her mind and focused on Jasper, who always grew ten times more confident and well-spoken when he was talking about a field he was an expert in.

Three unanimous votes and forty-five minutes later, they broke open a bottle of champagne to toast Kane's retirement and years of service. Everyone lingered, chatting, and Clarke was secretly hoping they would stay long enough for Blake to grow impatient and leave. Then she wouldn't have to deal with him until the next council meeting, the way it was supposed to happen before he decided to take it into his head to ignore protocol.

After another twenty minutes or so, they started trickling out the door. Wick cornered her with his usual jovial grin before he left.

"Hey, I've been commissioned to tell you we have to reschedule our little dinner party. Rav has to work late tonight. Some space debris hit one of the thrusters and I guess it's a huge repair." He waved a dismissive hand, which was probably not the way a senior engineer on the Ark should be reacting to something as serious as space debris, but Wick was…Wick.

Clarke shoved away the little twinge of disappointment. She'd been looking forward to it, since she'd been too busy to see any of them the last couple of weeks, and she especially valued time with Raven, one of her few female friends. One of her few any friends, if she was honest with herself. "Oh, that's fine," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "Another time."

"Tomorrow night?"

Clarke winced. "Sorry, I can't. Hydra station inspection."

Wick shook a mock-stern finger at her. "Friday night, no excuses. Rav worries about you, Clarke. Sitting around in your huge, fancy chancellor's quarters, all alone."

Clarke raised an eyebrow. Sitting around was inaccurate, huge was pushing it, fancy was outright ridiculous…but she couldn't deny the alone part. "Okay, Kyle," she said, drawing out his name because she knew he hated it and she enjoyed ribbing him about it. "I'll be there. Tell Petra she and Auntie Clarke are overdue for an epic game of hide-and-seek."

"Epic?" he snorted. "She hides in the same spot every single time." He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced up at the ceiling. "Um…wear your nicest rags, okay?" Suddenly, he seemed in a hurry to leave. "Okay, see you then!"

Clarke grabbed his arm. "Wick!" she growled, exasperated. "If you two try to set me up with Finn Collins one more time, I'm going to—” His expression was guilty, so she punched him in the arm.

He danced away, rubbing his arm theatrically. "Geez, Clarke, no need to get violent about it."

"Go float yourself, Wick," she shot back as he disappeared out the door. She glanced around, suddenly noticing the room had emptied out while she was distracted.

"Not the kind of language I'd expect to hear out of the chancellor's mouth," a deep voice said behind her. Clarke clenched her jaw. Just the person I want to see right now. She spun around slowly to face him, head tilted and a coolly appraising expression on her face.

Bellamy Blake was sitting at the council table, in her chair, legs sprawled apart and elbows on the armrests like he belonged there. He had on a worn, dark gray jacket over a green shirt, hair a tousle of black curls, several days' growth of beard, eyes dark and focused on her. She could see the dusting of freckles over his nose even at this distance.

"Councilman-elect Blake," she said frostily. "I'd offer you a seat, but I see you've already found one." The wrong one. Get off of it, she said with her eyes, but he didn't budge.

Instead, he leaned back and placed both booted feet on the table, one at a time, smirking at her all the while. "Chancellor Griffin," he said. "So nice of you to see me. And I only had to wait an hour and a half."

Clarke seated herself primly across the table from him. "I'm so sorry. The council meeting ran late." Her tone said she wasn't sorry at all. "If you'd scheduled an appointment with me, I needn't have wasted your time." She smiled, sickly sweet.

His smirk widened. He saw right through that. He leaned further back in her chair, tipping it onto two legs. Clarke clenched her hands together in her lap.

The problem with Bellamy Blake was that he was disturbingly handsome, and he knew it. He had charisma to spare, that was undeniable, but his looks played a part in it. Clarke wasn't above leveraging her own looks now and then, but he did it shamelessly. Or so she'd heard.

He'd started out as a cadet—whip-smart, talented, a quick learner. She'd read his file. But fate—and the Ark's no-tolerance policy for law-breaking—had other plans. One wrong step and his hidden sister had been discovered and put in lockup, his mother floated, his promising career ruined. They'd meant to punish him, Clarke knew, by assigning him to janitorial duty, and he'd languished there for a few years. Self-inflicted, she supposed, because his promotion rate after that was nothing short of astonishing. Head of Janitorial Services within a year, a position that on paper sounded more managerial than anything else, then it appeared as if he'd somehow bounced through the ranks of every blue-collar job on the Ark, right to the top. Chief Officer of Operations and Maintenance Services, as far as someone with his background could get.

And now, a council member.

His file could only tell her so much. The most basic facts. The what, not the how that Clarke was more concerned with. As for the why, she was pretty sure she could guess.

What she really knew about Bellamy Blake was from hearsay, word of mouth. He was arrogant, confident, well-spoken, rash, yet calculating at the same time. He knew how to influence people, how to inspire them. He was the king of Factory station, basically. And he was dangerous.

“Chancellor,” he said again, smiling up at the ceiling. “Youngest in Ark history. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“That’s hardly necessary,” Clarke said stiffly. She’d been chancellor for over a year now; it was basically old hat at this point. And she hated being reminded of her age. It felt like an attack on her authority. “I’d like to offer my congratulations to you, however. I’m sure you’re looking forward to your instatement next week.” She placed slightly more emphasis on the words next week. Maybe passive-aggressiveness was beneath her, but she couldn’t bring herself to explicitly point out how inappropriate it was for him to show up here in the middle of a council meeting, before he was even an official council member. If he’d thought she would let him into the meeting, he was dead wrong.

He tapped his fingers against the arms of the chair, blatantly ignoring the subtext in her words. “My people are looking forward to it. That’s enough for me.”

Clarke sat up even straighter, if that was possible. She already felt like her spine was a steel rod. “Your people?” She raised an eyebrow. “Surely you mean our people.”

“No, Princess, I mean my people.” The chair, still balanced on two legs, didn’t waver a fraction of an inch.

Clarke couldn’t keep a frown from tugging at the corners of her mouth, and only partially because of the nickname no one had dared to call her in years. This was exactly the kind of thing she was trying to avoid. Class divisions, factions banding together, people identifying with only one group. She was working for unity. It shouldn’t be this difficult—there were only a few thousand people on the Ark. Human nature, Clarke, her mother’s voice said in her head. Human nature is to tear everything apart. “We’re all citizens of the Ark,” she said out loud, and she didn’t know if she was protesting against Bellamy Blake or her mother.

“All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” His tone was harsh, derisive.

Clarke struggled to keep hers even and soft. “I don’t need you to quote Orwell at me.”

“Don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and his eyes were heavy on her face, like a challenge. The words were punctuated by the sharp, heavy clank of the other two chair legs hitting the floor.

One of Clarke’s hands escaped the iron grip of the other in her lap and made its way up to pinch the bridge of her nose, all seemingly without her permission. The last thing she needed was to give Bellamy Blake the satisfaction of seeing her frustration, or any reaction at all other than placidity. “Why are you here, Mr. Blake?” she asked quietly, dropping her hand and looking up at him again. So much for subtle avoidance of the topic. She decided to lay all of her cards out on the table. “Why are you here now? You’re not formally a member of the council until next week, and I think you’re well aware I was never going to let you into today’s meeting, even if you had arrived on time and made your presence known less…rudely.” Clarke clamped her mouth into a tight line. She’d said a little more than she’d meant to, but she didn’t regret the challenge. It wasn’t about the council meeting, not really. He’d wanted to assert some sort of dominance, get under her skin, and then meet with her alone afterwards. But why? She raised an expectant eyebrow.

Bellamy Blake drew his boots off the table slowly, one by one, and sat up straighter in Clarke’s chair. All traces of the self-satisfied smirk from before were gone. His eyes were black and sharp, like the obsidian arrowheads she’d read about that ancient cultures used as weapons. He didn’t need arrows; he was his own weapon. “We don’t like the system,” he said, and his tone was low and silky and sent a shiver down her back.

“The system is all we have,” Clarke replied evenly. “The system is what keeps us alive. Without it, there would be chaos.”

He leaned forward, and she could see the clench of his jaw beneath the stubble of his beard before he spoke again. “What’s wrong with a little chaos? Entropy is the natural order of the universe.”

Clarke’s mouth dropped open slightly. “You can’t be serious.”

The only answer she got was a lift of his eyebrows and a tilt of his head.

Clarke blinked, staring at the smooth, metallic expanse of the table as she tried to take in that information. At last, she said, “So you’re…what? Warning me that you’re going to lead some sort of coup?” She paused to bathe her voice in disdain, then added, “Isn’t that antithetical to your plans? Now I know what to prepare for.” She spread her hands out on the table, palms up.

One corner of his lips twisted up. “Maybe I came here to kill you myself.” The words were a low, serious rumble.

Clarke turned her hands over so her palms were flat on the table, then leaned forward in the chair that wasn’t hers, never taking her eyes off of his. “No, you didn’t,” she said flatly, confidently. “You’re too shrewd for that.”

He chuckled, slicing through the tension in an instant and slouching back in the chair again. “That a compliment, Princess?”

Clarke arched an eyebrow. “If you want to take it as one.”

He stretched a hand out to rest it on the table, tapping his fingers restlessly and eyeing her gavel where it lay discarded to the side. “You’re right,” he said at last, so quietly she almost missed the words. “This,” he gestured between the two of them with his other hand, “is why I came today.”

Well, that was unexpected. She hadn’t thought he’d actually admit it. She watched him silently, waiting for further explanation.

He picked up her gavel absently, twisting it in his fingers. For some reason, Clarke’s eyes settled on his hands—the play of muscles across the back, the deliberate movements of his fingers. “We live in two separate spheres. I’ve heard so much about you. I wanted to get the measure of you. Myself.”

Clarke’s breath hitched involuntarily at the words. If these were any other circumstances, if she were any other person, she’d say his tone had been downright seductive. What game did he think he was playing? She tore her eyes away from that damn gavel and looked up to find he was watching her with interest.

Clarke clenched her jaw. “And?”

Bellamy Blake’s smile was slow and sinful. “It’s a work in progress.”

Clarke gave him an unimpressed look. “I could say the same.”

“What do you have so far?”

He actually looked curious to hear what she had to say about him. Clarke decided to indulge him. She couldn’t see any harm in it. “I think you’re good at misdirecting. I think you study people like books, and you use that information. I think you want me to view you as a threat.”

“And do you?” he asked wryly.

Clarke’s only reply was an enigmatic smile. Or at least, what she hoped was an enigmatic smile. She wanted to ask what he had so far about her, but her pride prevented it.

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking amused. “Can’t tell you yet, Princess,” he said, like he’d overheard her thoughts. “I’ll get back to you.” They regarded each other silently for a few long moments, then he fidgeted suddenly, pushing a hand through the tangle of his hair and clearing his throat. “Also…I came to say….” He leveled a serious gaze towards her. “I’m here representing Factory station. I’m their voice, and I’m here now, and I’m here to fight. I don’t care if every other damn council member disagrees with me, I’m never going to play nice and roll over just to keep the peace.” His voice grew in intensity as he spoke, and Clarke felt like she was witnessing one of his infamous speeches she’d heard so much about. “So they might not like it—you might not like it—but that’s how it’s going to be.”

Clarke blinked a couple of times, processing his words. He didn’t sound self-absorbed, or blindly ambitious, or any of those kinds of things she’d heard about him. He sounded like a man who genuinely cared about the people he was representing, and she didn’t know how to match that to the man she’d been steeling herself to square off against ever since she heard the election results. She had a feeling matters on the council were about to get a lot less black and white, and a lot more gray once he took his seat at the table next week. She couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing, and for whom.

Startled out of her thoughts by several sharp raps on the table, she jerked her head up to see it was Bellamy banging the gavel like he was dismissing a meeting, hard enough to leave a dent. Irritation blazed through her at his audacity, but if he noticed he didn’t care. He stood up, pushing her chair back heedlessly as he did.

Clarke decided to recover some of her pride by pretending she hadn’t witnessed any of that. “Are we finished here?” she asked with only the slightest trace of annoyance. “I have patients waiting in the med bay.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You’re still working in the med bay?” He frowned and clamped his mouth shut like the words had escaped it involuntarily.

Apparently he didn’t know as much about her as he liked to pretend. She was actually surprised he didn’t know that particular piece of information. It wasn’t like she broadcasted it, but it wasn’t exactly a secret either, and she assumed he made it his business to know more about her than she did about him. “Short hours. When I can find the time. Council members continue working in their fields.” She didn’t know why she was explaining herself to him.

He had a strange expression on his face. “Chancellors don’t.”

It was true. Chancellors usually didn’t. It was a full-time job all on its own, but Clarke liked working in the med bay. Helping people was her passion, and being chancellor was less of that and more of being bogged down in politics. It wearied her; it made her long for the simplicity of stitching cuts closed and setting broken arms. So she found the time for it. She crawled into bed exhausted nearly every night, getting up too few hours later to do it all again, but she found the time.

“This chancellor does,” was all she said, and if her voice was a little haughty at his assumption, she didn’t mean it to be.

Bellamy Blake’s eyebrows furrowed like he was frowning, but his mouth didn’t match, and he looked down at Clarke—still sitting stiff and prim in the chair that wasn’t hers—like she was an engine he wanted to pick apart, piece by piece, so he could understand the mechanics of it. She suddenly found it difficult to look back at him.

Abruptly, he headed for the door, and she was still debating whether to stay in the chair, facing away from him, or get up to watch him leave, when his confident footsteps stopped. She could almost feel his eyes burning into the back of her head, so she met herself halfway, twisting to sit sideways and propping an arm on the back of the chair.

“My sister voted for you.” He had a hand on the door but he didn’t make a move to open it.

It was Clarke’s turn to furrow her brow. “Did she?” She didn’t understand why he was telling her this, but her lips curled up despite herself. “I’m glad.”

“I didn’t.” The words were blunt, unapologetic.

Clarke’s smile widened. “Even better.”

He hesitated briefly, giving her that strange, contemplative look, then he yanked the door open and disappeared.

Chapter Text

Once Bellamy Blake left the room, all of the air in Clarke's lungs seemed to escape from her at once, and the steel rod in her spine vanished. She slumped down into the chair that wasn’t hers, tipping her head back and closing her eyes, and she gave herself five minutes of reprieve.

Or she would have, but no more than three had passed before Lieutenant Miller was poking his head in the door. “Chancellor Griffin…” he started to say.

Clarke didn’t move. He’d seen her at both her best and her worst during the last year; this was nothing to be embarrassed about.

“Chancellor,” he said again, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?” She heard him shut the door softly.

She sighed. “Yeah. Just…Bellamy Blake.” Maybe she shouldn't have mumbled the name like it was a curse word, but there was a limit to her self-control.

“I’m sorry about that earlier. I should've made him leave.”

Clarke opened her eyes and raised her head. “It’s fine. He’s my problem to deal with.” She brushed her braid over her shoulder. “Besides, we both know he wouldn’t have listened.” She flashed Miller a weary grin and got one in return. "How long did it take him to break you?" She knew he wouldn't take the question as an insult. It was more sympathetic than anything else.

He still stood stiffly at attention, like the soldier he was, but his face was more relaxed than before. "Fifteen minutes." It said more about Bellamy Blake and less about Miller that there was a trace of pride in his voice. Blake was a force of nature, and everyone knew it. A guard with less fortitude than Miller wouldn't have lasted more than five. She could see it as clearly as if she'd witnessed it—the tense stare-down between the two men.

"Let me guess," she said wryly. "He threatened to break down the door."

"Well." Miller broke out of his stiff stance to rub the back of his neck. "Not in so many words."

Clarke grimaced. "Yeah, I think I can imagine how it went."

Miller's brown eyes were warm with concern. "Did he threaten you?"

Clarke shook her head. "No. Well, he bluffed about it a little."

His jaw tightened. Miller took his job very seriously. "That's a felony, you know. If it was anything about assassinating you."

Clarke felt the worry lines appear between her eyebrows. They'd almost become a permanent fixture on her face since her election. "I'm not going to float someone for making idle threats."

"They're not always idle. The bomb—"

She fixed her most severe gaze on him. "Lieutenant, I'm never going to be the kind of chancellor who floats people just for opposing me. I don't care if it gets me killed in the end. I'm not going to do that." Her voice shook slightly on the last word and she hoped he hadn't noticed. Sometimes she wondered if she'd made the right decision about becoming a leader. It was so difficult, so messy, so very, very lonely. "Do you understand?"

The lieutenant looked doubtful, but he dipped his head respectfully. "Yes, ma'am." He'd returned to professionally detached guard, standing straight and gazing at the wall somewhere behind her head instead of at her. It made her heart sink a little. She knew she should leave, now that she'd reminded him of his place. Drift out the door like a queen so he'd know never to question her decisions again. But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

"Miller," she blurted out on a whim. "Sit down for a minute."

Now he was looking at her. Looking at her like she'd sprouted a second head, that is. She gestured to the closest chair.

"Uh," he said ineloquently. "Okay."

He sat down, swiping his hands across his pants and jiggling his knees like he was nervous. This was highly irregular, and against protocol to boot. Screw protocol, she thought, with a strange little twinge of glee that subsided the instant she noticed the thought hadn't been in her voice but a decidedly more masculine one.

"Which station are you from?" she asked, feeling suddenly and absurdly guilty that he'd been part of her guard detail for the last year, yet the only bit of personal information she knew about him was that his father was also an officer in the guard.

He cleared his throat. "Alpha."

Clarke folded her hands in her lap. "I know you're a former delinquent…"

"That was a long time ago, ma'am," he interrupted, then immediately mumbled a reluctant, "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Don't be," Clarke said softly. "Do you mind…telling me about it?"

He shifted in his chair, looking down at his hands. "Not much to tell. I stole a cadet's stun baton when I was thirteen. My friends and I liked to play guards. Figured I could put it back later without anyone noticing."

"Thirteen," Clarke whispered. Five years in the sky box. She couldn't even imagine.

He was still looking at his hands like they were the most interesting thing in the room. "Thought I was gonna get floated for sure. I calculated the number of days I had left—kept track of them—so I'd know not to take them for granted. 'Nine hundred and eighty-three days,' I'd tell myself. Only nine hundred and eighty-three days left to live." He choked on the words, the memory. Clarke's throat felt uncomfortably tight, and a long silence stretched between them.

Miller finally looked up at her with a small smile. "Jaha actually spoke for me at my review. He'd read my file, talked to my dad. Pushed the council to spare me, make me a cadet." His smile widened. "He called it poetic justice. That confused me. Still kind of does, honestly. They called me a criminal, then they gave me what I wanted all along."

Clarke's nose was stinging, a telltale sign that she was about to get teary. She blinked rapidly to push it away, but her voice was husky when she said, "I know Thelonius Jaha very well." She leaned forward to catch his eyes. "He meant you were never a criminal in the first place."

His forehead furrowed, eyes going unfocused as he considered that.

Reluctantly, Clarke hauled herself up off the chair that wasn’t hers. Duty was calling. She reached out to pat Miller's shoulder on her way to the door. "You're a good man, Lieutenant." He moved to follow her and she gave him a small smile. "Why don't you call it a day? I can escort myself to Medical."

In the med bay, her mother had her hands full attending to several people who’d been quarantined with flu symptoms. She usually tried to shoo Clarke home this late in the day, but this time, she just handed her a surgical mask and a thermometer and directed her to the nearest patient. Clarke lost herself in her work, but she caught her mom shooting her concerned glances every now and then. She couldn’t decide if Abby Griffin’s motherly instincts were just that good, or if she’d already heard about Clarke’s surprise visitor.

Jackson arrived for the night shift as things were settling down, and the Griffin women headed towards the Go Sci living quarters. Her mom slipped an arm around her shoulder as soon as they were in the hallway.

“Clarke, you look exhausted. Why don’t you come home for a late dinner, and then off to bed with you.”

Clarke wanted to protest against the leader of the remaining people in the universe being set a bedtime by her mother, but she leaned into the embrace and followed her down the hall instead. No one ever outgrew needing their mother from time to time. She thought of the Blake siblings with a sudden flash of sadness, and everyone else who’d ever been orphaned on the Ark after their parents were floated, and she wrapped an arm tightly around her mom’s waist for a moment. Clarke pulled away when they turned down a more heavily trafficked hallway. She still had appearances to keep up, no matter how lost she felt at times.

Jake Griffin greeted her with a kiss on the forehead and a cheerful, “Hey, honey. How was your first meeting with the hellion?”

Clarke groaned, shifting her eyes between her parents, who both looked annoyingly unsurprised. “Does everyone know about that already?” she demanded, dropping onto the couch. “Doesn’t anyone on this entire station know how to keep their damn mouth shut?”

Her dad plopped down next to her and pulled her over to his shoulder, running a comforting hand through her hair. “It’s probably just Go Sci, sweetheart. Oh, and Mecha. That’s where I heard it.” His hand stilled. “Come to think of it, probably Factory too.”

Clarke pulled away and socked him playfully in the arm. “Dad! Not helping!”

“Seriously though, kiddo, how did it go?”

Her mom settled down across from them, and both of her parents were looking at her so solicitously that Clarke wound up telling them much more than she’d intended to, although far from the whole story. As usual, Jake was the optimist and Abby was the pessimist when she’d finished and they offered their opinions.

“I think they just want more of a voice in the proceedings of the Ark,” her dad said reasonably. “That’s a good thing, as far as I’m concerned."

“That's a little naive, Jake," her mom cut in. "Diana Sydney said she wanted the same thing. Look how that turned out.”

Clarke knew all too well how it'd turned out. Fifty dead, twice as many injured, thirteen executions. That was not going to happen on her watch.

"How's the rest of the council feel about Bellamy Blake joining them?"

"Jake—" her mom said warningly. Abby Griffin took council secrecy very seriously. Far more seriously than Clarke did. Secrecy had its place in any government, of course, but she didn't see the point of hiding things that were going to be public knowledge soon anyway. Besides, her parents were hardly the type to go around spreading gossip.

She leaned forward to prop her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. "Wells is not happy, but you could've guessed that. Verne and Ursula seem okay with it. Jasper usually just goes with the flow." She was pretty sure that was the main reason he got elected. "And I wouldn't put it past Wick to like the guy." 

Clarke shot a glance at her dad like his friend's poor judgment was his fault. He looked like he was fighting a grin. She narrowed her eyes at him. Traitors, the both of them.

"So Wells is your only strong ally,” her mom mused, the expression on her face identical to the one she wore when she was diagnosing a patient.

"Mom!” Clarke protested. Words like ally implied this was a battle, which was exactly the opposite of what Clarke wanted—no matter how much Blake insisted he was there to fight. “I'm the chancellor. I'm not supposed to take sides about this."

"I know that, Clarke, but you need to be careful. You need to know who you can trust and who you can't. Discontent and an outspoken, charismatic leader were the key ingredients that started every revolution in Earth's history. Including the one that ended it.”

Clarke bristled at her mother’s words. She swore, if someone told her how charismatic he was one more time today, she was going to blow a gasket. There was an implication behind every mention of that—an implication that she wasn’t nearly as charismatic, wasn’t as effective a leader, couldn’t sway people to her side as easily. And if the people closest to her doubted her abilities, what did the rest of the Ark think of them?

It was a day’s worth of pent-up self-doubt and resentment, then, that made her snap, "There's not going to be a revolution. Bellamy Blake getting elected to the council isn't the end of the world, and everyone needs to stop acting like it is. I can handle it. I can handle him."

Her parents both looked a little startled at the unusual outburst, and they let the subject drop for the rest of the evening.

After dinner, they sent her on her way with goodnight hugs and kisses like she was still five years old. When she wrapped her arms around the solid, comforting warmth of her dad, he whispered in her ear, “We’re always here to listen, okay? Anything you need.” Clarke nodded against his chest. He always had an uncanny way of knowing what was really going on inside her head, even when she tried her best to hide it.

Her mom reminded her to be careful once again, and Clarke pressed her lips together to keep back an irritated retort. She’d have a contingent of guards sleeping at the foot of her bed every night if her mom had any real say in security matters. Fortunately, she didn’t.

She could feel their eyes on her back as she walked down the hall, even though she literally lived around the corner. They meant well, but they could be ridiculously smothering at times, and pulling the I’m the chancellor, please stop telling me what to do card on them hadn’t proven to be very effective in the past.

Clarke leaned against her door after she closed it, too exhausted to move for a moment. Lock your door, her mother’s voice said in her head crossly, and she sighed and slid the bolt shut.

Silence greeted her. Sometimes it was comforting and sometimes it was sad, and she usually tried not to think about it. She headed straight for her bedroom to change into a threadbare blue robe and let out her braid. Combing her fingers through her hair, she flopped onto the bed, staring up at the gray ceiling. Endless gray. Gray everywhere. Sometimes it made her want to scream.

She went back out to the living room and flopped onto the couch instead. It was her favorite piece of furniture in the chancellor’s quarters—large, soft, and leather—and she tended to spend more time on it than she did her bed. If she propped her head up on one armrest and positioned herself just right she could look out her window and see a corner of Earth, deep blues and verdant greens. It was so strange, she always thought, that something so beautiful could be so deadly. And here they were, rotating around it endlessly, day after day, year after year, and they could look at the beauty, but they could never, ever touch it.

She must have dozed off, because she dreamed of brown earth between her toes and pine needles under her hands and the swirl of running water around her and the sharp, clean scent of fresh air and everything she’d never be able to feel while awake. She had these dreams frequently, and every time it was a little more difficult to come back from them. They were so vivid, even though she doubted her imagination could do the real thing justice.

A soft knock startled her awake. She rubbed at her bleary eyes, running fingers through the tangled blonde mess of her hair. No one would be knocking on her door at this hour. Must be the neighbors’ door, she thought sleepily, trying to muster the energy to get up and walk the fifteen steps it would take to get to her bed.

There was the knock again, and it was definitely her door. Clarke rolled her eyes, mumbling grumpily to herself as she tottered to her feet and straightened her robe.

She flung the door open. "Dad, I'm fine—"

Not Dad, was her first thought, and Oh crap was her second.

 

Chapter Text

The lights in the empty hallway were dimmed to save energy during sleeping hours, but there was no mistaking who’d knocked on Clarke’s door.

Bellamy Blake stood in front of her, forearm braced against the door frame. He’d been looking down the hall, but now he turned to fix his eyes on her face. They were dark and intense, and his ever-present smirk was conspicuously absent.

Clarke blinked several times, trying to decide if she was still sleeping. It certainly felt like a dream. A nightmare, more like. But the metal door was cold on her fingers and adrenaline spiked through her veins, making her feel more alert by the second.

However, her brain hadn’t quite caught up to her body yet. When she opened her mouth to say something, what slipped out was, “Bellamy,” shock erasing any semblance of formality. Her mind snapped awake with a sudden jolt at the word and jumped quickly into hyperdrive, running through every possible scenario that could explain why he would be at her door in the middle of the night.

He’s here to kill me, she thought with a chilling certainty, eyeing the door and trying to calculate how quickly she could shove it shut and lock it, taking inventory of which heavy or sharp objects would be within quick reach for her if she couldn’t get the door closed in time. She kept a gun in her bedroom, a sort of last security measure, but fat lot of good that was going to do her now. Stupid, stupid, she told herself, wondering why it was she’d always insisted she didn’t want a night guard posted at her door.

But her brain was already racing ahead again, taking in more details. Bellamy Blake didn’t have a weapon on him in sight—not that he couldn’t kill her with his bare hands if he wanted to. But something about it made no sense. He wouldn’t come to her quarters to do it, he wouldn’t do it himself, and most of all, he wouldn’t be standing there looking like he was waiting for her to say something besides his name.

It had been all of five seconds since she’d opened the door, but the tension in her shoulders eased the tiniest bit. His eyes dropped from her face, and she was suddenly conscious of how little she was wearing. She brought a hand to her chest, fingers drawing the fabric there together as much as she could. She felt vulnerable—she wasn’t prepared to wage war with Bellamy Blake while wearing a robe. She needed armor, the armor of her chancellor’s uniform and her pin of office. All of her fear suddenly metamorphosed into anger, and she hated him for doing this to her twice in one day, catching her off-guard and pushing his advantage.

His eyes were on her face again. It was probably too much to hope he hadn’t been able to read the gamut of emotions that had crossed it in rapid succession since she’d opened the door.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Clarke, I don't want to do this."

"Do what?" she whispered, fear returning and making her fingers tighten on the door.

His eyes never left hers. "Pretend like we're strangers."

She recovered her voice, loosening her death grip on the door and inserting a steely note into her tone. "There's no pretending required."

He huffed out a breath. "Like hell there isn't." His voice was low, impatient.

She set her mouth in a straight, stubborn line.

He pushed himself off the doorframe, scraping a hand across his jaw. "Can I come in?"

Since when did Bellamy Blake observe social niceties? Clarke pursed her lips, considering him. She’d recovered from her earlier panic. If he intended to do her harm, this would be about the most idiotic way to do it. Bellamy was many things, but he was not an idiot.

Clarke knew she should make him leave. Her instinct was to slam the door in his face. The more diplomatic thing to do would be to politely point out that it was the middle of the night and she needed her rest.

She did neither. She’d always had an unfortunate curious streak, and she wanted to know what he was up to.

"Did anybody see you?" Clarke asked, tilting her head forward to glance up and down the empty hallway. She might be on the verge of making a stupid decision, but she hadn’t abandoned all common sense. The last thing she needed right now was a rumor circulating around the Ark that Bellamy Blake had been seen entering the chancellor’s quarters in the middle of the night.

"No," he said, sounding irritated.

She sighed and slid the door back, moving aside to let him through, then closed it behind him. When she turned to face him again, he was standing in the middle of the room, feet planted squarely and arms crossed over his chest. His presence made everything look smaller somehow. Clarke tugged on the ends of her robe belt to tighten it and gestured towards the sitting area by the window. Bellamy perched on the edge of the nearest chair, a trace of nervousness marring his usual confidence. Surprisingly, he’d left the couch wide open for Clarke, so she sat there across from him, tugging the hem of her robe down, still wondering what this was all about.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking down at his clasped hands. For some reason, all Clarke could focus on was the brush of dark eyelashes across his freckled cheeks.

“Look,” he said at last, with tired resignation. “I’ve got a lot of problems with you.”

Clarke gave a breathy, annoyed chuckle. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

The eyelashes swept upwards, and she found herself staring into his eyes. They looked oddly vulnerable, and her words died on her lips.

“But you saved my sister’s life, and I don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten.”

That’s what this is about? Clarke shook her head. “That was my mother,” she whispered. Abby had represented Octavia Blake when her delinquency case came up for review. Clarke had never seen her mother so determined, and that was saying something. We can’t punish a child for the crimes of her parent. Her birth wasn’t her doing. The penalty has already been paid. One crime, one penalty. A second penalty would be a crime on the council’s part. That last bit hadn’t earned her any friends on the council, but she’d won, and Octavia Blake had been granted a second chance to live. A first chance, really. Being hidden under the floor and imprisoned in the sky box wasn’t much of a life.

“She did,” he said quietly. “But I wasn’t talking about her review.”

And then Clarke knew what he meant, and she had thought he’d forgotten. Octavia had contracted a strain of virus that left her with a raging fever, dangerously dehydrated, and unresponsive to the medication they had available. Everyone in Medical had given up on her, even Clarke’s mother. But Clarke couldn’t. It’d seemed so grossly unfair to her, to finally have a chance at life, only to be robbed of it immediately by something as stupid as a glorified cold. 

“Your sister did the difficult part herself,” she insisted. It had been difficult for both of them, though. Clarke hadn’t slept for three days, too determined to win the battle against cruel fate.

Bellamy stared at her silently again, frown lines appearing between his eyebrows. It was the same look he’d given her in the council room when he found out she still worked in the med bay.

“I was there too, remember?” he said, almost accusingly. “I know what you did for her. I despised you my whole life, and there you were killing yourself to save her.”

She remembered. Princess, he’d said, sneeringly at first, but later it turned into Princess? And it’d been supplicating, desperate, circles dark as bruises under his eyes and hands clutched tightly around his sister’s and the words please don’t leave me, O a mantra on his lips. She remembered. As if she could ever forget.

Clarke could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn’t muster the courage to meet them so she stared at a hole in her robe instead, right above her knee.

“I never got the chance to thank you. You collapsed right after her fever broke and your dad took you away.”

Clarke smiled sadly at the hole in her robe. “You don’t need to thank me. That’s not why I did it.”

“Why did you do it?” His voice was so deep she swore it vibrated through the floor and right into her bones.

Clarke’s mouth opened, but nothing came out of it. She poked a finger through the hole in her robe, worrying at it as she searched for words. Princess, he’d called her, and he’d hated her, and probably every last person on Factory station along with him. What seemed like obvious human compassion to Clarke was probably a conundrum Bellamy Blake had been pondering for the last decade. Her jaw clenched at the thought, and her head snapped up so she could level gazes with him, suddenly determined to make him see her, not the person he thought Clarke Griffin was. “I did it for Octavia,” she said hoarsely. Something like surprise filled his eyes, but she forged on, heedless. “I did it for a girl whose life was disappearing before she’d even lived it. Who’d spent her whole life being…punished for something she didn’t even do. Who didn’t even get to say goodbye to her mother.”

Bellamy’s jaw worked, and he directed his eyes at the floor, but not before Clarke saw a flash of something that looked suspiciously like tears in them. She studied him—this man, her rival—and for a second all she saw was the worried boy who thought he was going to lose the last good thing in his life. It was that thought that made her add quietly, “I was worried, though. What would happen to her if she survived. But…I saw you with her, and I just…knew she’d be okay.”

Words couldn’t do justice to how Clarke had felt watching Bellamy begging Octavia to stay with him. Clarke knew one kind of family love—happy, placid, content. But this had been a different thing—fierce, protective, desperate, sharpened by loss. No one else could know what it was to have a sibling, no one else could know what it was to have a parent die for the sake of that sibling. It was tragic and it was beautiful and Clarke hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away from it, and, above all, she’d known she had to save it with every fiber of her being.

So maybe there was a tiny part of her that had done it for Bellamy Blake as well. But she’d never admit it to him.

He made a small noise that Clarke thought was supposed to be a laugh, but he still wouldn’t look up from the floor. “She is okay. She’s more than okay.” He looked up then, a genuine smile on his face, so bright it nearly distracted from the dampness sticking his eyelashes together. “She’s a pain in the ass.” His tone was affectionate.

Against all reason, Clarke couldn’t keep her lips from curling up. She’d wondered off and on over the years how Octavia was. Life on the Ark couldn’t be easy for her, with her history. But Clarke had always hoped she’d fight that the same way she fought the fever. And if Bellamy’s words were any indication, that was exactly what she’d been doing all these years.

“I’m really glad,” Clarke said softly, which was a strange response to the last thing Bellamy had said. But she knew he’d understand, and he did, nodding briefly in acknowledgement. Then his eyes grew unfocused, wandering towards the window, the blackness and the pinpricks of distant light interrupting it, lost in some far-off thoughts that Clarke wasn’t privy to.

She fidgeted on the couch while she waited for him to come back, trying to get comfortable. She was in her own home after all, and just because Bellamy Blake had rudely invaded it with his presence, didn’t mean she owed him any sort of formality. She felt a little cold suddenly, goosebumps standing out on her legs, and she crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to conserve a little body heat. She glanced downwards and suddenly remembered crossing her arms was never a good idea when she was wearing such little fabric on her chest. Uncrossing her arms in alarm, she inwardly cursed her breasts and shot a glance at Bellamy to make sure he hadn’t caught an eyeful of cleavage. Once she’d reassured herself, she inwardly cursed him as well for making her so self-conscious. She didn’t know what had gotten into her.

The silence stretched on, so she busied herself picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, then looking out the window as well, absentmindedly listing the constellations she could see in her head.

The feeling of being watched startled her out of her reverie, and she turned in time to catch Bellamy looking at her with an unguarded expression on his face. She didn’t know what to call it—curiosity? interest?—and it was gone before she could identify it.

Bellamy’s mouth tightened. "This doesn't change anything," he said bluntly. "You're a good doctor, but you're a shit chancellor."

A quiet chuckle escaped Clarke. She hadn't expected anything else. "You're a good brother, but you're a shit councilman," she shot back dryly, the vulgarity feeling foreign on her tongue.

His smirk made a sudden reappearance, and Clarke was slightly thrown by how pleased he appeared with her answer. "Haven't even started yet, Princess," he said, and she couldn't tell if that was supposed to be a protest or a warning, so she said nothing.

Bellamy stood up. Clarke stayed seated, following him with her eyes. “Well,” he said, “see you at the council meeting, Chancellor.”

Clarke nodded.

His smirk faded, and his eyes grew serious again, with almost dizzying rapidity. It was difficult to keep up with his mood swings. “Thank you. For Octavia.” He seemed to briefly struggle for words, which was a strange sight to see. “Whether you want to hear it or not. It’s long overdue.”

Clarke blinked a couple of times, not knowing what to say to that.

Bellamy dipped his chin and headed for the door.

He was only halfway there when Clarke blurted out, "Why did your sister vote for me?"

He stopped to look at her, eyebrows raised in surprise. "It's Octavia. She likes to do the opposite of what I want her to do."

"Oh." Clarke didn't know why she felt so disappointed. "As long as it wasn't because she felt obligated to me…." She trailed off lamely, unwilling to express her feelings of insecurity in front of Bellamy Blake.

He snorted. "Octavia doesn't do a damn thing out of obligation. She respects you."

A pleasant warmth expanded in Clarke's chest, and she couldn't keep the tiny, pleased smile from her face. It was just what she needed to hear after the day she'd had. One ally in Factory station was one more than she’d been counting on.

"God knows why," Bellamy added derisively, and Clarke's smile turned into a scowl. That man had a talent for ruining everything.

Clarke got to her feet, drawing herself up to her full height—which admittedly wasn’t very impressive—and said stiffly, "I'm sorry you felt the need to thank someone you dislike so much. I assure you, your gratitude is entirely unwanted."

Bellamy eyed her up and down, a bemused expression on his face. "Back to formalities already, Chancellor?" He snatched up a chess piece from the table in front of him. The set was still there from the last game she’d played with Wells a few days before. Bellamy tossed it in one hand, a flash of silver arcing up and back down, then caught it casually without taking his eyes off her. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from telling him to put it down. That chess set was one of her most prized possessions. Wells had made it for her out of scrap metal for her eighteenth birthday. "Little underdressed for that, wouldn't you say?"

Clarke's cheeks heated, but it was anger—not embarrassment—that caused the reaction. "I believe you owe me an apology for barging into my quarters in the middle of the night," she replied in her haughtiest tone.

Unfazed, he tossed the chess piece again. "There was no barging. I asked nicely, and you let me in."

Nicely was the most inapt description she'd ever heard. Still, he had a point. Damn him. "Well, now I'm asking you nicely to leave," she said pointedly.

He gave a short nod, like he'd expected that, then tossed the chess piece at her. Her hands came up reflexively to catch it, wrapping it safely in her grasp.

Bellamy jerked his chin towards her hands. "Always was my favorite piece."

Clarke raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You play chess?" She instantly regretted the words. They smacked of elitism.

This time, his smirk was tinged with bitterness. "After a fashion." He turned abruptly, striding towards the door, but he paused and looked back at her when it was halfway shut behind him.

Clarke was still standing next to the couch, feeling oddly small and vulnerable.

Bellamy's gaze rooted her to the spot. "Lock the door behind me, Princess," he said quietly. Then he was gone.

Clarke brought her hands up, uncurling her fingers to reveal the chess piece sitting in her palm. It wasn't the queen, like she'd been expecting.

It was the knight.

 

Chapter Text

Octavia hated sleeping in. She still woke from nightmares of being trapped in her crawlspace under the floor, banging on the door above her face and screaming her brother's name until she was hoarse. But nobody came to open it, and it started shrinking, compressing against her sides and squeezing the breath out of her. She always woke up gasping and crying, stuffing the corner of a blanket into her mouth immediately so Bellamy wouldn't hear her and come running to see what was wrong.

At least that nightmare was better than the recurring one of her mom getting floated.

So she was up early as she usually was, facing a precariously balanced stack of clothes that needed mending. She had space to spread out in now. An entire kitchen and a small living room and her own bedroom. She'd spent too long pacing the confines of a cell, and before that, a home that might as well have been a cell. She liked to take up as much space as possible these days, strewing her work haphazardly over all the furniture, sprawling across the floor as she sewed the fabric back together with neat, even stitches. Everything her mother taught her to do, and everything her mother taught her not to do.

"Morning, O." Bellamy emerged from behind his door, yawning and sporting an epic case of bed head.

She wrinkled her nose. "Get a haircut already, Bell."

He grinned sleepily and reached out to muss her freshly-combed hair, then headed for the cupboard to find breakfast.

Okay, maybe it was kind of weird to still live with her brother, considering how old they both were. But he'd insisted when he'd gotten his last promotion and been upgraded to larger quarters with a second bedroom. She'd tried to refuse, but he was her only family and she couldn't stand the hurt in his eyes when she said no. Then he'd taken her on a tour and her heart had leapt when she noticed the tiny porthole of a window in the living room. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

If Bellamy was a regular 34-year-old man, he'd have a regular family—a wife and kid instead of a younger sister and a steady parade of bimbos leaving in the morning. Yeah, that was gross. Luckily the walls were pretty soundproof. Steady wasn’t the best word to describe it these days, though. Sporadic was more accurate. Bellamy was careful not to do them any favors—no promotions, no extra rations, nothing that might bridge that delicate line between pleasure and transaction that inevitably appeared when one was in a position of power. He never wanted to be like the men that'd been in their mother's life. They were in it for him or not at all. He'd been more and more careful about that the higher up the ranks he got, and she hadn't seen any at all since he was elected to the council. But he'd been disappearing for large chunks of time, and she didn't know what was up with that. 

She kept her eyes on the needle she was threading and said neutrally, "Late night last night? I didn't hear you get in."

He grunted around his mouthful of food. Octavia knew that sound. It meant he didn't want to talk about it. Well, too bad for him.

"Clare stopped by." Octavia liked her the best, and kind of hoped it might turn into something serious. She got the feeling Clare hoped that too, but her brother was pretty much a lost cause on that front.

"Who?" He sounded distracted.

Octavia dropped her hands in her lap in exasperation, almost poking herself with the needle. "You did not just say that."

Bellamy shook his head like he was trying to clear it. "Sorry, I was thinking about something else. What'd she want?"

Octavia raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious right now, Bell?"

He frowned.

She sighed heavily. "What? You want me to start screening girls now? I'm not your personal assistant, I'm your sister. You want to get rid of them, you've gotta do it."

He mumbled something she couldn't make out.

That's it. She dropped her sewing and moved to the kitchen table, yanking out a chair to sit down across from him.

"Okay, spill. What's the matter?"

Bellamy sighed for so long, she was surprised his lungs contained that much air. Finally he said, "I had a meeting with the chancellor yesterday."

Octavia couldn't contain the grin that took over her face. No wonder he was irritated at the mention of other girls. They all probably paled in comparison to Clarke Griffin. "’Til two in the morning, huh?"

"Shut up, O," he said grouchily. "It wasn't that kind of meeting."

"So that's how you're going to get the council on our side. Sleep with all of them." Octavia swung her feet back and forth under the table, growing more and more delighted at the exasperated expression on his face. "Genius plan, Bell. You know some of them are married?" She shook her head mock-disapprovingly.

Bellamy made his big brother face at her, the one he used when he wanted her to know she was pushing her luck. "Do you want to hear what happened or do you want to keep cracking jokes?"

Octavia grinned. "Both. Okay, fine. Stop looking at me like that. I want to hear."

"I caught her after the council meeting. Had a little chat."

Both of Octavia's eyebrows shot up. She knew her brother better than that. "After? Really."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine, I showed up in the middle to see if she’d let me in."

"Bellamy Blake, you did not!" She tried to sound scandalized, but it was just the sort of thing she'd expected him to do. Didn't mean she had to like it. "Great, now your boss thinks you're a dick before you've even started your job."

"She's not my boss."

He would pick that to fixate on when she was more concerned about the other part.

"Bell, we talked about this. You can't just go in guns blazing and stomp all over everybody. You've got to use a little diplomacy, learn how to compromise."

He snorted. "Compromise never brings about radical change."

"Maybe we don't need radical change. Maybe we need small changes, one by one, and eventually everything will be different."

"Eventually isn't going to cut it," he said dismissively.

That was her brother. Everything had to be on a grand scale, or it wasn't worth his time. She suspected it was because he'd read too much about people like Napoleon and Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar in his formative years. Who was she kidding, he still read too much about them. Anything about historical leaders with a flair for the dramatic, and he was on that like a mechanic on a fuel leak.

She made sure her tone was dead serious when she caught his eyes and said, "Bellamy, this is our chance and I'm not gonna let you blow it by being an ass." She leaned across the table to shove him in the shoulder, just to get her point across. "Behave."

"I behaved," he said, pitching his tone up at the end in protest.

Now it was her turn to snort. "Yeah, I bet. Behaved like an idiot."

The little crinkles at the corners of his eyes went away, and that was how she knew he was being serious with her when he said, "I just needed to meet her one-on-one, as equals. None of this 'welcome to the council, now sit down and shut up' shit they were gonna pull on me next week. Don't say a thing, O, you know they were. I'll always be in the minority. It's going to be a fight the whole way, with them looking down their damn patrician noses at me like I'm not worthy of breathing the same air."

Octavia felt her expression soften. That was her brother too, always prepared for a fight. It wasn't because he enjoyed fighting—although she suspected he might a little since he was good at in every way—but because he'd lived his life constantly being attacked. Maybe he thought she didn't remember because they never talked about it, but she remembered. Over and over, he'd come home from school with black eyes—too many to count—and their mom would scold him for getting in fights, and he'd take the verbal lashing like he'd no doubt taken the physical one. Silently, unflinchingly, no trace of surrender in his eyes. It was only later, when he traded in black eyes for bloody knuckles, when he'd learned how to be the victor, that Octavia put it all together. People talked about their mom. Kids at school, adults in the mess hall. Everywhere, and Octavia was sheltered from it so Bellamy bore it all alone. They probably talked about her, too, after her arrest, and in a way Octavia was glad she wasn't there to witness the things he did in her defense. She never asked him to do any of that, never wanted him to, but he did anyway. Stupid big brother with his stupid pride and his stupid overprotective love. She didn't know what she'd do without him.

He had a hand clutched on the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip. He wasn't very good at hiding his anger. The family curse. Octavia pried his fingers off it and squeezed his hand briefly before snatching a bit of food off his plate and popping it in her mouth in an effort to lighten the mood.

"Little thief," Bellamy growled, but his mouth turned up at the corner. Small victories.

She flashed a cheeky grin in between chews. "Okay, so how did this one-on-one meeting go?" She leaned forward in her chair, unable to contain her curiosity. "What's Clarke Griffin like?" Obviously everyone knew loads of stuff about the chancellor, but they didn't actually know her. Octavia had seen her make lots of speeches, had even shaken her hand one time at her victory party (which Bellamy had most definitely refused to attend with her), but that didn't exactly give much insight into her as a person.

Bellamy gave her the same look he'd given her when he caught her making out with a cadet in a broom closet when she was 18 (not her brightest moment, considering her brother was one of the janitors who used that closet).

"Seriously, O? The hero worship is getting old."

Octavia scowled. For such a smart guy, her brother was awfully dense sometimes. "It's not hero worship, Bellamy. I wanted her to be chancellor. So sue me. She's smart, she's kind of a badass. I think she's a good person."

His mouth was set in a tight line. Octavia forged on anyway, a note of vulnerability creeping into her voice when she added, "She saved my life, Bell. I've never even thanked her for it."

"I did," he said, then frowned like someone else had spoken the words.

Octavia's mouth dropped open. "Wait, woah, back it up. You what? When?"

"Yesterday," he mumbled, rubbing at a nonexistent smudge on the table.

She stared at him in disbelief for a second. He was her brother, and she knew him like the back of her hand, like the rivet patterns in her sky box cell, but sometimes she still didn't know what was going on in his mind. "What'd you say, I'm gonna blow up your system and reshape it the way I want, oh and by the way, please accept my thanks for saving my sister's life so I can go back to hating you."

Bellamy raised an unimpressed eyebrow. 

Octavia spread her hands out, giving her head a little, expectant shake, never taking her eyes off his. "Well?"

"You know I keep my business and personal lives separate, O," he said briskly.

"Yeah, whatever, but I don't see how that works in this particular case." She stabbed a finger at the tabletop like it was the particular case and if she poked it hard enough it'd reveal its mysteries.

Bellamy slouched back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "What is this, an interrogation? Don't you have work to do?"

It took some effort to stifle her victorious grin. He was misdirecting, which was a classic Bellamy sign of discomfort. "Bell," she said, keeping her eyes wide and innocent. "I'm just gonna keep asking until you tell me."

He rubbed a hand against his forehead, defeated. "We talked about the council. Set our battle lines."

"Okay." Octavia drew the word out. "So when did you thank her?"

Her eyes might have been playing tricks on her, but she could've sworn his cheeks turned a shade darker. "Later."

Octavia made a frustrated noise. "Later when? Where? Her schedule's got to be crazy. She's got people around her all the time."

Bellamy set his jaw and gave her a look.

She gaped at him. "You didn't! You did not! Bell! What were you thinking! What if somebody saw you? What if guards thought it was an assassination attempt or something? Are you insane?" She leaned across the table to shove his shoulder again, but it came out more of a punch.

He brushed her fist away like it was a piece of lint on his shirt.

"Please tell me you, like, slipped a hand-written note under her door or something."

Bellamy gave a wry shake of his head. "Sorry, no hand-written notes required. She let me in."

Something very close to a shriek escaped Octavia's mouth. "She what?" She put a hand up. "Wait, is this a weird, kinky hate sex thing, because I so don't want to hear about that."

And that earned her the dark scowl that made anyone who wasn't Bellamy's sister shake in their boots. Bellamy's sister, and Clarke Griffin, apparently. Octavia felt a grin spreading across her face. Girl had balls, letting Bellamy Blake into her home. Octavia knew who her brother really was, but she also knew his reputation, which she imagined was even worse in Go Sci station.

"I'm not even going to answer that," he said disgustedly. Octavia had a feeling the disgust had more to do with discussing his sex life with his little sister than with the thought of having sex with Clarke Griffin.

"Good, because like I just said, I don't want to hear about that. Gross."

"There's nothing to hear about!" he growled.

Wow, this was a touchy topic with him. Granted, the chancellor was always a touchy topic, but Octavia had hit the motherlode today. She filed that knowledge away for future reference.

"Okay," she said, struggling to compose her face to the appropriate level of seriousness. "So you went to the chancellor's quarters in the middle of the night to thank her for saving my life ten years ago. That makes total sense."

"I don't like owing her a debt," he said darkly, like that explained everything.

Octavia's anger flared up at the words. "It's not your debt to owe, Bellamy! It's mine. Get over yourself already. I'm the one who nearly died, in case you forgot."

His mouth clamped into a tight line, and he looked at her with reproachful eyes. Like I could ever forget, was what they said, but Octavia wasn't ready to forgive him yet.

"You have to stop doing that," she said fiercely. "Stop putting everything on yourself. It's stupid."

Bellamy worked his jaw but said nothing, and they had a resentful stare-down for a few seconds. He looked away first. Score one for me, she thought triumphantly.

He shoved the rest of his food into his mouth, chewing loudly. Octavia watched him for a second.  "What did she say?" she prompted.

Bellamy breathed deeply through his nose like he was trying to hold something in. "She said she didn't want my thanks."

Octavia grimaced. Bet that went over real well. "That's all she said?" she asked, disbelief lacing her tone. Her brother had a way of recasting himself as the hero of his own stories.

"She wanted to know how you were," he added reluctantly.

"Really?" Octavia blurted out, trying and failing to not sound pleased. No one ever wanted to know how the girl who was hidden under the floorboards was. They wanted to stare at her and whisper about her, but that was it. "What did you tell her?"

"Why don't I just give you a transcript of our whole conversation?" he groused, rubbing a hand across his nose. She leaned forward expectantly. He looked at her, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a grin. "The truth. You're a pain in the ass."

Octavia tried to look offended and probably failed spectacularly.

Her brother laughed at her expression and shook his head. "I have to get to work, O."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "There's more you're not telling me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Since when do we tell each other everything?"

"Since never." She made a face at him. "Fine, go to work, you big dummy. I'll find out what's going on eventually."

He frowned at her as he pushed his chair back, but she saw a spark of mischief in his eyes, like he was daring her. Blakes never backed down from a challenge.

She heaved a huge sigh and looked dolefully at her pile of mending. If only her work was a challenge. It bored her to no end, but there weren't exactly a lot of career options for a former illegal child. She'd refused to let Bellamy pull what strings he could to get her a different job—his principles apparently began and ended with her—so she was stuck being a seamstress like her mother. Better than being dead, she always reminded herself grimly.

"Hey, Bell?" she asked wearily, turning back to him.

"Yeah." He shrugged his jacket on.

"What do I say if Clare comes back?" She fixed him with a glare that said Last chance, buddy.

"Nothing. I'll take care of it." He paused to study her. "I'm sorry, you shouldn't have had to do that.”

She rolled her eyes and waved him out the door.

When he was gone, she stuck a couple of pins between her teeth absentmindedly and considered the spot he’d just vacated. Bellamy was irritated with the world at large, as usual, but he was irritated with himself as well today. She'd read it in every frown line on his face, every deflection. Logic told her it had to do with the seemingly insurmountable odds he was bracing himself to fight against. Instinct told her it also had something to do with Clarke Griffin. If she followed both threads, she’d figure out the answer eventually, despite her brother’s best efforts to be secretive. Nobody could beat Bellamy at his own game. Nobody but her.

 

Chapter Text

The impatient rapping on the door signaled that someone was early for dinner. Odds were it wasn't Finn, Mr. Fashionably Late.

Raven opened it to a Clarke Griffin who looked fit to float someone, and she was guessing that someone was her. "I hope you know, I'm very mad at you," she said.

"And yet, here you are," Raven deadpanned.

Clarke huffed out a breath and crossed her arms over her chest.

Petra came running up with a squealed "Clarke!" and threw her tiny arms around her knee.

"Hey, sweetie." Clarke scooped her up and planted an exaggerated smack of a kiss on top of her head, then shifted her to one hip so she could point a finger at Raven. "I'm going to play with the only member of your family I actually like right now, and then you and I are going to have a chat. Please tell me Finn's not coming."

Raven tilted her head and smirked. "Well, that depends on how it goes with you two tonight."

Clarke scowled darkly. "Gross, Raven!" she hissed. "Knock it off!" She covered one of Petra's ears with her free hand, like a two-year-old could understand a double entendre.

Raven rolled her eyes. "Whatever." She shut the door. "It's been about a million years since you've been laid."

Clarke gave her a patronizing look. "It's been three. That's not even that long." Even she didn't sound convinced.

Raven raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well, it's going to happen one of these days, even if I have to do it myself."

Clarke looked alarmed. Raven slugged her in the arm and headed for the kitchen, chuckling the whole way. "Lighten up, Chancellor. This is what I'm talking about. We need to fix this."

Clarke ignored her, instead depositing the toddler in her arms on the floor and covering her eyes. "One…two…"

Petra started for the table on chubby legs, giggling all the while. Raven laid a conspiratorial finger across her lips and opened a cupboard, gesturing her little daughter inside. She closed the door silently behind her, but her efforts were sabotaged somewhat by the metallic clash of dishes falling down inside. Clarke dragged out the seeking part as long as she could, a goofy smile on her face the whole time. Raven turned away, satisfied to see the frown lines ease on her friend's face for the first time in what felt like forever. She could crack jokes at Clarke's expense all she wanted, but she genuinely worried about her. She'd been isolating herself, slowly but surely, for years. It started when she became a council member, and it had only worsened since her election as chancellor. Raven couldn't really understand it. Clarke had the most supportive, loving dad anyone could want, and while her relationship with her mom wasn't perfect, at least Abby had never traded her rations in for illegal booze. Clarke had people who loved her, who were willing to share her burdens, but she still closed in on herself most the time, shutting them all out. She thought strength was never showing weakness.

Raven had once thought that way too. It’d taken her a long time to learn how to be vulnerable.

It wasn't like she thought a man could solve all Clarke's problems. But he could solve a couple of them, maybe. Clarke liked to insist there would be time for that later, when she wasn't chancellor anymore. It was too difficult, she said, to make something work when she was in such a position of power, and Raven knew she had a point. But she also knew she didn't imagine the wistful glances her friend cast at Raven's family when she thought no one was looking.

Was Finn the best person for Clarke? Probably not, but Raven loved both of them dearly and couldn't help trying to nudge them together as best she could.

Petra collapsed on the floor, sleepy and breathless, after Clarke found her under the table for the third time. She toted her to the couch and deposited her there before pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down facing Raven in the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest and a determined look on her face.

Raven looked up from chopping a tomato and grinned evasively. "Do we have to do this now?"

Clarke frowned. "It's not about Finn."

That got Raven's complete attention. She set her knife down and leaned against the counter.

Clarke took a deep breath. "I suppose you've heard about my council visitor."

"Me and half the Ark," Raven joked. Half was a low estimate. "Don't suppose you're going to tell me what it was all about?"

"Just a typical power play." Clarke waved a hand dismissively. "Telling me he's not going to conform to the council, that sort of thing."

Raven raised an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable second part to this story.

Clarke brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and leaned forward like she was about to share a secret. "This doesn't leave the room."

Raven frowned. "’Course not."

Clarke crossed one leg over the other and jiggled her foot nervously. "After that, he came to my door in the middle of the night," she blurted out.

Raven stared at her. "Your—as in, the door to your quarters?"

"Yeah. And…I let him in." She winced, like she thought she was about to be yelled at.

And she was right. "You what?" Raven couldn't keep the outrage out of her voice. "Why would you do that?"

"Erm." Clarke bit her lip and mumbled something incomprehensible.

"I'm going to need a better explanation than that, Clarke."

She took a deep breath. "He wanted to thank me for saving his sister's life. Ages ago. Like it was just weighing on him all these years. And then he sat there staring out the window for a long time, and then he said it didn't change anything. I don't know, it was so weird." She gnawed on her lip again, studying the floor.

Raven watched her with a mix of shock and concern, waiting for her to say something else.

There were a few long moments of silence, then Clarke looked up. "He told me the knight is his favorite chess piece. Why would he say that?" She stared hard at Raven, like her face held the answer to the question.

"Uh…." Raven had no idea, frankly, and the sudden focus on such a small detail confused her. "I don't know, small talk?"

"Small talk?" Clarke's mouth twisted into a patronizing half-smirk. "Bellamy Blake doesn't do small talk. Everything has an underlying meaning."

Raven must’ve done a bad job of hiding her skeptical look, because Clarke heaved a frustrated sigh.

"Look, I know I sound paranoid. But trust me, I'm not. It means something." She started pacing in the small space between the table and the counter, five steps one way and five steps back, over and over. "Nobody's favorite piece is the knight! The queen's the most powerful. The king's the most important. I mean, I could even see the bishop maybe, but the knight?" She looked to Raven, open appeal on her face.

Raven shrugged. "Hey, don't look at me. I don't play chess."

Clarke frowned, and her eyes grew distant. "Maybe because the knight breaks all the normal chess rules, the way it moves. It can sneak up on you if you're distracted looking at diagonals and straight lines."

"Maybe he's got an obsession with the Middle Ages."

The joke fell on deaf ears. Clarke's eyes were wide and slightly manic, and she had that expression on her face she always got when she was trying to solve a difficult math problem in her head.

Raven frowned in concern. "Clarke, how much sleep have you gotten these last couple of days?"

"I don't know, a few hours." She waved her hand like she could physically brush away the question. "I think it's a message. He's trying to tell me he's unpredictable, willing to bend the rules. He doesn't need to tell me that, I already know that. What do you think?"

She came to an abrupt stop in front of Raven, close and demanding.

"Woah." Raven held her hands up in self-defense. "I think he's trying to drive you crazy overanalyzing what it means. And it's clearly working."

The words had their intended effect. Anger flashed across Clarke's face, then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them they were the placid blue of the ocean from space, as if her adversary was here to see how very unruffled she was. Raven turned away to resume her dinner preparations. She couldn't believe how successfully this guy had gotten under her friend's skin, and in such a short period of time. Clarke was a textbook clear, level-headed thinker. She knew how to rule her emotions. Those were the things that made her a good chancellor. Whatever Bellamy Blake was doing to her was unprecedented.

Clarke's voice sounded strained when she spoke again. "Raven, he told me to lock the door behind him."

Raven dropped the knife on the counter with a clatter. "What." Her tone was hard.

"Do you think…." Clarke looked a little lost, like she was afraid to finish the thought. "Is that a threat? He did bluff about killing me."

Raven shook her head. "Nobody who actually wants you dead gives a warning about it."

Clarke looked too relieved at the words. Raven sighed in exasperation. How could she think Bellamy Blake was the only dangerous person on the Ark? "Clarke, I think he was warning you that he's not the only one who wants you out of office, and someone else might be willing to take more extreme measures than he is."

Clarke pressed her lips together like she was holding in a retort. At length, she burst out, "But why would he do that? Maybe he wouldn't kill me himself, but he wouldn't complain if someone else took me out of his way."

Raven shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe we've all misjudged him."

"We?" Her friend's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You mean me."

"Well…." Raven tried to plaster a grin onto her face. "If the shoe fits."

"Still," Clarke insisted. "Even if that's true, he's up to something. He's trying to get inside my head. He's trying to rattle me."

"Well, he doesn't have to try anymore. He's clearly succeeded," Raven muttered under her breath, feeling increasingly convinced that what should be rattling Clarke was the unnamed menace she was supposed to lock her door against.

"Of course he succeeded!" Clarke sounded indignant. "He invades my privacy and says all these vague, contradictory things. How could that not rattle me?"

Raven winced. "I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I'm starting to wish you wanted to talk about the Finn thing instead of this."

Clarke's eyes blazed an even brighter blue than usual. "Oh, I'll have plenty to say about Finn, believe me, after this insufferable dinner is over. But I have more important things to worry about. Like being assassinated."

"Look, all I can say is, if you would see Bellamy Blake alone like that, there's obviously some part of you that doesn't think he's a threat." Clarke's mouth dropped open, so she added quickly, "In that way, at least."

Clarke drummed her fingers loudly on the tabletop, but didn't say anything for a while. "I need a favor," she said at last.

Raven crossed her arms over her chest. "Something tells me it's a favor I won't like doing."

That was greeted with a classic Clarke Griffin stubborn expression, shot through with a trace of guilt. So it was even worse than she thought.

"It's not a big deal," she said, obviously going for a casual tone and overshooting straight into defensive territory. "There's a station meeting in Factory next week and I need you to help get me in. In disguise, of course."

Raven narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "How do you know about a private Factory station meeting?"

Clarke studiously avoided her gaze and shrugged.

"Clarke! Do you have spies? Bad, bad idea! What are you thinking? You're going to make the division even worse."

"I don't have spies," she protested, putting far too much emphasis on the first word for Raven's liking.

"Whatever, someone has spies for you? It's the same thing. If they get traced back to you…I don't even want to think about it."

"So don't think about it. You're missing the point. I need your help, Raven."

She heaved a sigh. "Why me, Clarke? I'm about as happy with the idea of you sneaking into Factory alone as your mom would be."

Clarke's nostrils flared. "Don't you dare."

"Relax. I'm not going to tell Abby. But I won’t be responsible for you getting yourself hurt. Or worse."

Clarke looked more sad than angry. "You know why I picked you. You're the only person I trust to do something like this."

Despite her irritation, Raven cracked a grin. "I thought we'd agreed to pretend I never had any black market connections."

"You don’t have to do that,” Clarke protested. “I just need you to get some stuff for me. It’ll draw too much attention if I do it.”

Raven sighed and put a hand on her hip. “Like what?” She tried not to sound confrontational, but she was really bad at it.

Clarke’s mouth opened and closed. She looked a little out of her depth here. “I don’t know, just an old worker’s uniform or something.”

Raven raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Seriously, Clarke?” She leaned forward to tug on a lock of blonde hair. “You really think some dirty uniform is gonna hide this?”

She flapped her hands in exasperation. “Come on, Rav! Just—get me a wig or something! If there’s one renewable resource we have on this damn floating rustbucket, it’s hair!”

Raven tried really hard to scowl. “Damn floating rustbucket? You know, I bust my ass to keep this thing in premium condition. You better hope I never hear you call it that in public.” She pointed a warning finger at Clarke, who pressed her lips together and shook her head vehemently.

They both fought a losing battle for a couple of seconds, small grins sneaking onto their faces despite themselves. It was impossible to stay angry at each other for long.

“Fine.” Raven held her hands up in defeat. “But if I do this, you gotta take somebody else with you. Me, or anyone else you trust, I don’t care. Just be smart about it.”

“Okay,” Clarke said, but her eyes looked guarded.

Raven glared at her.

“I said okay!”

Raven turned back to the counter. She still didn’t believe her for a minute, but she had time to worry about that later. She flipped a cupboard door open and gestured at it. “Set the table, would you? And be nice to Finn!” she shot over her shoulder, the last of her demands in exchange for helping Clarke do something she highly disapproved of.

But then, it went both ways, she supposed. Clarke highly disapproved of Raven trying to push her into Finn’s arms. But at least that wasn’t a plan that could wind up getting anyone injured or killed. You sure about that, Reyes? She didn’t know why Clarke was so resistant to the idea of getting to know Finn a little better. She had her own strong opinions about him, as she did about everything, formed by the things he did when he was a teenager. Raven knew he wasn’t exactly that person anymore, but Clarke didn’t want to hear about it. And maybe it was Raven’s history with him that made her hesitant as well.

She hadn't noticed something off about her relationship with Finn until after he got out of juvie. She'd been terrified she was going to lose him, and never so relieved as when he was pardoned. She'd thought they'd pick up right where they left off, but there'd been something different about him. In retrospect, she knew it must have been that his brush with death made his emotional priorities more apparent to him. But Finn was a bleeding heart. Some people called him wishy-washy, but Raven wouldn't hear any of that.

He didn't have the stomach to break her heart, so she had to break it for him.

It’d been a harsh realization, the day she noticed she was a sister to him, not a lover—even as he brushed his lips against hers. It had hit her all at once, like a punch to the gut, leaving her breathless and in pain. She hadn't understood how she could've been blind for so long. Never one to let a wound fester, she'd ripped it all apart that same day.

"I love you," he'd protested, his voice turning soft in a way that made her want to take her words back and embrace her own blindness, if only to keep him looking at her like that.

It'd taken every last ounce of strength in her to say what she knew she needed to say then. "Not the way I want to be loved." It wasn't a condemnation, just the sad truth.

Finn had looked heartbroken at that. He'd always been enough for her; he'd always been everything to her. Anything else was probably unthinkable to him.

She'd kept away from him for a couple of years, because she knew that's what she needed to heal. And one day, she noticed the hurt had eased from a searing pain to a gentle, lonely ache, and she realized it wasn't his touch she missed, but his presence. She was ready to be a sister to him, and he'd welcomed her with open arms. They were each other's family, and that was all that mattered.

And later, when she'd met a cheeky engineer who tried to hide the way he looked at her—the way she'd once wanted Finn to look at her—everything became clear. It was like the difference between studying mechanical manuals in school and the first time she'd actually attached herself to a tether and floated into space to make a repair. Theory was just a pale imitation of practice. Isaac Wick loved her the way she wanted to be loved. She was enough for him—just her, Raven Reyes, with all her flaws and foibles and hidden insecurities—and he was enough for her—someone she wanted, not someone she needed.

And now, years later, she was happy and Finn was alone. So she could hardly be blamed for wanting to do something about that.

Finn liked to act all good-natured indulgence when Raven contrived to get him in the same room as Clarke. It was really convincing, actually, because it wasn't an act. That was just Finn. But Raven knew him better than anyone did, and she could see his underlying fascination with Clarke's complete and utter disdain for him. 

People liked Finn. He was just that kind of person. He lacked that one personality trait everyone seemed to have that rubbed people the wrong way. Raven had her confrontational, short temper. Wells was too serious, like always serious. Clarke had her haughtiness, and if Raven was honest about it, her general pigheadedness. Wick's sense of humor could be a little abrasive sometimes. But she'd never managed to figure out Finn's.

Clarke had found it though, whatever it was, and she made no secret about it. And that was probably what drew Finn to her, the novelty of being disliked.

He and Wick arrived together just after Raven put Petra to bed. Predictably, his eyes darted to the subject of his interest the second he walked through the door. She was sitting at the table, arms crossed over her chest and a frosty expression on her face. Raven grinned. The opposite of love’s indifference, right?

"Hey, Clarke," he said, giving a little wave. "You look nice."

"I came straight from the med bay," she said defensively, like he'd just insulted her.

His smile was easy and genuine. "Must come naturally, then."

Raven might have been imagining it, but it looked like Clarke stuck her nose up into the air a tiny bit.

She met her husband's eyes over Finn's head. They were wide and his lips were pinched together, a tell-tale sign that he was trying really hard not to laugh. She was pretty sure he'd be wearing that expression all evening. Two minutes into this thing and they were all in trouble already.

Wick was itching to ask Clarke about Bellamy Blake, she could see it in his eyes. And judging from the curious looks Finn was shooting her way, he was tempted to do the same.

Time for some preemptive damage control. She went to her husband, brushing a kiss across his cheek and stepping on his foot pointedly. "Why don't you tell them about the reconstruction project in section 26?"

He looked down at her, registering the message loud and clear. "Oh yeah. Sounds like a routine sort of thing, right? Totally boring. Well, you'll never guess what we found when we pulled up some of the floor panels."

Raven breathed a little sigh of relief. Nobody was better at distraction.

As they ate, he regaled them with the story of how they'd found a century-old stash of candy bars from one of the space station's original occupants, how a couple of them had seeped through their wrappers, melted all over everything and then calcified over the years.

"So as we're scraping up this mess, Jake says, 'You know, I've always wondered what chocolate tastes like.'"

Clarke actually chuckled at that, rolling her eyes.

"And keep in mind, some of these are still sealed. I mean, we figure they're pretty much fossils at this point, but what a waste to just chuck ’em, right?"

Finn gave an exaggerated grimace. "I think I know where this is going."

Wick grinned. "We were all daring each other to try it, but nobody wanted to be the one. So I thought I'd make it a little interesting and bet a day of my rations to whoever swallowed a piece and kept it down."

"You what?" Raven slugged him in the arm with affectionate exasperation. She hadn't heard this part before. "Maybe don't say that part in front of the chancellor, loudmouth." Betting wasn't technically illegal on the Ark, but it was frowned upon.

He assumed a penitent expression, offering his wrists to Clarke. "Sorry, Chancellor. Clap me in irons, right?"

Clarke tried to look stern. "I'll overlook it this time." A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "If you tell me who ate it. Please don't say my dad."

"Nope. Sinclair. He chipped a tooth and wound up in the med bay, but he won. Totally worth it." He sat back in his chair, looking far too satisfied with himself.

"What?" Clarke sounded a little outraged. "He told me he ate some bad rations!"

"Well, it wasn't exactly a lie…" Finn supplied, and he and Wick chuckled.

Raven stiffened a little. He'd brought Clarke's attention back to himself by speaking, and while he was distracted she was studying him. The expression on her face was not friendly.

Time for an emergency change of topic. "How are the kids, Finn?" she asked brightly. "Which unit are you on?"

He ran a hand through his messy hair. "We just started Tracking. Not gonna lie, they're pretty hopeless at it so far. Can't tell the difference between a deer and a wild boar."

Raven sympathized with the poor school kids. She was pretty sure she'd slept through that entire unit, bored to tears. She learned with her hands. She didn't do theory so well. "Can you blame them? It's hard to learn something when you can’t actually do it."

"Something tells me they'll be a lot more enthusiastic when we get to trapping and hunting," he countered wryly.

Raven shook her head. Finn and his aversion to violence, actual or theoretical. It was probably a good thing that he'd never actually have to kill an animal for food.

"How does it feel?" Clarke interrupted neutrally.

Finn's eyes swiveled to her, surprised she'd addressed him directly. "How does what feel?"

"Having a job that's of no immediate, practical use to anybody? Just passing on information someone else told you and no one you're teaching it to is ever going to actually use?" Clarke had a mocking half-smile on her face.

“They’ll need it someday. When they go back.” Finn’s tone was mild.

“It’s all in the archives. They can read it for themselves, when the time comes. It’s a waste of air.” She said each of the last words sharply, as if they were intended to cut.

There was dead silence around the table. Finn had a wounded expression on his face that he was trying his best to conceal. Raven shifted uneasily in her chair. “Clarke—”

Finn held up a hand to stop her from intervening, even though she had no idea what she would have followed up with anyway. “It’s okay,” he said calmly, never taking his eyes off the woman sitting next to him. He pushed his chair back, angling it towards her. “Do you have something else to say to me, Clarke?”

She blinked and said nothing, apparently taken aback by his bluntness.

“Go ahead. I feel like you’ve been itching to tell me off about something since you first met me. Have at it.” He spread his arms out at his sides as if to say he was ready for whatever verbal blows she was going to throw at him.

“Fine.” Clarke crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t like you.”

He smiled slightly. “I couldn’t tell.”

She breathed in deeply through her nose and didn’t answer.

He sat up straighter in his chair, shaking his head. “But that’s not what this is about. You know it’s not either of our faults these two geniuses think we’re perfect for each other.”

Raven glanced at her husband, guessing that his awkward expression mirrored her own—mouth gaping open slightly and eyes darting between the other two like he was watching a centuries-old tennis match.

“Trust me, Chancellor, I didn’t want to come here tonight any more than you did.”

Raven barely suppressed a snort. That was an outright lie. Unless Finn hid his true feelings better than Clarke did, but somehow she didn’t think so.

“So I’m asking you again, just…say what you gotta say.”

Clarke arched an eyebrow, clearly taking that as a challenge.

Oh crap, I know that look. Raven propped an elbow on the table and dropped her forehead onto her hand. She was willing to admit now that this had been the worst idea in the history of ideas, especially with Clarke’s current state of mind. She was a frenzy of anxious energy today, prickly and combative and not at all like the Clarke Griffin Raven had known for years. It was like Bellamy Blake had flipped some switch on her personality that was usually set to off.

“You used up a month of oxygen on an illegal spacewalk.” There was no mistaking her tone for anything other than an accusation.

Finn’s mouth snapped shut, and he looked down. He hated being reminded about that. “Yeah, I did,” he said regretfully. “And I spent fourteen months in the sky box for it.”

Clarke laughed, sharp and brittle. “Fourteen months? You think that makes it okay?”

His eyes shot back up to her face, ready to defend himself now. “That’s not what I meant.”

But Clarke didn’t want to hear it. “I spoke to someone the other day who spent sixty months in the sky box. You want to know what he did?” She pushed her plate away, folded her hands on the table, leaned forward, silently demanding that Finn maintain eye contact. “He sure as hell didn’t kill anyone. He borrowed a guard’s baton without asking. He was a child, and he nearly died for that.”

Finn flinched at her words, but he didn’t look away. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows. “Not yet,” she said softly. “But someday, maybe. When it’s time to go back to the ground. The grandchildren, great-grandchildren of those kids in your Earth Skills classes. When the oxygen systems start failing, and it’s go or die. Have you done the math?”

Finn shook his head mutely.

“I have. Seventeen minutes. Doesn’t sound like much, right? But when it comes down to the end, seventeen minutes could be the difference between life and death. You like teaching people about theory? Try that one on for size.” She laughed humorlessly. “Finn Collins takes illegal spacewalk, pays debt to society with a year in lockup, and kills two and a half thousand people a hundred years later.”

“I was a stupid kid. I regret doing that every day.”

“I would have floated you,” Clarke said. Her voice was flinty.

A pained look flashed across his face briefly, then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, really? Says the chancellor who’s floated a grand total of two people since taking office.”

“Oh, I’m not floating enough people for your tastes?”

“Quite the opposite, actually. Fewest floatings we’ve had in half a century, and that can only be a good thing. I was just calling your bluff.”

“I wasn’t bluffing.”

“Well, then I guess I’m lucky you weren’t chancellor when my case came up for review.”

“I guess you are,” Clarke shot back, arms still crossed over her chest, which was heaving up and down like anger was a form of exercise.

There was silence in the room again. The constant humming that was just another background noise on the Ark suddenly sounded deafening.

Finn ran a hand through his hair again. “Look, you can think whatever you want about me. My job is important. Who knows if we’ll last up here as long as we’re supposed to? We need to be ready for anything.”

Clarke frowned, but it looked less confrontational than before. Raven had the oddest sensation everyone was holding their collective breath to see how she was going to react to that.

They didn’t have to wait long. She pushed her chair back suddenly, standing up and dropping her napkin on the table. “I have to go. It was really good, Rav. I’m sorry. Wick. Finn,” she mumbled, and she was out the door almost before Raven could blink in reaction.

They looked at each other in confusion, then made a few more minutes of stilted conversation before Finn excused himself as well, claiming he had to get up early to go over lesson plans. Raven decided it was better to not point out that he didn’t have school the next day.

She collapsed on the couch as soon as the door shut behind Finn. “That was a disaster,” she groaned. “I’ve never been so stressed out just from listening to two people talking.”

Wick leaned over her with a cheeky grin. “I can fix that.”

She laughed and twined her arms around his neck, pulling him down and losing herself in his lips and the scrape of stubble against her skin.

Except her brain wouldn’t shut off, too worried about her friend and whatever disastrous schemes she was going to insist on carrying out all by herself. Raven had promised not to tell anyone, but now she was starting to rethink whether that was advisable. Clarke herself wasn’t being entirely honest, after all, and she wouldn’t put it past her to not hold up her end of the bargain by taking someone with her. If she had her way, she’d walk right into the belly of the beast with no one to have her back. At best it was reckless, at worst it was suicidal.

Wick’s breath was hot on her stomach and he was already unbuttoning her pants and sliding a hand inside. “Do you think….” Raven started to say, gasping and arching up against him. “Do you think Bellamy Blake is dangerous?”

He stopped, propped his chin on her hip, looked up at her seriously. “I’ll admit he’s a good-looking guy, but I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t be thinking about him at a time like this.” His eyes had a mischievous spark in them.

Raven swatted at his head. “I’m serious. To Clarke. To the council. To you.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Can’t say for sure at this point, I guess. But I’m inclined to say no. He’s no Diana Sydney, that’s for sure. Not his style.” He studied her face, and she was afraid he could read too much there. “Why?”

Raven bit her lip. “Just—something Clarke said. I think she’s barking up the wrong tree. Can’t get her to see that, though.”

“Give it a couple of council meetings, maybe. We’ll see what he’s up to.”

Raven nodded. It was a reasonable strategy, but it didn’t solve her current dilemma. She sighed. Can’t do anything about it tonight.

Wick was still looking up at her with concern. She grinned and pushed at his shoulders. “Distract me,” she whispered.

And he obliged.

 

Chapter Text

No matter how early Clarke arrived for council meetings, Wells was always there first. He was aggravatingly punctual.

She hoped to beat him there on this particular day, needing a few minutes in the solitude of the council room to steel herself for the unknown variable she was about to face.

Bellamy Blake was a wild card. There was no way of predicting how he was going to behave in his first council meeting. Would he challenge her outright, or would he take a more subtle, manipulative approach? She'd spent the last week asking herself that very question—resulting in several lost nights of sleep and an irritable, sharp-tongued version of herself she hardly recognized—and she'd come no closer to an answer. It was infuriating.

The worst part was she knew that was exactly what he wanted. To unbalance her, to keep her guessing. It was all too easy to picture the smug expression that would take over his face if he ever found out how very much he was affecting her sleep. It all left her with an uncharacteristic amount of pent-up aggression, enough that she'd seriously considered visiting the gym and getting personally acquainted with a punching bag. People would talk, though, speculate about the chancellor's sudden interest in fitness, and from there it wouldn't be much of a leap to figure out who her sudden physical aggression was really directed at.

Can't beat up a punching bag, can't beat up Bellamy Blake. Her options were slim. She'd resorted to sharp words instead, and the list of people she'd hurt with them was piling up by the day. Finn, Raven, Wells, her mom, Miller, even her dad. Something needed to be done.

She could see her best friend in his customary seat before she was even through the door, but she suddenly didn't mind that he was there. "Hey, Wells," she began as she rounded the corner. "Does your dad still use that punching bag in the living room? Do you think he'd mind if I borrowed—"

Her words came to an abrupt halt—as did her feet—when she saw they weren't alone in the council room.

Bellamy Blake was already sitting at the table, because of course he was. She'd assumed he'd come strolling in late, just to make everyone wait for him. Wrong again, she thought with frustration, trying very hard to keep her fingers from curling into fists.

He tilted his head to the side to look at her, eyes darting down to her hands like he could read her thoughts. His grin was knowing. "Afternoon, Chancellor."

"Mr. Blake," she gritted out from behind a tight smile.

Her eyes darted between the two men, trying to get a read on the situation. Wells was sitting formally, back ramrod-straight and holding a tablet in front of him on the table. Clarke was sure he'd been legitimately engrossed in work, but it didn't hurt that it was an effective way to ignore the other man. Across the table, Bellamy was sprawled in Marcus Kane's vacated seat—the right one, miraculously—with the customary casual possessiveness he seemed to have over everything that touched his person.

Belatedly, she realized Wells' and Bellamy's eyes were flicking between the other two people in the room just like hers were, and they were all three currently engaged in the most awkward triangle of eye shifting she'd ever been a part of.

Clarke breezed her way around the table to her chair, trying to feel as calm as she hoped she looked. This was her territory, after all. She should be the one at ease, and Bellamy Blake should feel like the intruder.

She set her hands on the back of her chair, intending to pull it out and take a seat, but Wells set his tablet down and leaned forward before she could.

"Chancellor," he said, "may I have a word with you?"

She frowned at the formality. He rarely called her anything other than her first name.

"Yes, of course," she said smoothly, studiously avoiding Bellamy's gaze.

She was already heading for the hallway, Wells on her heels, before she realized that she should have made Bellamy leave the room instead. Too late. Once they were safely out of earshot, she turned to face Wells, clasping a hand to her forehead in irritation. Why did every single move she made have to be a power play?

He crowded in close, bending his head down so he could speak in a whisper. "Raven talked to me."

Clarke's head jerked up. "What?" she said sharply, forgetting to be quiet. His eyes held a silent warning. "What?" she repeated in a whisper, her voice no less fierce.

"Come on, Clarke, you know what I'm talking about."

She scowled. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Yeah, well, I do."

"That wasn't supposed to leave the room," she hissed, feeling slightly betrayed.

The corner of his mouth twitched up into a faint smile, one that only someone who knew him well could even recognize as such. "Don't worry, it didn't."

Clarke raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"She was very insistent that we needed to have the conversation in her kitchen," he explained, sounding a little amused. "Which confused me until just this second."

"Raven!" she growled, or as close to a growl as she could manage while still whispering.

"Clarke," he said reproachfully. "She's just trying to help you. We're both trying to help you."

"By stopping me? I'm the chancellor, Wells. This is my job."

"It's your job to get yourself killed?" His tone was gentle, not confrontational, and his eyes were so warm with concern Clarke found it difficult to meet them. "Stop pushing us away, Clarke. We're your friends."

She leaned away, eyeing him warily.

He rubbed a hand across his mouth. "Look, I know I can't stop you. You're too damn stubborn; you're going to do what you want. But I'm asking you…don't do it alone."

Clarke clamped her lips together, considering her options. "You can't go with me, Wells. You're like...a giant." That wasn't an exaggeration. He was without doubt one of the tallest people on the Ark, and the most well-known. Kind of came with the territory of being both a chancellor's son and a council member. "They'd recognize you in a second."

"So don't take me. Take Raven, take a guard, anyone who can watch your back."

Clarke studied her friend, his earnest expression and the beseeching way he was clasping one of her hands in his. She looked down at them, almost as familiar to her as her own from years of watching him move chess pieces, comforting him when his mom was dying, working on school projects with him, entwining their fingers together during the brief time they dated.

His words echoed inside her head, the ones that bothered her most. Stop pushing us away. Was that really what they thought she was doing? She didn’t want to do things on her own; she had to. Might as well have been part of her job description. She had the council, but there were some decisions she had to make on her own. She had her family and friends to give her advice and support, but they weren’t the ones who had to push the button that opened the airlock chamber. She’d never considered herself to be innocent—she didn’t know if it was possible for anyone on the Ark to be innocent—but she’d certainly lost some part of herself in the last year. Was she trying to save her friends from experiencing that same kind of loss? Or was she trying to hide who she’d become from them?

She didn’t want to contemplate the answer to those questions at the moment, but she decided it wouldn’t hurt to compromise.

She met his eyes again. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll make sure Miller’s there. Maybe Raven too, if she has time.”

Relief washed over his face, and he squeezed her hand again, gratefully this time. “You better not be playing me, Griffin,” he said, and although it sounded like a joke, she knew he meant every word.

“I’m not. I promise.” Clarke injected every last ounce of sincerity she had into the words, and wondered if it should bother her that it took effort to do so.

Wells dropped her hand and gave a tight-lipped smile. “Good.”

He turned to go back to the council room, but a sudden panic seized Clarke at the thought of sitting at the table with just Bellamy and Wells, no buffer of other people. She laid a hand on his arm to prevent him from moving away.

“Did you bring the constitution?” she blurted out, the first thought that popped into her head.

He gave her a dubious look. “Of course. That is my job, and it’s also protocol. Why would you ask that?”

Clarke didn’t like the way he was looking at her. She tried to brush her blunder off with a laugh. “Oh, you know, thought you might have some devious plan to not swear him in properly and then render all his votes today invalid.” If her laugh sounded a little hysterical, she hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed. He moved closer, lowering his voice again. “Clarke,” he whispered, voice laced with disbelief. “Are you avoiding Bellamy Blake?”

“No!” she protested.

Wells raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” she muttered.

“Hey, I get it. I’d be happy if I never set eyes on him again, but we have to spend at least a couple of hours with him every week, so we’d better get used to it.”

Clarke set her jaw grimly. She had a sinking feeling that there was no getting used to Bellamy Blake. He just barreled through life like a meteoroid through space, and you either got out of his way or collided with him in the process, and it didn’t stop him or alter his course for a second.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. He’s just as human as you are.

She forced a smile for Wells. “Yeah, I know. Just…delaying the inevitable, I guess.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. You’re Clarke Griffin. You’re not intimidated by anyone. If you could keep Marcus Kane in line, Bellamy Blake should be a piece of cake.” This time, he cracked a grin that actually included teeth.

Clarke couldn’t help grinning back. “Piece of cake,” she repeated, although that idiom had never made much sense to her. Maybe she would understand it more if she’d ever actually tasted a piece of cake.

And then she spotted salvation in human form over Wells’ shoulder. “Verne!” she said brightly. She couldn’t have picked a better neutral party to arrive first. She greeted her in the hallway, then followed her in, pausing to exchange a look with Wells that was identical to the ones they’d always exchanged right before a particularly difficult test in school.

Bellamy was still seated in his chair, and he was even sitting like a respectable person—all four chair legs on the floor, booted feet under the table where they belonged. He even rose to greet Verne, and it was startling to witness the change that came over him as he shook her hand and started some small talk about her job in Agro station. Clarke stood a few steps back, almost aghast as she watched the charm assert itself in full force.

And it didn’t let up as the three other council members arrived. The only thing that changed was Clarke, who went from watching resentfully from the door to watching resentfully from her chair. Much to her chagrin, she couldn’t take her eyes off Bellamy the entire time.

It was no wonder everyone was always waxing poetic about how charismatic he was. Clarke had never witnessed any of it directed at her, and she didn’t know if she should be relieved or offended about that. Watching it secondhand was a whole other experience, she supposed, but she couldn’t help feeling irrationally irritated when Ursula smiled or Jasper laughed or Wick shook his hand.

She decided she’d better call the meeting to order before her blood pressure went off the charts.

She sat up primly in her chair, rapped her gavel on the table, folded her hands in front of her, and waited for everyone to take a seat. Bellamy had a smug expression on his face. At least, she thought it was a smug expression. Maybe that was just how his face was. She wanted to punch it. Her fingernails dug into her skin.

“Today we welcome Bellamy Blake as a council member,” she said, giving him a brief nod, and feeling a great deal of silent relief that the traditions of the council were concise and straightforward. They bore all the marks of being established by scientists, not politicians. People who had no patience for superfluity, bless their hearts, and Clarke felt just the same. The less political jargon to get through, the better.

She pushed her chair back and went to fetch the constitution from the side table Wells had placed it on. It was an actual printed and bound book, old-fashioned by anyone’s standards, but the Ark founders had wanted a hard copy as well as a digital one. Tradition had its place. Clarke picked it up carefully, its leather cover worn soft over the years. If Wells had his way, she’d only ever touch it while wearing gloves, but then, he was overly protective about everything in the archives.

She stood behind her chair, holding the constitution flat in front of her. “Mr. Blake, please step forward to take your oath of office.”

He obeyed, moving to stand in front of her. He was taking up too much space again, standing too close to her, stealing all the air or something. There was no other explanation for why she’d be having flashbacks to the last time he was standing this close, when his face had been open and vulnerable and she’d been wearing decidedly less clothing.

She tilted her head back so she could meet his eyes squarely, in case there was a challenge there, in case he knew what she’d been thinking about, but they were impossible to read. He didn’t look smug for once, so that was an improvement.

“Raise your right hand and place your left hand on the constitution.”

He complied, but she could’ve sworn he placed his left hand off-center on purpose, thumb brushing against her fingers where they were curled around the side of the book. If Raven was here to see that, to witness the things Bellamy did to throw her off balance, she’d never dare call her paranoid again.

When he recited his oath, the words were a low, grave rumble. “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of councillor, and will to the best of my ability preserve, uphold, and defend the constitution, observe the laws, promote the general welfare of the Ark populace, and sustain the union of the human race.”

As he spoke, Clarke found her eyes unwillingly resting on his face. He had more freckles on his nose than she’d realized, and they made him look a good decade younger than he actually was. He had a scar above his lip too, and she caught herself wondering how he’d gotten it.

Then she met his eyes, and something about them made her fingers tighten on the book. He really meant what he was saying. They weren't just empty words he was reciting. They were coming alive out of his mouth, and she hadn't expected that. He might define them in a different way than her, but he meant them just as sincerely.

A sincere opponent was far more dangerous than a dishonest one.

She pulled the constitution away from his hand the second he was finished speaking, in such a hurry that his thumb caught across the inside of her wrist. Her pulse jumped, and she had to will herself not to move away, and instead to shift the book to her left hand and hold her right out for him to shake.

"Welcome to your duties, Councillor Blake," she said stiffly. His hand was startlingly warm when it engulfed her cold fingers.

The corner of his mouth angled upwards. "Thank you, Chancellor."

She dropped his hand so she could return the constitution to its place, eager to reclaim her seat and get on with the meeting. She was immeasurably thankful that the agenda for the day included largely uncontroversial issues. She gave a follow-up report on her inspection of Hydra station, and they arranged a list of repairs needed in order of priority. Afterwards, they took a few votes on minimal operations issues with little debate. Through it all, Bellamy scarcely spoke a word more than necessary. Clarke was surprised, but she couldn't prevent a feeling of impending dread that he was up to something.

She didn't know how long she could keep up this constant state of suspicion before she had a breakdown. Get a grip, Clarke, she told herself sternly. She refused to suffer through the next few years with this feeling. Especially when the cause of it was sitting in his chair, cool and collected, like he didn't have a care in the world.

They'd just finished a unanimous vote on training schedule changes for apprenticeships, and Clarke was beginning to let herself hope that she could actually escape this first meeting without experiencing a Bellamy-induced disaster.

She shifted restlessly in her chair. "All right, does anyone have any last-minute, off-agenda issues to address?"

She gave a cursory glance around the table. Silent headshakes all around, and then…Bellamy Blake's hand went up.

"May I, Chancellor?" His faux-meek tone didn't fool her for a second.

Five other heads swiveled in his direction.

Clarke's mouth tightened. She gestured him to speak. "As you wish, Councillor Blake."

But he didn't speak. Instead, he pushed his chair back, went to pick up the constitution, and slapped it down on the table in front of him in dramatic enough fashion that Clarke saw Wells flinch in protest next to her.

Everyone stared in silence. Bellamy remained standing, a satisfied smile tugging at his face.

"Do you have something to say, Councillor Blake?" Clarke asked dryly. "Or do you want us to stare at the constitution all afternoon?" 

"That's exactly what I want you to do.” His tone sounded far too much like a command for her liking. “All of us. Cover to cover. So to speak. Not this particular copy, obviously.”

There were several confused glances exchanged around the table, but again, no one said anything. They all had access to copies in the digital archives, but that wasn’t the point.

Clarke decided to speak for everyone. "I can assure you, we've all read it in its entirety. Several times over."

She tried to ignore the sight of Jasper sheepishly sinking down into his chair out of the corner of her eye, making a mental note to scold him about that later.

Bellamy gave a stubborn jerk of his chin. "Good, so you can all do it again."

“I’m afraid I don’t see the point,” Clarke protested.

He huffed out a disbelieving breath and shook his head. “Does there have to be a point?”

She narrowed her eyes. There was obviously a point; he just didn’t want to reveal what it was yet. She didn’t trust him for a second.

He held his hands out, glancing around the rest of the table with genial appeal. “What do my fellow council members say? What harm would it do to reread the laws we’re basing all of our decisions on?”

Clarke gritted her teeth. He’d just leapfrogged right over her authority, as effortlessly as he did everything. She glanced around the table, but they were looking at each other and Bellamy rather than at her. There were a few murmurs of assent. Wells was silent next to her, but he looked perplexed rather than angry.

Wick made an attempt to diffuse the tension with a chuckle. “I don’t know about everyone else, but I could use a refresher. Getting forgetful in my old age.” He tugged on the hair at his temple, where there was at most one strand of grey.

Clarke scowled a little, glaring at the leather-bound book across the table where Bellamy was currently running his finger up and down the spine.

“What do you say, Chancellor?”

She glanced up to find everyone was looking at her. Refusing wasn’t an option, but she needed to drag out agreeing as long as possible. She couldn’t have him thinking he could sway the entire council, and more importantly, her, to his will as easily as that. She folded her hands in front of her and pressed her lips into a tight line.

He leaned forward, hands flat on the table, and directed his next words straight to Clarke, like they were the only ones in the room. "Indulge me," he breathed, and surely she wasn't imagining that he'd said it in a shamelessly inappropriate tone for a council meeting.

Her eyebrows shot up. Bellamy’s did the same, a mocking reflection.

“I’m not in the habit of indulging anyone,” she said icily.

His expression didn’t change.

Clarke sat up straighter in her chair. “However, the council seems to be in agreement, and I can hardly deny that familiarity with our laws is a good thing.”

She met Bellamy’s eyes across the table. There wasn’t even a hint of triumph in them. He knew he’d had her beaten from the start.

She tried not to sigh. “Very well. Councillor Blake has assigned us some homework. Until next week.” She picked up her gavel and rapped it lightly on the table. “Meeting adjourned.”

Jasper muttered something about hoping there wasn’t a pop quiz.

“What was that, Councillor Jordan?” she asked him quietly.

He pushed his chair back, grinning. “Nothing, Chancellor. I’m going to get an A+ and show you all up.”

“Too bad I don’t give extra credit, Jordan,” Bellamy shot back as Jasper passed him on his way out the door. Of course he had to hear that.

Wells leaned towards Clarke. “We’ll talk more tomorrow,” he said, giving her a warning look that their earlier conversation wasn’t over. She nodded, and he got up to whisk his precious copy of the constitution away before Bellamy Blake could abuse it any more than he already had.

Clarke sighed and started rolling one of her sleeves up. She had a shift in the med bay to get to.

Wick stopped next to her chair and dipped his head down to say softly, “Rav’s gonna stop by your quarters tonight. Something important to discuss.”

Clarke turned to study him, trying to read how much he knew.

“Hey,” he said matter-of-factly, “I don’t pry. I know you’ve got your secrets.” Then, of course, he had to ruin the moment by waggling his eyebrows.

Clarke waved him off with a grin. “Get outta here.”

Verne and Ursula were chatting by the door. Bellamy was still sitting at the other end of the table. Clarke decided she needed to escape the room before they were left alone. She pushed herself to her feet.

“I think you may have missed your calling, Councillor Blake,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“English teacher?” Clarke asked neutrally. She didn’t know what she was doing. It almost sounded like teasing.

His lips twitched. “Nah. History’s more my style.”

“Really?” Clarke crossed her arms over her chest, appraising him with renewed interest. She never would have guessed it.

“Really,” he said, leaning back in his chair and looking far too satisfied at having surprised her yet again.

“Modern?” She didn’t even know why she was asking. Damn her curiosity.

He shrugged a shoulder. “Any. I’ve got a soft spot for ancient, though.”

Her eyebrows must have shot up again, because he laughed. “Not just a pretty face, Princess. Who do you think named my sister?”

She sobered at that, picturing a tiny Bellamy Blake naming his illegal baby sister, the burden of keeping her alive suddenly thrust upon him through no choice of his own.

She emerged from her introspection to find him frowning, the brief good mood between them evaporated in a matter of seconds.

“That was never an option for me,” he said bitterly. “Nothing was an option for me.” He looked at her accusingly, like it was an injustice that was her fault.

Clarke frowned too, because that wasn’t fair. But then, none of it was fair. “Well, you wouldn’t be here then, would you?”

Bellamy’s eyebrows furrowed, and he looked perplexed at her words. Rendered speechless, for once. She excused herself in a hurry and left for the med bay before he could recover.

 

Chapter Text

Clarke tugged nervously at the grey scarf wrapped around her head, running her fingers along the edge one last time to make sure every strand of blonde hair was hidden safely away beneath it. She glanced up at Raven. “How do I look?”

Raven shot her a grin as she shimmied one of her mechanic jumpsuits over her hips. “Terrible.”

Clarke frowned. “You were supposed to say unrecognizable.”

Raven yanked the sleeves up her arms and started fastening the line of buttons down the front as she leaned back to study Clarke. “I don’t know. You’re the chancellor. You’re pretty recognizable. But that’s the best we can do. Nobody’s going to be looking for you in sanitation coveralls.” She leaned over to tug on the bulky fabric around Clarke’s hips. “That’ll help too.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.” Clarke swore Raven had found her an outfit a couple of sizes too big on purpose. She’d said that was all she could get her hands on with such short notice, but Clarke was skeptical. Still, she was hardly in a position to complain.

“No problem.” Raven let down her ponytail, running her fingers through her hair briefly before starting in on a braid. It wouldn’t be a disaster if anyone recognized her, so she was making less drastic efforts to disguise herself. “Well, it was a little bit of a problem. I think you owe me one, Griffin.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “I already promised Petra sleepovers in my quarters whenever she wants. Isn’t that enough?”

Raven pursed her lips. “I don’t know, haven’t decided yet.”

Clarke laughed softly and shook her head, thankful that she’d listened to her friends’ advice and brought people with her. She would’ve been jumping out of her own skin if she’d been alone, but Raven’s presence was calming her down for the moment. Until they had to part ways.

They’d locked themselves in a tiny supply closet to change, one that was tucked away down a back hallway. Miller was somewhere on the other side of the door in civilian clothes. The plan was for all three of them to arrive at the meeting location at separate times, and space themselves as far away from each other as possible while still staying in sight. Clarke wasn’t sure how crowded it would be, but that was the best plan she could come up with.

Raven leaned down, rummaging in the bag she’d brought and pulling out a guard-issue, collapsed stun baton.

Clarke eyed it dubiously. “Where’d you get that?”

“Relax. It’s from Miller. In case something goes wrong.” She held it out to Clarke, who didn’t move to take it. “What? You know how to use it, right?”

“In theory,” Clarke said slowly. Just like she knew how to use a gun, in theory, but she had no inclination to use either.

Raven took that as an invitation to demonstrate the proper way to wield a guardsman’s baton, showing her the lever to press, the proper wrist flick to expand it, the switch to turn it on. Where to touch it to someone’s body, and where not to touch it. Clarke decided she’d rather not ask how Raven knew all of that.

Apparently satisfied with her short lesson, she collapsed the baton again and dropped it into one of Clarke’s huge pockets. “You use that if you need to, okay?” she said seriously, meeting Clarke’s eyes.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’m going to stay near the back, stay near other people, and leave right away.”

Raven wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a swift hug. "Be careful, okay?" she whispered. "I'll meet you back here after."

Clarke nodded, trying not to cling back too tightly, afraid it would betray her own doubts.

Raven let go and slipped out the door.

Clarke leaned back against the wall and counted out the five minutes she needed to wait, trying in vain to slow her heartbeats to match the count. She hadn’t been to Factory without a guard escort since becoming a council member, and it wasn’t like she’d frequented the place before that. There was no reason to go there, and it wasn't exactly a good place to be for anyone from Go Sci.

If she was honest with herself, her anxiety was matched by her curiosity. She wanted to see what it was like there when no one thought they were being watched by authority figures. How Bellamy Blake interacted with them. How they looked at him, how they spoke to him. If he truly represented them, or if he was just another Diana Sydney hungry for power. He'd almost be easier to deal with if he was, but any hope of that was growing fainter with every new piece of information she learned about him. She just wanted to see the proof of it with her own eyes. And perhaps get some hint of what he was up to. He was so difficult to read, a persona she was pretty sure he cultivated. He wanted to be an enigma. Keep people guessing, and you've got all the power. Sometimes Clarke wished she could be like that, but she was too much like her dad. Too earnest, too straightforward. All this intrigue didn't come naturally to her, but she had to play the game.

She'd stayed up half the night after the council meeting, rereading the constitution in its entirety, trying to read between the lines to find Bellamy's purpose. Half a night's restless sleep and a second reread later, and she still was no closer to an answer. His words revolved endlessly through her head—we don't like the system—like they were some kind of clue. He'd praised entropy and chaos, but she had a feeling that wasn't his style. If he liked history, he knew which systems had and hadn't worked in the past. No, Clarke was certain Bellamy Blake had a plan, and he'd already set it in motion.

Two soft knocks on the door startled her out of her thoughts. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she slipped out of the closet. Lieutenant Miller was leaning against the wall next to it, somehow managing to look both relaxed and alert at the same time. He'd pulled a beanie over his hair and was wearing the mismatched uniform of a culinary tech. He looked completely different, and he wore the disguise easily, like it was more natural to him than his guard uniform. Clarke couldn't help feeling a little jealous.

"Coast is clear," he said. "Got your baton?"

She nodded, hand moving automatically to her pocket.

"Good. You shouldn't need it if we stick to the plan. I'll try to keep you in my line of sight at all times, but I'll need to know where you are to do that."

Clarke nodded again. "Got it. I'll stay near the back of the room, take the planned route back here after."

He jerked his chin down the hallway. "Best be on your way then."

He'd never spoken to her so casually before, but he could hardly follow protocol here. Clarke decided she kind of liked it. She took a few steps down the hall, then stopped abruptly, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Miller? How do I look?"

He smiled faintly. "Like you belong here.”

Clarke gave a tentative answering smile, squared her shoulders resolutely, and took off down the hall without looking back.

The meeting was taking place in the largest common area in Factory station, but it still wasn’t large enough to hold everyone in attendance comfortably. People spilled into the various hallways branching off from the room, including the one Clarke had come from. For half a second, she contemplated staying there, in the shadows, but she wouldn’t be able to see a thing. She pushed her way into the throng instead, half-irritated that what looked like the entire population of Factory had shown up for this thing, and half-relieved that it would render her essentially invisible. It took several minutes, but she managed to elbow her way through to stand near a wall, positioning herself slightly behind a couple of tall men. If she stood in just the right spot, she could see the front of the room through the gap between their shoulders.

A quick scan of the tightly packed crowd told her it would be sheer luck if she managed to spot Raven. And sheer luck if Miller managed to spot her. She knew in theory that should make her uneasy, but she felt strangely safe in the little space she was currently occupying. Her eyes sought out Bellamy Blake instead.

It was a few minutes’ futile search, and she was just starting to wonder scornfully if he was arriving late to his own meeting when a familiar head of messy dark hair caught her eye, detaching itself from the crowd as its owner stepped up onto some sort of makeshift platform that Clarke wasn’t tall enough to see. He’d been there all along, then, blending in with the crowd like he was one of them. He is one of them, she reminded herself. That was why he was dangerous.

He looked to be in a remarkably good mood, an easy smile on his face that could only be called genuine. Clarke tried not to frown. It wouldn’t do to call attention to herself by looking disgruntled. If she’d thought he looked relaxed in the council room, it was nothing compared to here, in his own territory. The phrase had never been so appropriate, judging by the way most everyone around her was looking at him. He owned the room.

He held his hands up for quiet, and the loud hum of voices settled into silence after a minute or two. Bellamy launched into some sort of grandiose introduction speech about change, which Clarke barely registered since she was so busy studying the crowd’s body language and how they reacted to it. A few people looked impatient, perhaps wanting to hear specifics, but the vast majority of the crowd was hanging on his every word.

“Now, we have a long way to go, and change doesn’t happen overnight,” he was saying. “But I made a promise to you, every last one of you, that I would be transparent about everything. We can’t all sit in that council chair, so it’s me sitting in that council chair for you. I know who put me there. I’m your ears, and I’m your voice. I’m not going to keep Ark matters secret from you, because they’re your concern just as much as anyone in Go Sci. Just as much as anyone on the council.”

Bellamy’s speech was regularly interrupted with applause and murmurs of approval, yet it was still easy to hear him, even at the back of the room. He had the rhythm down perfectly—knew just when to pause, just when to emphasize certain words. His speechmaking voice was noticeably deeper than his normal voice. Maybe because it carried better. Maybe because he thought it sounded more authoritative. He scanned the room a lot—making eye contact all the while. Clarke inched to the side every time his eyes fell on her section, lowering her head, afraid the regular intensity of her stare would draw his eyes to her.

He followed up the first part of his speech by outlining—in great detail—every single insignificant matter they’d voted on in his first council meeting. Clarke tried not to feel outraged about it—it wasn’t technically against the law, but she’d need to keep a closer eye on him when it came time to vote on classified matters. There were some things the masses couldn’t know—things no one but the council had access to—and Bellamy Blake would need to learn that, one way or another.

A few voices in the crowd were shouting out questions, all to the general effect of what he intended to do. Clarke’s ears perked up. That was exactly what she was here to find out, after all.

Bellamy scanned the crowd, nodded in acknowledgment of the questioners, a serious look on his face. “It’s early days yet. I’m not going to stand up here right now making promises I can’t keep. I want to hear what you want me to do. Individually. You all know where my office is. Section 16, second left down B Hall. Any of you—all of you—you have something you want to talk to me about, something you want me to do, come talk to me. Any time, my door’ll be open. That goes for my quarters as well. Day or night, knock on my door, I’m ready to listen. That’s what you elected me to do.”

The general atmosphere in the room was getting more and more excited at his words, apparently enlivened by the prospect of having a direct say in Ark matters. Whether or not he could live up to his grand promises was another story, but even Clarke was finding herself weirdly captivated by his words. If they were sincere, he was an anomaly in politics. If they weren’t, well, he was a hell of an actor. Most of these people looked like they would float themselves if he asked them to. A few persuasive words, a charming smile, that intense stare. That was all it would take.

Clarke didn’t realize she’d moved forward until one of the men in front of her took a step back, knocking her off balance and sending her careening shoulder-first into the wall. The man didn’t even notice, but someone next to her grabbed her elbow, supporting her until she was standing straight again.

“You okay?” a male voice asked, and Clarke had a moment’s indecision about whether to brush off the question or engage. Better not to draw attention, but she was here, and damn it, she was one of them just as much as Bellamy Blake was, even if none of them thought so.

She twisted her head to the side, then up to meet the man’s gaze. He was burly, probably in his 40s, with kind eyes and a startlingly orange beard. “Thanks, I’m fine,” she said, cracking a genuine smile.

He dropped his hold on her elbow and stuck out his hand to shake instead. “Sorry if we’ve met before, but I’m terrible with names. Tor Lemkin, from Electrical.”

His hand dwarfed Clarke’s as she shook it. “Lucile Evans. Sanitation,” she said, praying that he didn’t happen to know many people in the sanitation department.

If he did, he showed no hint of suspicion. “Looks like the whole station showed up tonight. Can’t say I’m surprised. He’s something else.” Tor jerked his chin towards the platform where Bellamy was standing, a look that could only be called fond on his face.

Clarke turned her eyes on Bellamy as well. “That he is,” she murmured.

The subject of their mutual gaze was currently answering questions, making his way one by one through hands in the crowd. His eyes shifted through Clarke’s section, and for one terrible, nerve-wracking second, their eyes caught on each other’s. His didn’t linger, though, moving on without pausing, and his face registered no flicker of recognition. Clarke silently let out the breath she’d been holding.

She turned back to Tor. “You going to take him up on his offer?”

He shook his head. “I’m not the type to make waves. Not for myself. But my daughter’s a different story. We’ve been throwing around ideas, talking to Bellamy about them.” He grinned. “Er, Councilman Blake. That’s my Reese over there,” he added, gesturing towards a couple of young women standing in a group a few meters away. It wasn’t difficult to tell which one was Reese. She had long, auburn hair pulled back in a braid, and although she didn’t have nearly as many freckles as her father, there was a smattering of them across her nose. She didn’t look any older than twenty. Clarke considered her for a moment, wondering what ideas she was throwing around with Bellamy. They must have been pretty great ones, because she was looking at him like he hung the moon or something. Which was completely ridiculous because—

“How about you?” Tor asked, snapping her out of that line of thought, which was probably a good thing. “Content with the status quo in sanitation?”

Clarke furrowed her eyebrows. “I don’t know,” she said, and she genuinely meant it. She didn’t know what to make of any of this. They didn’t seem like a riotous mob on the brink of revolt. They didn’t seem ill-intentioned. Maybe her dad was right. Maybe her gut instinct was wrong.

“You should talk to him if you’re not. I can tell you, they’re not just fancy words. That man practices what he preaches. Leaders like that don’t come along every day. Best take advantage of it, if you ask me.”

Clarke blinked, letting his words sink in. It was almost disorienting, the different opinions of Bellamy Blake she’d encountered. Marcus Kane, her mom, Wells, Commander Shumway—who all considered him varying degrees of dangerous. Her dad and Wick, who seemed to see him as a peaceful radical advocating for change. This electrical worker who saw him as a sort of unexpected hope for the next generation. Clarke didn’t know how to reconcile all of those views.

She smiled at Tor. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”

When she glanced back at the front of the room, Bellamy had vacated the platform, vanishing into the crowd, which was starting to break up around the edges. Clarke excused herself from Tor, figuring now was the best time to disappear, and eyed her planned escape route. The crowd directly around her wasn’t diminishing, and there was an even larger press of people the way she'd come from. There was no going back that way. So much for sticking to the plan. It wasn't like Miller could see her anyway. She made a quick decision to take a longer back way to the supply closet.

She'd studied a map of Factory until it was emblazoned on the back of her eyelids, determined to be prepared should anything go wrong. But she'd underestimated how similar many of the hallways looked, how dimly lit and poorly marked they were, the paint of section numbers faded to near invisibility. She had to stop a couple of times where hallways met, twisting around to reorient herself. It was almost eerie, traversing the silent, deserted hallways. The third time she stopped to get her bearings, she thought she heard footsteps echoing somewhere nearby. Her heart began hammering despite her attempts to remain calm, and she slipped a hand into her pocket to grip her baton before moving forward again.

She was passing the next cross-hall when a hand clamped around her arm and dragged her over. She slipped the baton out of her pocket with her other hand, but she’d barely pulled it free of the fabric before her back made contact with the wall, wrist bracketed next to her head by a strong hand. She was winding up for a good kick to the shin when a low voice stopped her, breath warm on her ear. "Slumming it, Princess?" His tone was thick with revulsion.

Clarke went limp and let out an exasperated growl. Of course Bellamy had recognized her. Of course he'd followed her, taken some mysterious shortcut and waylaid her escape. It was like he had a supernatural ability to sense her presence. She wasn't stricken with fear like she would've been if she'd encountered him like this two weeks ago. If anything, she was brimming too full of irritation to allow room for any other emotions.

He pulled his head back, brought his free hand up to tug her scarf off. Her hair came tumbling down and she scowled at him. "What are you doing here, Clarke?" he asked, sounding so much like a disappointed parent that it made her scowl all the more.

"None of your business," she said evenly, shifting her foot just enough to put some weight on his toes. He winced but didn't loosen his grip.

"Like hell it isn't," he spat. "You come down here as yourself, fine, you don't owe anyone an explanation. You come down in disguise, and it looks to me like you're spying on your own people." He raised an eyebrow. "Pretty despicable move, Chancellor."

Clarke opened her mouth to protest, and found herself at a loss for words. There was no arguing against how bad it looked.

He must have mistaken her silence for fear, because he made a disgusted noise and released her. "Relax, you're safe enough now. Lucky I'm the one who recognized you."

Her anger flared up at that. "No one would’ve recognized me! How did you?"

His lips angled up into a bitter smile, and he eyed her up and down. "It'd take something worse than sanitation coveralls to hide you."

Clarke shifted under his gaze, unsure what that was supposed to mean. "I wasn't slumming it," she snapped resentfully, a belated answer to his original question. “You think I came here to secretly gloat that I’m not from Factory or something?”

A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “No, I think you came here to spy on me,” he said accusingly.

She could hardly deny that, because technically, that was what she’d been doing. She latched onto a different defense instead. “So you’re admitting you have secrets worth spying on?”

“No!” he all but bellowed, then heaved a huge breath in an obvious effort to calm himself down. “Who told you about the meeting, Clarke?”

She bristled at the familiar way he spoke her first name, like he had a right to it. “Who says anyone told me about it?”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Right, and you’ve always taken such a hands-on interest in Factory station before.”

“I just…” Clarke scrambled for words, wanting to make him understand her intentions were good, even if her methods were questionable. “I wanted to see how things really are here. I couldn’t do that as myself.”

He looked thoroughly unimpressed.

Clarke scowled again. “You called them your people. I realized maybe that’s true. I wanted to see for myself, I wanted—” She clamped her mouth shut, furrowing her eyebrows as she searched for the right words. “I wanted to see if I can make them ours again.”

Bellamy studied her in silence, eyes boring right into her. Clarke didn’t even blink under his scrutiny. When he spoke, his voice was low, an edge of threat in it. “And what makes you think they ever were?”

"It wasn't always like this!" she said heatedly. "We had unity once!"

Bellamy snorted. "Yeah, after we destroyed the world and nearly blew each other out of the sky. Unity is a lie we tell ourselves to prevent anarchy."

Clarke's mouth snapped shut, and she stared at him. "You don't really believe that," she said, but her tone lacked conviction.

He said nothing, just raised his eyebrows.

Clarke gaped at him. "You've got all of Factory united behind you! You don't even believe in that?" She held his gaze demandingly, wishing, not for the first time, that she could read his mind.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He moved towards her, backing her into the wall again. "If you think that, you're—"

He didn't actually get to say what Clarke was, because Raven came barreling around the corner like a hurricane in human form, shoving Bellamy back with enough force that he hit the opposite wall.

"Keep your hands off her," she growled, getting right up in his face. He was nearly twice her size, but an angry Raven Reyes was a force no one wanted to mess with. Bellamy held his hands up in apparent surrender.

Miller appeared behind her, standing back a few meters with an impressed look on his face.

Clarke let out a breath. "Better late than never."

Raven pointed a threatening finger at her, but never took her eyes off Bellamy. "I don't want to hear a word out of you, Chancellor. You went off-book."

Clarke glanced at Miller helplessly. He shrugged, apparently unwilling to step in the path of Raven's anger.

"Only reason we found you is because you two argue so damn loud," Raven added, eyeing Bellamy up and down.

His lips twisted up. "That's what happens when someone tries to use a stun baton on you."

"I didn't know it was you!" Clarke protested, voice pitched high with indignation. “And you startled me.”

"Oh, so you wouldn't care if it was some unsuspecting citizen?"

"That's not what I said! If it was someone attacking me! Which you're always hinting is a distinct possibility!"

"You wouldn't need a stun baton if you'd stay in Go Sci where you belong."

"Where I—" Clarke's voice broke on a note of fury, and she launched herself off the wall at him.

"Woah, woah, calm down!" Raven twisted between them to block her path, arms out to keep them away from each other. Clarke dodged her arm, trying to get at Bellamy, wishing she’d given him several electric shocks when she had the chance.

"Clarke, stop!” Raven demanded. “Little help here, Nathan?”

Miller moved forward then, gripping Clarke's arm and gently but firmly tugging her out of range of Bellamy, while the object of her ire just stood there, arms crossed over his chest and an obnoxiously satisfied expression on his face.

"Geez, Bell, I leave you alone for five minutes and you get in a fistfight with the Chancellor."

Clarke stopped straining against Miller's grip and turned to see the younger Blake watching the scene in front of her with an amused expression on her face. She shot a glance at Bellamy, wondering how he'd react to his little sister showing up at a time like this. His mouth twitched, a strange expression crossing his face that was half irritation and half indulgence.

"What are you doing here, O?"

"Keeping you out of trouble." Octavia grinned brightly, and Clarke felt a pang in her chest. She'd never seen her with a smile on her face. Angry, serious, half-dead, but never happy.

Octavia moved forward, holding out a hand. "Hey, Chancellor Griffin, I'm Octavia. This dummy's my big brother." She jerked a chin over her shoulder.

Clarke stared at her in surprise for a second. Miller released her arm and she took Octavia's hand, giving it a firm shake. "Hey," she said, perhaps a bit more warmly than she intended. "I know who you are." 

A flicker of hesitation passed through Octavia’s eyes, and Clarke knew she was thinking of her illegal child status, of being in lockup, of nearly dying on a cot in Medical. The wariness that comes from being judged for the things people thought they knew about you struck Clarke with painful, familiar clarity, and she was suddenly determined that this brave girl know she was recognized for more than those things. She mustered a genuine smile. “Your brother tells me you voted for me. I’m sorry it took so long to thank you personally.”

Octavia’s eyebrows shot up. “He did?” Both of their eyes shifted to Bellamy—who scowled darkly at them from across the hallway—then back to each other. “Wasn’t a difficult decision. You were the best person for the job.”

Clarke bit her lip, wondering if that was still her opinion.

“The Chancellor was just leaving,” Bellamy said bluntly. “Let’s not hold her up from her duties, O.”

The younger Blake’s eyes wandered down to take in Clarke’s clothing, and she found it difficult not to flush in shame under the scrutiny. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter what Bellamy thought of her, but she did care very much what Octavia thought of her, and she could only imagine it wouldn’t be anything good after catching her in a secluded part of Factory in sanitation coveralls. She felt the sudden urge to explain herself. “Please don’t think—” she blurted out, then tried again. “I just wanted to see what it was like here without a contingent of guards around me.”

Octavia regarded her with what might have been understanding. It was difficult to tell. Blakes were good at keeping their facial expressions indecipherable.

Apparently feeling it was safe enough to abandon her position as a human shield, Raven moved away from Bellamy to stand next to Clarke and tug gently on her arm. “We should go, Clarke,” she murmured. “Before the hallways get too crowded.”

Octavia nodded. “Look, my brother can be an ass but he’s not wrong. You’re lucky he spotted you before anyone else did.”

“Is that a threat?” Miller asked sharply, and Clarke could practically feel him bristling behind her.

“No, just the truth,” Octavia said, a little sadly. “None of you live down here, and you don’t see and hear the things we do. The Ark is broken. A lot of the people down here are broken. Broken people do desperate things.”

“I want to fix it,” Clarke whispered. “I want to fix them.”

She felt Bellamy’s gaze heavy on her face, drawing her own unwillingly to his. His expression was difficult to read, but the anger had faded from it. That was something. “Well, I can tell you, this isn’t the way to do it. Go back to Go Sci, Chancellor, and stop being reckless if you value your safety.”

Clarke studied him, trying to decide what he meant by that. Spying on the citizens of Factory wasn't the way to do it, or distrusting Bellamy wasn't the way to do it? If they were alone, she would ask him. Probably wind up starting another argument, but at least she'd have some more answers. She didn't want to do it here, though, not in front of the others.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Raven demanded, shifting from calm to spoiling for a fight in a matter of seconds. “If something happens to her, you don’t get off guilt-free just because you gave a couple of vague warnings. Who’s a threat to her safety if it’s not you?”

Bellamy exchanged a look with his sister. For just a second, the arrogant mask slipped, replaced with what looked like exhaustion, but it was back again before Clarke could identify the expression with certainty. “Look, I don’t know what all of my people talk about behind closed doors,” he said with resignation. “All I know is, discontent didn’t die with Diana Sydney.” He skirted around Raven, stopping in front of Clarke to unceremoniously shove her scarf back into her hands. She glanced down at it, then back up at him. She hadn’t realized he was still holding it. “Keep that in mind next time you think it’s a good idea to visit Factory by yourself.” His tone was low, meant just for her, and although the words were harsh, something like concern crossed his face when he looked at her. He left abruptly, taking Octavia with him, before Clarke could decide whether or not her eyes were playing tricks on her.

 

Chapter Text

Octavia was halfway through stitching a patch on the sleeve of a guard uniform when several sharp raps on the door startled her, and the needle slipped straight into her index finger. She gave an involuntary yelp, dropping the uniform and sticking her finger in her mouth.

Thanks a lot, Bell. She scowled around her finger, still upset with him for volunteering their quarters as some sort of twenty-four-hour complaint center. To be fair, she had to admit that more people took their concerns to his office than his home. But being woken up in the middle of the night by a couple of janitors whose only complaint was that they were working third shift for the fourth night in a row…that was a little much. Bellamy took it all in stride—like he didn't have more important changes to be focusing on than work schedules.

Her brother wasn't a naturally patient person—never had been—but he sure was good at faking it lately. The only time she'd witnessed him losing his cool was in the shouting match with Clarke Griffin she'd stumbled on after the Factory meeting. She hadn't been exaggerating when she called it a fistfight—if Raven Reyes and the guard hadn't been there, it was safe to say the chancellor would've gotten at least a few good hits in. Octavia stifled a grin at the thought. Clarke Griffin was even more of a badass than she'd thought. Who would've ever imagined the little blonde princess from Go Sci ready to go toe-to-toe with Bellamy Blake in a physical altercation? Even Bellamy had been impressed—Octavia glimpsed the spark of admiration in his eyes, even if no one else had. She hadn't mentioned that to him, though. He'd only deny it more vehemently than he did that time he cried while reading Romeo and Juliet to her when she was little. As if she wasn't already scarred enough from living under the floor, her brother had subjected her to Shakespearean tragedies and heavy doses of denial as well. Who was she kidding—he still subjected her to those things.

The knock sounded again, regular and demanding, and her blood ran cold. They hadn't had a surprise inspection in ages, and she was usually lucky enough to not be home at the time. She got up to answer the door with a heavy pit of dread in her stomach, hoping it was just an overeager worker with a list of grievances.

It wasn't. There were three guards standing in the hall when she opened the door, headed up by Inspector Grus. Octavia froze instantly, hand on the door and eyes going wide. She didn't know why she had this reaction every time—hated herself for it, even—but surprise inspections had a way of changing her from a strong woman to a frightened little girl in a fraction of a second.

"Good morning, Miss Blake," Grus said, dragging his eyes up and down her body in that way that always made her skin crawl. "Please step aside."

Octavia fought against the paralyzing fear that his voice always struck her with, determined not to let it show on her face. She had nothing to hide anymore. I'm not afraid, she chanted over and over in her head, meeting his gaze squarely. She flung the door open the rest of the way, taking a step back as she did it. "Have at it, gentlemen," she said, injecting a bit of spite into the last word, relieved that she managed to keep her voice steady. You can't stay here, she told herself. You have to get out of here. Now, now, now. "I was just leaving," she added, grabbing her jacket off a chair and dashing out the door.

She wasn't two steps down the hall when a hand clamped around her arm, and she twisted around to see it was Grus. He stepped closer, speaking in a low tone when he said, "Strange how you never seem to be here during surprise inspections."

Octavia arched an eyebrow, keeping her voice steely. "What exactly are you implying?"

"I think you know, Octavia."

She gritted her teeth at the way he said her name and hissed, "Trust me, if I had something to hide, you'd be the last person I'd go to for help."

She stepped back, but he didn't release her arm. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I think a reread of the constitution would be helpful, Inspector. You'll find there's no law requiring me to stick around during inspections."

His face darkened with fury. She yanked her arm free and backed away glaring, silently daring him to reach for her again. When she was satisfied he wouldn't, she whirled around and set off down the hallway, forcing herself to walk instead of run.

She didn't even make it out of section 3 before she had to stop, crouching down next to a wall and putting her head between her knees, trying hard to breathe normally. She felt nauseous, like the floor was shifting under her feet, like the walls were closing in on her. She knew she had to get out of this hallway before someone walked by. Half the Ark already thought she was a head case; the last thing she needed was for anyone to see her having a meltdown in public. She didn’t really care what they thought of her at this point, but odds were it would get back to Bellamy, and there were some things he didn’t need to know.

A door opened next to her, and she lurched to her feet, bracing a hand against the wall so she wouldn’t fall over, trying unsuccessfully to breathe steadily. Her hair hung loose in front of her face; maybe whoever it was would leave her alone, maybe they wouldn’t recognize—

“Octavia?” A voice interrupted her thoughts, dashing that hope before it was even fully formulated.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she managed to answer, trying to turn and walk away, but her body made a liar of her a second later when the dizziness overwhelmed her and she had to stop again.

“Hey, hey,” the voice said, and it was gentle now instead of surprised. “Come in and sit down.”

An arm wrapped around Octavia’s waist, and she forced her head up to see who was helping her before she’d be willing to accept the support. There were some people on the Ark she’d rather fall and bash her head on the floor than accept help from.

Luckily, this wasn’t one of those people. It was Roma, one of Bellamy’s old flings, and her brown eyes were warm with concern. Octavia let herself be guided into Roma’s quarters and deposited in a chair.

“Here, put your head down,” Roma said, and after Octavia obeyed and her breathing had settled back to normal, she felt a cup being pushed into her hand.

“No, I can’t use your rations,” she protested.

“Just a sip, then.” When she shook her head again, Roma added insistently, “Come on, Octavia, you couldn’t even walk a minute ago. Take the damn sip.”

So she did, and she tried to feel grateful instead of guilty. Would she ever stop feeling like a burden?

After a few minutes, she felt recovered enough to sit back in the chair and look at Roma, who was still eyeing her like she thought she was going to collapse.

Octavia managed a tiny, reassuring smile. “Thank you.”

Roma relaxed a little then, enough to sit down in the other chair across the table. “When you feel like you can get up, I think I should take you to Medical.”

“No,” Octavia blurted out, a little more forcefully than she’d intended. “No, I’m fine. This happens sometimes.”

Roma arched an eyebrow, but said nothing, to Octavia’s relief. She might be just the other side of a panic attack, but she would physically fight Roma before letting herself be taken to Medical. All she could imagine was Abby Griffin looking concerned, asking questions—or worse yet, Clarke Griffin. She was already a suck on precious resources—a person who was never supposed to exist—and she didn’t want anyone to be able to say she’d wasted more on something as frivolous as anxiety. And she didn’t know which was worse—resentment or pity. She’d see pity on the Griffin women’s faces, and they’d already saved her life twice. Much as she respected them, she didn’t want to owe them any more than that.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Roma asked quietly.

Octavia shook her head, because she didn’t. But then she thought of Bellamy, and the things she couldn’t tell him, and how much she wanted to tell someone. She hardly knew Roma, hadn’t spoken to her in a year—two years?—but maybe it was better that way.

“It happens…” she began slowly, determined not to sound weak, “…when I’m home for surprise inspections.”

A flash of confusion crossed Roma’s face, but then her forehead smoothed out and she nodded. “That’s understandable.”

And suddenly, Octavia was tired of being strong. “It just…it takes me right back. I’m under the floor and the walls are shrinking around me and I hear his voice and I’m just terrified he’s going to find me. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m standing right there. They can see me. But I still have this feeling…like I’m going to get floated. Like Mom’s going to get floated.” Her eyes had welled up as she spoke, and she gave a choked, bitter laugh around her tears. “How can I be afraid of something that’s already happened?”

She didn’t expect an answer, and Roma didn’t give one. Instead, more words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them. “And it makes me sick, just looking at him. How can he still have his job, how can he be alive, when Mom’s dead? He’s culpable too, he broke the law just as much as she did, but he sure as hell didn’t get floated for it. And he’s still doing it. I know it. The way he looks at me…if I didn’t have Bellamy, or if I was desperate for something, he’d want me to sleep with him for favors too.” She wanted to retch at the thought, the vivid memory of his hand on her arm.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Roma said dully, and it wasn’t difficult to decipher from her tone that she’d been propositioned as well on more than one occasion. “But as long as there’s rationing, there’s going to be a black market, and there’s going to be prostitution. We do what we can to survive. And they do what they can to profit from it. And they’ll keep on doing it as long as no one can prove they’re doing it.”

Octavia’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”

Roma looked worried, like she thought Octavia’s panic attack had caused temporary amnesia as well. “They’ll keep doing it as long as no one can prove—”

Octavia cut her off. “But what if someone could?”

Roma looked doubtful. “The council wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“But the council’s different now. Bellamy’s on the council. He could make them hear it.” She was thinking aloud, suddenly driven by the idea of doing something about it, instead of just surviving it.

“It’s dangerous,” Roma added. “The corrupt ones are at the top. They’d make it difficult to prove anything.”

“No.” Octavia shook her head, a tiny grin sneaking onto her face. “They’re not at the top.”

Roma’s expression turned sour. “Clarke Griffin doesn’t care about the plight of people in Factory station.”

Octavia frowned. She’d forgotten how unpopular it was to have a good opinion of the chancellor here. They didn’t know her. Octavia didn’t either, really, but she’d seen something in her, something good, something that gave her hope things could be better. Clarke Griffin cared, probably in ways she wasn’t allowed to. Feelings couldn’t always translate directly into policy. And she was still learning about the rest of the Ark—if her little reconnaissance mission to Factory was any indication—still learning what life was like outside of her privileged Go Sci upbringing. And that alone gave Octavia hope, as much hope as she’d had about anything besides Bellamy’s election.

She steered Roma neatly away from that topic though. It was obvious she, along with most of Factory station, wasn’t ready to hear that yet. Instead, she fell back on the old faithful, the one who always inspired hope. “Yeah, well, Bellamy does.”

Roma smiled wryly. “That would require telling him about all this. Which I assume you haven’t.”

Octavia’s frown deepened. “I can’t tell him about Inspector Grus. He’d kill him. Actually kill him. He already wanted to for Mom, but Grus is smart enough to stay out of Bellamy’s way. Anything I told him would just tip him over the edge. He’d get floated for killing an officer, and we’d all be back to square one.”

“I guess we’ve reached an impasse then.”

Octavia didn’t answer, still deep in thought. If she couldn’t tell Bellamy, she’d have to find other allies. It might be difficult, and it might take time. But she was determined to do it. She wanted her life to be more than years in hiding and years in the sky box and more years in hiding, piles of mending her only friends as everyone whispered about how unfortunate it was for Bellamy Blake, the shining star of Factory, to be saddled with such a sister. She needed to do something, to be something other than what she was, or she might as well have been floated all those years ago.

She glanced up at Roma. “Goes without saying none of this gets back to Bellamy, right? I don’t want him to know about the…” She paused, not wanting to say the word fear. She was ashamed of it. Her mother had taught them to be brave for all those years, had been the best example of the word, and this was how Octavia lived up to that example. “…flashbacks,” she finished weakly, but it was a safe enough word to explain what she meant.

Roma chuckled a little. “No risk of that. Bellamy and I haven’t spoken in months. Years, maybe.”

Octavia didn’t miss the tiny, wistful note in her tone, and it surprised her. She’d always thought of Roma as above those kinds of feelings, beautiful and untouchable, heart very much intact after ending a relationship that wasn’t even technically a relationship.

“Did you love him?” she couldn’t help asking, because it had never occurred to her before.

Roma looked surprised at the question, but not offended. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I think I could have. But I didn’t let myself.”

“Why?” Octavia demanded, wondering if she was about to solve one of the mysteries of Bellamy that had always plagued her.

Roma raised her eyebrows, a sad smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I figured it out earlier than some of the other girls. That probably helped.” She hesitated, glancing down at the floor before looking at Octavia again. “Your brother’s never going to be able to love anyone the way he loves you.”

The words were matter-of-fact, not a hint of accusation in them, but Octavia felt like someone was constricting her chest all the same, squeezing her heart to the point of pain. She didn’t know whether to feel angry or hurt or defensive. It was too much—too much pressure, too much of a burden. She couldn’t be Bellamy’s entire world. There was a limit to what he could sacrifice for her, what she’d allow him to sacrifice for her. They loved each other enough to cover the gaping hole left by the absence of their parents. But she didn’t want him to be her entire world, either. It was suffocating, sometimes.

She stood up, setting the cup she was still holding back on the table. “I have to go.”

Roma’s expression shifted to something like concern. “Octavia, I didn’t mean—”

There was only one way to go about making sure she and Bellamy weren’t each other’s entire world, and it sure as hell wasn’t by pushing away a person who’d been nothing but nice to her. Octavia tried for a reassuring smile. “I know. You’re right.” Roma still looked worried, so she added, “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you,” because it was the truth.

Roma finally let her leave, after she’d traversed the length of the room a few times without wobbling. Octavia left her with a thank you and a promise to drop by sometime, and the hope that maybe she was what had always been getting in the way of having friends. Not her reputation and her past, as she’d always assumed, but the way she walked around expecting people to judge her.

Maybe it was time to change that.

For now, it was time to go see Bellamy, because despite all she’d just been through, she still had a bone to pick with him.

She reached his office without incident, but hung back a little as she approached it, expecting him to have at least one visitor already, if the people knocking on the door to their quarters in the middle of the night were any indication. She paused near the half-open door, heard the sound of low voices coming from the room, and decided she’d better not just barge in. Turning over a new leaf, and all that.

She slid down to the floor, leaning against the wall and picking at some loose seams on her jacket cuff. She made a mental note to fix that later. She spent so much time fixing other people’s clothes that she often neglected fixing her own. Nobody wanted to do their job in their free time.

Except Bellamy, apparently. Octavia scowled, irritated at him all over again.

No more than a few minutes passed before she grew bored. Impatience ran in the family, after all. She stood up and edged closer to the door, trying to peek around the corner without getting caught. Bellamy was being awfully secretive lately. He'd told her he had plans, but he was never specific about them. When she asked, he just smiled enigmatically and said they weren’t ready yet.

She expected to see him conferring with someone important in Factory, the head of recycling or sanitation or something.

What she saw instead was Reese Lemkin sitting in the only other chair in the room, head bent over a tablet. Bellamy was crouched next to her, pointing at the screen every once in a while. They were both speaking too quietly for Octavia to overhear, so all she could really register was how unnecessarily close Bellamy was, and how Reese kept sneaking glances down at him out of the corner of her eye, like a school girl with a crush.

Octavia moved away, pressing her back to the wall again and furrowing her eyebrows in confusion. Bellamy's open door policy allowed for anyone to bring their complaints to him, but Reese Lemkin was a far cry from your usual disgruntled Factory worker. But judging by their intense absorption in whatever it was they were discussing, they were working on something. She just couldn't imagine what.

Or…no, it couldn't be. Reese was nearly half his age. And Bellamy was good friends with her father. That's just weird. Although she'd seen stranger couples. It wasn't like there were a lot of options on the Ark. And it might explain why he'd been AWOL most the time lately, and more evasive than usual.

She went to peek around the doorframe again, then yanked her head back so fast it nearly slammed into the wall. They were walking towards the door. Bellamy had a hand on Reese's shoulder and was saying something about seeing her tomorrow. Octavia beat a hasty retreat down the hall then spun on her heel, pretending she was just now approaching as the two of them left his office.

"Octavia!" Reese exclaimed, a smile chasing away her serious expression. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"Yeah, you know, just hiding behind a pile of old clothes, as usual," Octavia joked, then nearly frowned when she realized it wasn't far from the truth. She'd always liked the Lemkins; they treated her like a person, not a pariah. Maybe she'd been pushing them away all these years too.

"Well, if you ever decide to emerge, we should get dinner in the mess hall sometime."

"Uh." Octavia's eyes shifted suspiciously between Reese and Bellamy. The former looked nothing but genuine and the latter looked nothing but preoccupied, that distant look in his eyes he always got when he was deep in thought. "Yeah, that'd be great," she finished lamely, still feeling like there was something going on right in front of her face that was only half-visible.

"What's the emergency, O?" Apparently her presence had reclaimed Bellamy’s attention from wherever it’d wandered off to.

"No emergency," she said casually. "I've just got a grievance to air with Councilman Blake."

"So Bellamy makes you come to his office to talk business?" Reese quirked up one eyebrow, a mischievous expression on her face. "How rude of him."

He shot a glance over at her, fighting a smile. Apparently he appreciated her sassiness. Octavia could respect that.

"That's my brother," she said dryly. “All the social graces of a wild boar.”

“Nice one, O. Let me know when you meet a wild boar, and I’ll listen to your evidence.” He crossed his arms over his chest, looking amused, and jerked his chin towards his office. "Be there in a minute," he said, which was clearly a dismissal.

She narrowed her eyes at him. He couldn't brush her suspicion off that easily, but she retreated after another smile and a reminder from Reese to not be a stranger. She sat down, craning her neck to watch them around the corner of the door. Bellamy bent his head down, the cadence of his voice serious but too low for her to hear again, and Reese looked up at him, nodding gravely every few seconds.

When she left, Octavia sat back in the chair before Bellamy could turn around, trying her very best to look like she hadn't been eavesdropping. As he shut the door behind him, she shot a glance at him over her shoulder. "So, Reese is pretty," she began casually.

"What?" Bellamy asked, voice sharp like he’d only been half-listening.

"All grown up now," Octavia added, keeping her tone even. "Guess I haven't seen her in a while."

Bellamy sank down into his chair on the other side of the desk. "What exactly are you getting at, O?"

"Nothing, Bell," she said innocently.

That earned her his very best big brother glare. "So what's this grievance of yours?" He sat back, arms crossed over his chest. "I don't recall seeing you on the schedule."

"I thought there wasn't a schedule."

"Change of plans. Too chaotic without one. I still have two jobs to do, you know."

Octavia decided to stifle her outrage that his office had a schedule and their home was a free-for-all and play it cool instead. "Oh, just thought I'd drop in unannounced, in true Blake fashion," she said, grinning and putting her feet up on his desk.

If he was taken aback by her reference to his meeting with Clarke Griffin—who’d turned into a sort of taboo topic between them ever since the Factory meeting—he showed no sign of it. "Well, you know what they say about imitation."

Octavia rolled her eyes. "Ugh, I am not trying to flatter you." She crossed one of her ankles over the other. “In fact, I’m here to yell at you.”

“By all means.” He gestured for her to continue, and it was maybe only half sarcastic.

“Notify me next time you publicly volunteer our quarters as twenty-four-hour complaint central for a thousand Ark citizens. Better yet, ask me.” She allowed all the irritation she was feeling to seep into her tone, and she was probably overreacting to this, but she’d had a nightmare of a day, and damn it, she wanted one thing to go her way.

He looked genuinely perplexed. “Does it really bother you that much?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “I don’t know. It’s the principle, Bellamy. You wanted me to live with you. I’ve got a say in it too. It’s not always about you.” She snapped her mouth shut, wondering where all this resentment was bubbling over from.

His expression shifted from confusion to worry, and he leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “What’s the matter, O?” His tone was gentle, dark eyes intent on her face.

She shifted under the scrutiny. Sometimes it was horribly inconvenient how well they knew each other. “I’m just tired,” she said, an evasion that was also the truth—if only part of it.

She stared stubbornly at her boots as she felt him studying her face a few seconds longer. Finally, he sat back again. “Okay. I’ll tell them our quarters are off limits.”

And then Octavia felt a surge of guilt, for being a burden again, for how easily and without question Bellamy always put her above everything and everyone else. He wouldn’t be able to stay in power for long if he kept doing that. He wouldn’t be able to change the system if he kept doing that. He wouldn’t ever be anyone other than who he was in this moment if he kept doing that. And that wasn’t fair to either of them.

She brushed her hair behind her ear, trying for a light tone. “Don’t do that. Just—set a curfew or something.” She met his eyes, silently letting him know she meant it, and he nodded.

Now was as good a time as any to broach the other topic forefront in her mind. “So…are you ready to share your big plans with me yet?”

He huffed out an irritated breath. “No.”

“When?” she shot back immediately.

“I don’t know.”

She tilted her head, arching an eyebrow. “Does Reese know?”

“Octavia…” he said, a warning edge to his tone.

“No, don’t Octavia me! I’m your sister! Who’s she?” She flung out an indignant hand, like Reese was standing next to her.

“She’s part of the plan, and I need you to trust me when I say it’s not ready yet.” He was using his stern dad-Bellamy voice, and that always threw her into a pique more easily than anything.

She yanked her feet off his desk, dropping them onto the floor with an audible thud. “No, I need you to trust me,” she said fiercely.

“I do,” he said, voice breaking on the second word and eyes going all soft and hurt, and that wasn’t fair, because he hid things from her, and this was why she had to hide things from him. This was why she couldn’t tell him about her fears, or Inspector Grus, or why Clarke Griffin wasn’t an awful chancellor, or how very alone she felt most the time. Because then they’d have to face the fact that they weren’t enough for each other, that they weren’t supposed to be, that losing everyone they’d loved except each other had damaged them in ways they might not be able to repair. And if they had any hope of fixing themselves, part of the work needed to be done separately. She knew that. She just didn’t know if Bellamy knew it yet.

But he was her brother, and he loved her, and he was looking at her with the vulnerability he never let slip through except in front of her. She sighed, sitting back in the chair and deciding to let go of her anger. He wasn’t the cause of it, anyway. “This better be the greatest plan in the history of the Ark.” She pointed a warning finger at him. “Or I’m going to kick your ass for waiting so long to tell me.”

That earned her the arrogant grin she was hoping for, and he looked less like Bellamy and more like Councillor Blake again. “Come on, O. This is me we’re talking about.”

 

Chapter Text

"Chancellor, would you mind repeating Councillor Blake's exact words?"

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to hold her temper. She was cross at Wells for bringing up things she'd told him privately in the middle of a security meeting with the entire contingent of the Ark's head guards present. It probably wasn't rational to be upset with him. She was chancellor; nothing was truly private anymore. But she still had difficulty separating Wells her best friend from Wells the vice-chancellor.

"Chancellor?" Commander Shumway repeated patiently, like she hadn't heard him the first time.

She looked up, keeping her face carefully blank. "I'm sure it's nothing. Councillor Blake says a lot of things." That was the understatement of the century. She added, almost as an afterthought, "Half of which I'm sure are entirely unfounded."

Shumway exchanged an exasperated glance with Major Byrne, then set his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. "With all due respect, Chancellor Griffin, threats on your life don't particularly qualify as nothing to me."

Clarke's eyes blazed, and she opened her mouth to say something she'd probably regret, but Wells cut in smoothly before she could. "They were vague threats, not direct or specific to Councillor Blake. Chancellor Griffin told them to me in confidence." Wells shot a half-apologetic glance at her, and Clarke took a deep, calming breath. "I thought it best to alert the security council. Better to be overly cautious than not when it comes to her safety."

Worry lines appeared between his eyebrows, and he looked so earnest that Clarke forgot her anger and felt a surge of fondness for him swell in her chest. It wasn't about his dislike of Bellamy Blake, as she'd unfairly suspected. She could hardly stay mad at him for wanting to keep her safe, in a hopefully less smothering way than her parents did.

"All the same, Councillor Jaha, we'd like to hear them." Shumway glanced around the table in appeal, and received silent nods from everyone in return.

"All right, um, let me think," Clarke said, bringing a hand to her forehead and trying to stall for time while she decided what was and wasn't safe to say. Lying wasn't exactly her strong suit, nor was lying by omission. She wasn't about to mention Bellamy's maybe I came here to kill you myself, since that was more a test to see how easily he could cow her than an actual threat, and she was determined not to bring up the time he'd told her to keep her door locked, which would inevitably lead to questions of why they'd been discussing her private quarters in the first place. In fact, every instance in which he'd warned her she was in danger had the potential to make her choices look questionable at best, reckless at worst. After a few long seconds, she settled on the safest one she could think of. "I had an encounter with him in Factory station. He implied I was safe there in his company, but not otherwise. Also, he informed me my safety would be less of a concern if I, and I quote, stay in Go Sci where I belong."

Clarke's hands clenched into fists in her lap, nails digging into the tender skin of her palms. She didn't quite know what it was about those words that still incensed her days later. Maybe it was the condescension. Or the fact that Bellamy Blake could walk freely, without fear, in any station he wanted.

Major Byrne frowned in confusion. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't understand how this encounter happened. I didn't see a station inspection on the schedule. Factory has been classified a threat level 3 since the bomb."

She hadn't actually voiced a question, but it hung there all the same. Clarke felt the sudden pressure of a dozen sets of scrutinizing eyes upon her face. She kept her expression composed and said stiffly, "I was there on personal business. Lieutenant Miller accompanied me." Which wasn't strictly a lie. She glanced to Miller in silent appeal.

His expression was unreadable, but he nodded. "I can confirm those were Councillor Blake's exact words," he said dryly.

Clarke gave him a grateful look, then glanced around the room again. Sergeant Miller was studying her, gentle reproach in his eyes. She felt a sudden stab of guilt. It wasn't just herself she put in danger with her single-mindedness; it was his son as well. She resolved to remember that in the future. Nathan Miller was a loyal soldier. If she got him hurt—or worse—she'd never forgive herself.

"Chancellor Griffin," Shumway said firmly, "I believe I speak for us all when I say it would be best if you conducted your personal business elsewhere. Reluctant as I am to agree with Councillor Blake, preferably in Go Sci where you're better protected."

Clarke turned a cold look upon him, trying to put the words into it that she couldn't say publicly, that it was partially his fault she was there in the first place. He pretended not to notice.

She gave a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, Commander. I'll take it under serious consideration."

Major Byrne still had a worried expression on her face. "Ma'am, I think under the circumstances it would be advisable to expand your security detail. Say…two guards at all times. Four when you go to other stations. And maybe you'll allow a night guard for your quarters now?"

Clarke frowned. "I think that sends the opposite message than I intend. I don't want my people to think I’m afraid of them, or that I have a reason to be in the first place.”

Silence descended on the room, and more than a few people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The truth was, they’d all been living in constant fear of Factory station for the last decade, ever since the near-success of Diana Sydney’s revolt. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Maybe the fear is just feeding the unrest.

Clarke straightened her spine and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “I propose a compromise. I will keep one guard with me at all times when I’m not at home or in the med bay. I will take extra guards with me at my discretion when I visit other stations. And I’ll allow a night guard, provided he or she patrols the halls in my section and doesn’t stand in front of my door all night.”

It seemed a generous enough compromise to Clarke, considering it already cut down on her freedom and privacy far more than she would like. She raised an eyebrow at Byrne. “Is that acceptable, Major?”

The woman still looked unhappy, but she gave a short nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

Shumway spoke up again, impatience clear in his tone. "Regardless of which security measures we take, Bellamy Blake is still a problem. I think we should increase the surveillance we're running on him."

Wells looked troubled. "We might be running a police state, but we still hold to the tenet of presumption of innocence. Besides, how's Blake going to react if he finds out we're spying on him? He's not going to keep that quiet."

"All excellent points, Councillor Jaha, but evidence of his guilt might come in the form of an attack on the Chancellor's life. We can't risk that."

"It's worth the risk," Clarke said firmly. Everyone stared at her. She set her jaw, determined not to betray a flicker of doubt in her own words. "Because the greater risk is alienating Factory any more than we already have. Bellamy Blake is Factory station. Like it or not, we'll need to compromise with him. We'll need to trust him, as much as we can."

Shumway opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but Clarke continued before he could say anything. "Commander, you may continue running minimal surveillance on him. No more than you run on anyone else. Is that understood?"

Irritation flashed across his face briefly, but he nodded in acquiescence.

When Clarke dismissed the meeting, she asked the commander for a private word. Everyone else shuffled out, a general unease settled over them that Clarke was at a loss to alleviate. When the last guard shut the door behind her, Clarke turned on Shumway. "You know very well what my personal business in Factory station was."

The commander looked taken aback. "Chancellor, believe me when I say the very last thing I intended was for you to go yourself. I found out the meeting was taking place, and I thought it best to inform you and leave it up to your discretion what to do about it. If I'd known you planned to—"

Clarke felt her expression soften a little. "I realize that, Commander. And I appreciate your concern. But I'm the chancellor and I need you to trust my decisions and not question them in public."

Shumway's mouth twitched. "I didn't realize a security council meeting qualified as public."

Clarke huffed out a small laugh. "Touché." The truth was, she felt like her hold on power was tenuous at best at the moment, and she couldn't afford to be questioned, even in front of the people who were there to protect her. "You have my gratitude for everything, really. I appreciate your concern for my safety and your dedication to keeping me informed of the goings-on in Factory. But I can't afford to antagonize Councillor Blake right now."

"That's true, Chancellor, but you can't afford to underestimate him either."

Clarke chuckled dryly. "I'm well aware of that, believe me."

"What I mean to say is," Shumway took a step closer and lowered his voice, even though there was no one else in the room to overhear, "take care that your shows of trust in Bellamy Blake don't put you in a compromising position."

Clarke blinked a couple of times, startled. Did he know more than he was letting on? Did he know about the midnight visit to her quarters? No, that’s impossible. She'd been so careful. He wasn't insinuating anything beyond the words' immediate meaning. Clarke composed her features to cool serenity and said smoothly, "I will take care, Commander. I trust you'll continue performing your duties admirably, and leave me to handle Councillor Blake."

Her words were confident, but she felt the very opposite. No one could know how very much she didn't know how to handle Councillor Blake, least of all the man himself. She had a feeling he'd take advantage of any small chink in her armor. And she trusted Commander Shumway, but she couldn't afford to trust anyone entirely. Not anymore.

She grabbed her lab coat off the back of her chair, took her leave of him, and headed straight for Medical.

Wells waylaid her the minute she stepped foot into the hallway. She didn't slow her brisk pace, shrugging into her lab coat one arm at a time as she walked. "I'm late for my shift, Wells."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking and talking at the same time, Clarke," he said, amusement creeping into his voice.

She gave him a mock-exasperated grin. "Better make it quick, then."

"Okay, first off, you're already breaking your own rules. Where's your guard?"

Clarke waved a hand in a general backwards direction. "She'll catch up."

"Clarke." His voice took on that stern, disappointed tone he had that always made her squirm guiltily, even when she had nothing to be guilty about.

She flashed a flippant smile. "I've got you. Look at you, you could take on anyone."

Wells heaved a deep sigh, perfected from years of dealing with her stubborn streak. "Okay, if you think I'm letting it go that easily, you're dead wrong. But since you're short on time, what I wanted to tell you is that Finn Collins has spent every evening in the archives for the last week."

Clarke gave him a generous amount of side-eye. "What Finn Collins does in his free time is his own business."

"True, but don't you find that odd in any way?"

Clarke sighed. "What are you doing, Wells? Are you trying to spy for me? If so, I'd pick better targets than Finn if I were you."

"Come on, Clarke. This is the Ark. We're all about routine. Any unusual behavior is cause for suspicion, especially right now."

"So what, Finn is going to stage an uprising by spending a lot of quality reading time?" she said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Information, Clarke," he said slowly and succinctly, like he was speaking to a child. "Information is knowledge. Knowledge can be dangerous, in the hands of the wrong people."

Clarke didn't bother to keep the exasperation out of her voice. "Okay, first of all, Finn is not the wrong people. He's an Earth Skills teacher from Mecha. He's a reckless daredevil, not a revolutionary. And any dangerous information in the archives is restricted access. He's probably just researching a new unit for his class. Or reading for fun." She gave him a playful poke in the arm. "Some people like to have fun, you know. Maybe you've heard of it?"

Wells raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "Then he's got an odd definition of fun. Three hours in the archives every night?"

"No odder than yours. Guess you two have more in common than one would think," she said lightly.

"Clarke," he persisted, frustration evident in his tone, "I'm telling you, he's up to something. I know the guy a little, this isn't like him. I'd ask Raven if she knows what's going on, but she's so protective of him I don't—"

Clarke stopped at the door to the med bay, spinning on her heel to look up at him. "Wells, I love you, but I don't have time to deal with this right now. I've got about five hundred bigger issues to worry about. Keep an eye on him if you're so concerned about it, but unless he's researching how to build a bomb, I don't need to hear about it, okay?"

Wells looked down at her in silence for a few seconds, studying her face. "Yeah, fine. Got it. It's just—I'm not like you, okay? I can't put blind trust in your safety. Not after they nearly killed my dad."

Clarke smiled at him sadly. "Wells, I haven't had the luxury of blind trust in a long time." Silent understanding filled his warm brown eyes then, and she reached out and gave his hand a brief squeeze before turning to enter Medical.

The room was clear of patients for the moment, but Dr. Jackson gave her a bright, relieved smile when he saw her. "Glad you’re here. We've got a baby vaccination appointment arriving in five minutes."

Clarke grinned and shook her head. "Never fear, I'm here to save the day."

Jackson was without doubt the sweetest, most gentle soul she knew. He was an excellent doctor—he could deliver a baby, set broken limbs, perform the most difficult surgeries without batting an eye. But the one thing he couldn't stomach was causing children the slightest bit of pain, even if it was for their own good. She'd witnessed him giving a toddler a vaccination once, and she swore he'd cried about it more than the kid had. Henceforward, she and her mom had made a secret pact to only schedule pediatric appointments for times when one of them was present.

Not that it was a trial for her. Babies were rare enough on the Ark that each one was a tiny human miracle. Clarke liked holding them. But she could never quite identify the reason for the warm little twinge she felt in her heart every time. She wasn't even certain if she wanted to be a mom. And there was no point dwelling on her feelings on the matter anyway. Childbearing had to be sanctioned by the chancellor, and how bad would it look if she gave herself permission to have a child while denying others?

No, better not to come to a definitive conclusion about what she really wanted. As long as she was chancellor, it wasn't an option. And there was no way of knowing if the next chancellor would approve a reproduction request from her, especially if that chancellor was—heaven forbid—Bellamy Blake. Clarke cringed at the thought, which hadn't occurred to her once until this very moment, but now seemed entirely plausible. No doubt he'd deny the request in a heartbeat, only too happy to prevent the existence of yet another member of the bourgeois to oppress Factory.

Stop being ridiculous, she commanded herself, especially over something you probably don't even want.

So she pushed the thought away and concentrated on administering the vaccinations, brushing the baby's tears away with gentle fingers, handing him back to his mother, looking around for Jackson, who had suddenly found himself very busy disinfecting thermometers in the other room.

She'd just sat down to fold a pile of fresh bandages when the comm system in the wall crackled to life. "Medical, do you copy? This is Major Byrne. Do you copy, Medical?"

The urgency in the woman's voice sent Clarke lurching out of her seat and slamming the button next to the speaker. "I'm here, Major."

"I'm in Factory section 11. There's been an isolated explosion around one of the nickel-hydrogen batteries."

"How isolated?" The massive batteries, distributed all over the Ark, were used as back-up power sources when the stations’ many solar panels were facing away from the sun. Losing a few of them wouldn't be a disaster, but a chain explosion could be catastrophic, which was the main reason they were kept so separate from each other.

"Just one," Major Byrne's voice cut through the speaker again, crisp and businesslike. "There's a small electrical fire, but the pressure door sealed the room off."

"How many injured?" Clarke demanded.

"Just one. He's still in there."

"Is he alive?"

"Looks like it, ma'am."

"Major, get that door open. I want that man up here and that fire put out stat."

"I've got a team working on it, ma'am."

"Major, do you have an ID on the man?"

There was a brief silence on the other end, and when Byrne spoke again she sounded a little breathless. "They're saying his name's Sterling. Sterling Kemp."

"Copy that," Clarke said, then abandoned the comm system to grab for her tablet and bring up his file. There was something familiar about his name and even more so about his face when his picture came up on the screen, but she was too single-minded to stop and place him. "Jackson?" she called out, already ditching the tablet and prepping her surgical instruments.

He poked his head around the door.

"We're going to need A-positive blood."

"Got it," he said. "How much?"

Clarke pressed her lips together. "Better grab a full ration. We've got an electrical explosion injury coming in."

He swallowed hard and nodded. "I'll get the burn ointment too," he said quietly, disappearing around the corner.

They'd set up their operating area by the time the man arrived, carried in on a stretcher by a Factory worker and none other than Bellamy Blake. Clarke could barely spare him a glance, let alone a second to wonder what he was doing there.

"Put him on the table. Gently!" she ordered, pulling on her gloves and rushing to the side of the stretcher to apply pressure to a hastily bandaged wound on his side that was bleeding heavily.

She never removed her hands, even as Bellamy and the other man transferred Sterling to the operating table with some difficulty and Jackson performed a quick assessment of his injuries.

"He's got third-degree burns to the arms, penetrating trauma to the chest and abdominal areas, possible blunt force trauma to the chest."

Clarke's eyes met his over Sterling's pale, inert form. "We're going to need that blood.” Jackson nodded and moved to set up a transfusion.

Clarke could sense the other two men standing motionless just behind her, struck with that kind of frozen horror so common among people foreign to an emergency room.  

Her hands otherwise occupied, Clarke jerked her head in a beckoning motion. "Bellamy," she said, the word curt, demanding.

He stepped to her side instantly. She tipped her head back to look up at him. "Does he have any next of kin?" she asked in a low voice.

He looked down at her, eyes flickering intently over her face like he was trying to read something there. It was evident the second he saw what he was looking for, because his eyes took on the haunted look of a man who'd witnessed death before. A muscle flexed in his jaw and, never taking his eyes off her face, he said, "Atom, go find Mel."

The other man was still hovering anxiously behind them. He sounded at a loss when he protested, "I don't know where—"

"Now, Atom," Bellamy ordered in a tone that brooked no disobedience. "She needs to be here."

"Atom," Clarke said over her shoulder, stopping him before he could leave. He looked distraught, and she was willing to bet Sterling wasn't a stranger to him. She assumed her calm, soothing doctor voice. "Go to Earth Monitoring. Sinclair can get you on all the stations’ PA systems. It'll be faster."

"I don't have clearance," he protested.

"Take my access card. Tell them Chancellor Griffin sent you regarding a medical emergency. They can call us for confirmation if they insist. Bellamy?" She moved her eyes down to the access card clipped to the pocket of her scrub top. Needing no further prompting, he reached over to unclip it, tossing it to Atom.

Atom caught the card and nodded, exiting the room as quickly as he dared. Running was restricted on the Ark for oxygen conservation, even in emergencies.

Clarke turned back to her patient, studying the wounds beneath her hands as Jackson rushed around performing surgery prep. "Jackson, upgrade that to certain blunt force trauma to the chest. He's showing signs of hemothorax. Pulse pressure's narrowing, tachypnea, trachiel deviation."

"I've got a cannula prepped, Clarke. We'll need to drain the thoracic cavity."

"He's lost so much blood already," Clarke murmured, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

Belatedly, she noticed Bellamy hadn't moved from her side. She could feel his eyes on her. "I take it you're staying," she said grimly.

"Damn straight I am."

She glanced up at him, standing stiffly with his arms crossed over his chest. "Might as well make yourself useful then. Put those surgical gloves on and take my place here."

He obeyed—shucking his jacket, pulling the gloves on, and pressing his hands far too tentatively over the worst of the wounds. Clarke laid her hands on top of his with impatience and pushed them down harder, leaving bloody prints on the back of his gloves when she pulled away. Bellamy stared down at them as if in a daze. Death on the Ark was usually bloodless. He'd probably never seen so much at once in his life.

"Keep doing that," she said, gently but firmly, and he gave a silent nod.

The next few minutes were a flurry of desperate attempts to save Sterling's life, fighting against time as his breathing grew increasingly irregular and his pulse continued to slow.

All too soon, it became clear to Clarke that by necessity they were draining blood from Sterling’s thoracic cavity more quickly than they could replace it. "We're losing him, Jackson. He needs more blood."

"Clarke," Jackson's voice was quiet, apologetic. "We used up his blood ration. That's all there is."

Clarke huffed out a breath into her surgical mask, shaking her head helplessly.

"No it's not," Bellamy cut in. "What's his blood type?"

"A-positive, but that's irrelevant—"

"Take mine." Bellamy's voice was deep and sure.

"That's illegal," Jackson said softly, but there was little conviction behind the words.

"And she's the chancellor." Bellamy wasn't looking at Jackson anymore. He stepped closer to Clarke. "I'm O-positive. Are you going to deny him blood when I'm standing right here offering it?"

There was no time for debate. Clarke met his eyes, and she saw no power plays there, no political maneuvering, only deep sadness with an edge of desperation. She'd seen that look in his eyes before—magnified tenfold—when Octavia lay on the brink of death in this very room.

She made a snap judgment then, illegality be damned. "Jackson, get me a needle. Bellamy, lay down." She was already wheeling another operating table next to the first as she spoke. Bellamy obeyed without comment, removing his bloody gloves as he did.

Clarke looked down at him as she pushed his sleeve out of the way and secured a tourniquet around his upper arm. His muscles flexed under her fingers, but that was the only sign of anxiety he betrayed. "We're going to have to do this quickly if it has any hope of working," she said, swiping antiseptic over his inner arm.

Bellamy smiled faintly. "Do your worst, Princess."

Clarke huffed out a muffled, hysterical little laugh into her surgical mask as she hooked the tubing up to the needle and slipped it into his arm. She chanced a glance at his face immediately afterwards, startled by how vulnerable he looked laid out on the operating table. "I can't take much," she said quietly. "Your water ration isn't enough to sustain a large blood donation."

He jerked his chin in acknowledgement, settling his head back on the table and staring up at the ceiling.

She hadn't transfused more than half a pint when Sterling's vital signs flatlined, the steady buzzing of the machine eerily loud in the tense silence of the room. Clarke's eyes met Jackson's over the operating table, and she whirled around to halt the transfusion while Jackson grabbed the defibrillator to deliver one shock then handed it over to her, starting in on CPR. Clarke stood there, clenching her hands around it, watching Jackson and waiting, waiting while seconds turned into minutes.

Then he stopped.

"No," Clarke said hoarsely. "Keep going."

"He's been asystolic for too long," Jackson said, choking a little over the word. "It's not going to work."

Clarke dropped the defibrillator, swooping in to begin her own compressions on Sterling's chest, quick and steady, until the muscles in her arms began to burn and the loose pieces of hair that had escaped her braid stuck to her sweaty forehead. Still nothing, and nothing, and "No," she whispered breathlessly. "No no no no...." But it was no use, and she fell back, yanking her surgical mask down and swiping an arm over her forehead.

Sterling's face was pale and still, his sandy blond hair falling shaggy around his forehead and ears, and he looked so young, and she recognized him now, she recognized him, and all she could do was stand there catching her breath with his blood all over her scrubs while Jackson entered his verbal report into the file.

"Sterling Kemp," he said wearily. "F-17. 27 years old. Time of death 16:43, 11 August 2160."

Within minutes, Mel was bursting through the door with Atom right behind her. Bellamy moved to shield Sterling's body from her view, but it was too late. An anguished, inarticulate sound escaped Mel's mouth, and it lanced straight into Clarke's heart like an electric jolt. Clarke watched dazedly, as if from a distance, as Mel pushed Bellamy out of her way to clutch at Sterling's hand, thread her fingers in his hair, press her forehead against his, all while silent, wracking sobs shook her body.

It suddenly felt like there wasn't enough air in the room. Clarke began backing towards the door before she'd realized she was doing it. She was bad at the aftermath, the loss, the comforting. That was Jackson's domain. And the last person Mel would want comforting her at a time like this was the chancellor.

The door to the med bay had barely shut behind her when she heard the swoosh of it opening again.

"Clarke, where are you going?" Bellamy's tone was demanding.

Clarke stopped, but didn't turn to face him.  "Away," she said numbly.

His hand caught her elbow, twisting her to face him more gently than she would've expected. "You're covered in blood."

She stared down at her still-gloved hands, the red stains that spread up the sleeves and front of her scrubs. It was doubly difficult losing a patient when she wasn't just a doctor, but also the chancellor. Each Ark citizen's wellbeing was her duty twice over. And she'd failed Sterling, twice over, and the woman who loved him, by extension.

"How did this happen?" she asked quietly.

Bellamy sounded confused. "I thought they told you. He was replacing one of the old backup batteries in section 11 and it—”

“No,” Clarke cut him off sharply, jerking her chin up to look at him. “Why did this happen?”

Bellamy’s expression hardened. “What are you trying to say, Chancellor?”

Anger swelled in Clarke’s chest, hot and insistent, boiling over into her words before she could stop them. “I saw his file earlier. That man was a maintenance worker. He worked under you. Why was he performing such a highly specialized repair without proper training?”

His nostrils flared, voice turning deeper and colder than she’d ever heard it. “I’d stop right there if I were you.”

Clarke forged on, heedless. “Is this how you run Operations and Maintenance? Do you even care about your workers’ lives?”

Bellamy took a step closer, and the motion was threatening, but Clarke stood her ground. “You’re asking the wrong question, Chancellor. Do you care about the workers’ lives? Because this is on you. This is all on you.”

Clarke jerked her head back like he’d slapped her.

Before she’d recovered enough to demand an explanation, he was giving one to her unasked, emotion creeping back into his voice as he spoke. “I just lost one of my friends back there, so forgive me if I’m not in the mood to explain the way the Ark operates to you. We’ve got a finite number of engineers and mechanics. We’ve got an abundance of maintenance workers. And we’re trying to keep a century-old pile of scrap metal functioning in orbit every day. Repairs far outweigh the manpower we have to make them. Which station do you suppose falls lowest in priority when skilled workers are assigned? Care to take a guess, Chancellor?”

Clarke clamped her mouth shut, tipping her head back to meet Bellamy’s gaze, posture defiant even as she fought for composure, fought against the growing pit of dread in her stomach that he was right, he was right and it was her fault and she didn’t even see the injustices that were happening right under her nose.

Bellamy gave a humorless, disgusted snort. “Didn’t think so. We do what we can to keep our station operational, no thanks to you or anyone else. You want to blame Sterling’s death on someone?” His gaze moved down her face, over her bloody scrubs to her hands and back up, then he leaned down closer, adding in a harsh whisper, “Take a look at yourself.”

She couldn’t breathe again, and she knew it had nothing to do with the oxygen level in the hallway. Crushing guilt was constricting her chest, both the immediacy of her failure as a doctor and the new realization that she was daily failing her people as a chancellor as well. She was killing them, and she couldn’t even save them afterwards. She couldn’t do anything except uphold the laws she hadn’t made, the ones that demanded she do terrible things for the greater good, things she hadn’t even realized she was doing.

The metallic tang of Sterling’s blood filled her nostrils, a delayed sensation, and she suddenly needed it off, off, away from her, and she ripped off her gloves and her scrub top in a panicked frenzy, balling them up into a wad and yanking down the hem of her t-shirt that had ridden up in her haste.

Bellamy had fallen back a little, and it was only when she looked up to see him eyeing her warily that she also noticed he was slightly blurred. She brought a hand up out of pure instinct, swiping at her wet eyes, but it hardly seemed to matter anymore that she was crying in front of him.

“I know them,” she choked out before she’d even realized she was speaking. “Of them. I know of them. Sterling and Mel.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “They submitted an application to have a baby six months ago. I declined it. Their genetic compatibility wasn’t ideal, Mel has a history of infertility in her family—” She cut herself off, voice steadier when she continued. “It doesn’t matter why. I declined it and she’s alone now, she doesn’t even have the possibility….”

And it’s all my fault, hung unspoken in the air, and Clarke knew she didn’t have to say the words for Bellamy to hear them. She didn’t know why she was confessing this to him, other than to ease her guilty conscience in whatever small way she could. Or maybe she was punishing herself, confessing to this man she’d been treating like an enemy at the very moment when the word seemed to fit her far better than him.

She swiped at her eyes again until she could see clearly, tear tracks already drying on her cheeks. Bellamy was watching her with an inscrutable look on his face. “If you’re going to confess your sins,” he said, more softly than she’d expected, “you should probably focus on the ones that are actually sins.”

Clarke blinked, taken aback. “You’re not supposed to defend me,” she said warily.

“Trust me, I’m not. You want to indulge in self-loathing, I’m not going to stop you. But do us all a favor and hate yourself for the things that are in your power to fix.”

He stared at her, hard, and Clarke found it difficult to meet his eyes. He wasn’t giving her absolution—it wasn’t his to give, anyway—but refocusing her guilt to where it could be most productive. Where it could make a difference. She’d told him and his sister she wanted to fix things, she wanted to repair everything that was fractured about the Ark and the people on it, and maybe this was his brusque way of saying he believed her.

She studied him, then, as if she’d never seen him before. His eyes looked suspiciously glassy, like tears were threatening just behind them. Sterling’s blood was smeared in patches on his shirt as well, and Clarke could see the dot of red blooming from Bellamy’s arm where the needle had been. He’d offered up his own blood without a second’s hesitation, he’d defied the law to her face for the sake of someone else, and Bellamy Blake wasn’t who she’d thought he was at all.

His lips tightened, and he moved a hand to his bleeding arm like he’d read her thoughts. “Whatever else you are,” he said quietly, “you’re a good doctor.”

“But a shit chancellor,” Clarke said wearily, echoing Bellamy’s words from when he’d visited her quarters. She’d never felt them to be so true before.

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was taking the measure of her, and Clarke glanced down, balling up the bloody fabric in her hands even more tightly.

He left without a word, disappearing back into the med bay, leaving Clarke standing in the empty hall with blood on her hands and dried tear tracks on her cheeks and the sharp stab of remorse in her heart.  

 

Chapter Text

"Strawberries!" Reese squealed, bouncing on the balls of her feet and looking every bit the teenager she was. "They haven't served strawberries in two years!"

Haven't served them to people with Factory rations, you mean, Octavia wanted to say, but one look at the excitement sparkling in her brown eyes, the way her freckled cheeks were dimpled with a huge smile, and she didn't have the heart. She exchanged a glance with Roma over Reese's shoulder instead, both of them unable to keep indulgent little grins off their faces.

But Reese tracked the exchange, excitement doing nothing to dull her usual sharply observant self. Octavia had been spending more time with her in the last week, and she'd quickly learned nothing escaped Reese's notice, to the point where it was annoying. Octavia valued her privacy a lot; it was no one's business but her own if she hadn't been sleeping well lately or if she seemed preoccupied. Still, it was nice to have someone in her life she could tentatively call a friend. The concept was unfamiliar to her—the idea of someone other than Bellamy showing concern for her so very foreign.

Reese rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "Whatever, guys. Play it cool all you want, I know you're excited too."

"I'll be more excited when we get to the front of the line and see if there are actually any left," Roma said dryly.

"Spoilsport," Reese grumbled under her breath.

In all honesty, Octavia was just as excited as Reese. She'd spent eighteen years either on the strict sky box diet or eating whatever leftover food her mom and brother could smuggle home to her, both of which were usually tasteless protein cubes—the main food staple of the Ark. Agro station grew all sorts of fruits and vegetables using hydroponic farming, but harvests were rarely bountiful enough for everyone to see the benefit. And when they did, it was almost always tomatoes, which flourished in hydroponic conditions. Octavia wasn't one to complain about any food that wasn't protein cubes, but even tomatoes got old after a while when you knew there were potatoes and blueberries growing just three stations over. She swore, half the kids in the sky box with her had been imprisoned for stealing fruit, and the more she tasted it, the less she could blame them.

As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly.

Reese raised a smug eyebrow. "I knew it."

Octavia held her hands up in surrender. "You caught me. Strawberries are my weakness."

"That's funny, Bellamy says you don't have a weakness," Reese replied, and her tone was only half-teasing.

She might have been mistaken, but Octavia thought she saw Roma flinch out of the corner of her eyes at the mention of his name. She'd been so matter-of-fact about the end of their relationship, but Octavia had her suspicions that she still had feelings for him, and his apparent closeness with Reese was probably not helping matters.

She scrambled for the first change of topic that came to mind, a question she'd been meaning to ask anyway. "Has anyone seen Mel lately?"

"She hasn't left her quarters in days. Some of us have been picking up meals for her." Roma held up a ration card. "My turn this morning."

"She took bereavement leave from work," Reese added, the previous excitement in her eyes dimmed by sadness. "She's supposed to go back this week but I don't know how she'll manage it. I've never seen her like this."

"Sterling was the last family member she had left. Some people can't recover from that."

Octavia was silent, trying to imagine what her life would be if she lost Bellamy. Apparently he went around telling people she was strong, and she liked to think that was true, but everyone had a breaking point. No weaknesses, huh, big brother? She felt a pang in her heart for Mel, understanding all too well what she was suffering, if not the full extent of it. They'd both lost their parents; Octavia could only imagine what losing a spouse would feel like, and how being utterly alone might feel worse than death itself.

"She's still got us," Reese said fiercely. "We take care of each other in Factory. My dad says that's the only way he got through my mom's death."

Octavia nodded, remembering Sterling's funeral the previous week, how half the population of Factory had wedged itself into the airlock vestibule, most faces damp with tears. But she'd noticed the others too, the ones who looked sullen, eyes brimming with barely concealed fury. Sterling had been friendly and well-liked, but he was more than himself now—he was a symbol. And the full force of that silent anger had been turned upon Chancellor Griffin—who'd cancelled the weekly council meeting to be in attendance—standing stiff and straight next to Bellamy, the stubborn set to her chin either a defense against the hatred radiating towards her or a guard against breaking down herself. Bellamy had told Octavia how the chancellor reacted to losing Sterling in the operating room, and that was enough to help her see beyond what everyone else saw—that the ice-blue of Clarke's eyes was actually unshed tears and the way she swayed slightly into Lieutenant Miller's arm was probably a silent need for comfort, not an expression of fear. She'd deferred the Traveler’s Blessing to Bellamy, perhaps feeling it was more appropriate coming from him under the circumstances. He’d added a few personal words before it while Mel stood silent and dry-eyed next to Sterling's body, her expression eerily lifeless, then he'd intoned the blessing in the deep, solemn voice he reserved for public speaking—in peace may you leave the shore, in love may you find the next, safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground—the very last may we meet again echoed by everyone in attendance. Mel pressed a kiss to Sterling’s forehead then, and after the inner airlock door sealed behind his body, she'd lifted a shaking hand to the button that would commit him to the deep. Long seconds had passed then, everyone looking on with helpless sympathy as Mel warred with herself. It was Bellamy who'd finally interceded, leaning down to whisper in her ear. She'd nodded, pressing her lips together as if holding something in, and Bellamy'd placed his hand over hers on the button, sure and steady, and just like that Sterling was gone. Mel had clasped her hands around her arms, shrinking into herself like she was the one who'd just been ejected into the frozen blackness of space, and Bellamy had wrapped a protective arm around her, steering her through the crowd and simultaneously keeping them at bay, taking her back to her quarters, which by all accounts, she hadn't left since. Bellamy was determined she be taken care of in her grief, and all of her neighbors had pitched in to help without him even needing to ask.

An elbow jab to her ribs startled Octavia out of her thoughts, and she was sure she'd missed a few minutes of conversation at least, since Roma was now standing at the front of the breakfast line just ahead of her.

Reese had a tray balanced on the arm that was not busy poking Octavia in the side. "See? What'd I tell you?"

Interrupting the dull metallic gray of the tray were three plump, brilliantly red berries. Octavia had to curl her fingers into a fist to keep from reaching out to touch one. "They're beautiful," she breathed out before she realized what she was saying.

Reese flashed a bright, satisfied smile and jerked her head towards the gap between Octavia and Roma. "Better hurry before someone cuts in line, space cadet."

This time it was Octavia who rolled her eyes. "Didn't your father ever teach you to respect your elders?" Reese’s only response was a snort, and Octavia shooed her away good-naturedly. "Go find us a seat before they're all taken."

Octavia stepped forward, closing the gap in line. Roma already had her own tray of food and was currently attempting to hand Mel's ration card over to Nygel.

"I told you," Roma was saying, clearly struggling to keep her voice calm, "Mel's on bereavement leave and she's shut herself up in her quarters. If we don't get food for her, she won't be able to eat."

"And I told you," Nygel replied cooly, "all Ark citizens are required to pick up their own rations."

Roma slapped the ration card down on the counter. "Cut the shit, Nygel. Harper just picked up dinner for her last night."  

Nygel looked unimpressed, leaning back and folding her arms over her chest. "I wasn't on duty last night. Someone's been bending the rules when I'm not here. Now are you done making a scene or do I need to call a guard to escort you out?"

Roma made a disgusted noise and pulled the ration card away. It was the worst-kept secret on the Ark that Nygel headed the thriving black market. But the woman was a genius at living a double life, toeing the line just enough that no one was ever able to get the leverage to prove what she was doing. Nygel wouldn't break the law unless there was profit in it for her, and Roma had nothing to offer. Nothing she’s willing to offer, anyway.

Octavia had that nauseous feeling she always got in the pit of her stomach when Inspector Grus was around. Roma turned away, the anger in her eyes at war with the helpless frustration on her face. Nygel had all of the power here.

No, she doesn't, Octavia realized with sudden certainty. Not anymore.

She tugged the card gently out of Roma's hand as she stepped to the front of the line, ignoring her friend's look of confusion. She laid her own card on the counter, then set Mel's deliberately on top of it, pushing both of them towards Nygel through the gap in the window. "Two trays, please."

Irritation flashed across Nygel's face. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself—”

Octavia cut her off. "We're acting under Councillor Blake's instructions. He'd be here to do it himself, but he's a little busy." She slapped a sickly sweet smile onto her face. "But if we have a problem, I'm more than willing to bring him here to resolve it."

Nygel's annoyed expression darkened into anger.

Octavia leaned forward, dropping her fake smile and arching an eyebrow. "Do we have a problem, Nygel?"

They eyed each other through the window, and Octavia could feel other eyes on them as well. No one dared to even attempt manipulating Nygel; she had dirt on everyone. Not Octavia, though—the only crime she’d ever committed was being born and it was too late to float her for that now—and Nygel knew very well who she was. Bellamy was beloved in more than one station on the Ark, but he could also be terrifying when he wanted to be—a lethal combination. And now that he was on the council, Nygel wouldn't dare cross him openly.

Octavia inched the cards closer to Nygel, never dropping eye contact, and the woman finally broke, scanning the cards in silence and handing over two full trays.

"Thank you, Nygel." Octavia picked them up, spinning around and nearly bumping into Roma, who was still standing behind her, watching wide-eyed along with everyone in line behind them and the occupants of the nearest half-dozen tables. Octavia ignored them all, falling into step with Roma as they headed for their table.

"You just made an enemy,” Roma murmured under her breath. “I hope you know what you're doing."

Octavia smiled grimly. She could feel Nygel's furious glare burning holes in her back. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

 

Roma and Reese dropped off Mel’s tray on their way to work, leaving Octavia with nothing to do but head home to face yet another interminable day of sewing. The prospect was even duller than usual, since she was still riding the adrenaline high of her victory over Nygel. She didn't want to shut herself away anymore. She wanted to do something, but the thing she wanted to do was going to require thought and careful planning. She lacked the patience for the sort of long game it would require, but if Bellamy could set aside his natural impetuosity to play his own long game, she could too. Her next step wasn't clear to her yet, and until it was, she needed to sit in the living room, dutifully working her way through her mending pile while she contemplated it. That was its own sort of challenge, and Blakes never backed down from a challenge.

She hadn't been home more than five minutes before there was a knock on the door, and she felt a little twinge of triumph that the sound didn't send her into a cold sweat. Bellamy's office hours were open, so it was doubtful the visitor was for him—and even more doubtful it was anything good—but Octavia's hidden reserves of courage were flooding her and she leaped up to greet whatever it was head-on.

She flung the door open, certain she was prepared for anything, only to be proven wrong immediately. "Chancellor?" she managed to stutter out, completely taken aback.

Clarke Griffin stood in the hallway, calm and confident as ever, flanked by a guard on either side—Lieutenant Miller and a woman Octavia didn't recognize.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, Octavia," the chancellor said, "but I was hoping you could spare me a few minutes. I'm afraid I have a mending emergency."

It was only then that Octavia noticed the neatly folded fabric Clarke was holding. She shifted her gaze back up to Clarke's face, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. No one ever brought work to her directly—that was laundry services' job—let alone the chancellor, who surely had a thousand more important things to do at the moment. "Uh, sure," Octavia said, eyeing the three people in front of her like they'd just collectively delivered the punchline of a joke she didn't get. "But you didn't have to bring it yourse—"

"It's my only robe," Clarke interrupted, like that clarified everything. She smiled then, and there was a trace of nervousness in it, a hint of pleading in her eyes that made Octavia step back and hold the door open wider.

Clarke turned to Miller. "Please return to patrolling, Lieutenant, and pick me up in an hour."

The other guard looked confused, but Lieutenant Miller merely jerked his chin in acknowledgement, the corner of his mouth curling up ever so slightly. Either he was used to odd commands from the chancellor, or the two of them had worked out this plan ahead of time.

Octavia watched as Clarke swept regally into the room. An hour, huh? The mending charade wasn't the least bit convincing. Maybe she hadn't intended it to be, as long as no one admitted verbally that it was a pretense. Octavia was more than willing to play along, alight with curiosity. The last time Clarke was in Factory, she'd been in disguise and the Blakes had warned her it was a dangerous place for her to be. Before that...well, Octavia couldn't recall a time the chancellor had been to Factory, other than routine station maintenance inspections, when she was surrounded by a dozen guards.

Octavia shut the door behind her, turning to lean against it. Clarke stood in the middle of the living room, looking ludicrously out of place in the small, spartan area. Octavia raised an eyebrow. "You're not very good at taking advice, Chancellor."

"This was the only way I could think of to speak to you privately." Clarke's tone was defensive. Well, charade's up already, I guess. "Don’t worry, I was very circumspect. I thought it best to catch you after breakfast, when everyone's started work and the halls are mostly empty. I don't want to make things...difficult for you."

Octavia bit back a laugh. "Things have been difficult for me since the day I was born. I doubt being seen with you could make it any worse."

Clarke shifted on her feet, eyes darting around the room, taking in the threadbare couch, the rickety chairs, the tiny kitchen table, the stack of work dwarfing it. "Is your brother, um...." She pressed her lips together, apparently unsure how to continue.

Octavia actually chuckled out loud at that. "No worries, he left a few hours ago. I think it's best I keep you two as far away from each other as possible after last time, don't you agree?" She said the words breezily but she kept a close eye on Clarke, watching for the tiniest flicker of reaction.

She let out a small breath, the obvious tension in her shoulders easing a bit. "Yes."

Octavia had rarely seen the chancellor discomfited before, but it was apparent there was something about Bellamy that unsettled her to a degree nothing else could. Octavia was slightly mystified by it all. Granted, she was biased. She knew her brother better than anyone, and it still flabbergasted her the way he could move a crowd, the way he inspired loyalty just by being, basically. Clarke was everything a leader should be—confident, competent, decisive, level-headed. But she seemed to lack Bellamy's natural skill with people, and Octavia could only guess that was the thing that made her wary of him.

Still, Clarke had won the chancellorship by a majority of votes. There were many people on the Ark who believed in her—just not in Factory and not with the same sort of passion they threw behind Bellamy—but that fact shouldn't be discounted. Surely Clarke herself didn't discount it.

Octavia gestured to the room at large. "Have a seat." She cleared her throat. She hadn't meant to be so brusque. I've never claimed to be a good host, she reminded herself, shrugging it off. Bellamy was the personable one.

She picked up her sewing kit from the kitchen table, turning around to see Clarke perched on the edge of the couch, back straight as the needle in Octavia's hand and chin tilted slightly upwards. They didn't call her princess for nothing.

Octavia set her kit down on the battered slab of metal that passed for a coffee table, holding out a hand for Clarke's robe. "What seems to be the problem?"

Clarke glanced at her hand, then started, like she'd already forgotten the ostensible reason she was there. "Oh!" She unfolded the robe in her hands, shaking out the bright sky-blue fabric. "I must have snagged it on something once, and then the hole just kept getting bigger. I think I pick at it when I'm reading or something without realizing it."

Octavia took the robe, poking her finger through the large hole a few centimeters from the hem, bringing it closer to her nose to inspect it. The fabric was sort of stretched out around the edges, like someone had yanked on it from both sides to enlarge the hole. Octavia sneaked a suspicious glance over at Clarke, but the chancellor looked perfectly serene. "I can fix it, but I don't think I have any thread that matches. This is a really unusual color."

"It was my great-grandmother's. It's a Griffin family heirloom. Supposedly it matches our eyes." She pressed her lips together then, looking wary, like she thought she'd said too much.

Octavia smiled, trying to put her at ease. "It's beautiful. I'll be very careful with it."

She'd selected the closest blue she could find from her kit, threaded her needle, and started in with tiny, even stitches before either of them spoke again.

It was Clarke who broke the silence. "Do you know Mel Kemp?"

Octavia kept her eyes on her work. "Not well, but she's a family friend."

"How—how is she?" The words were a near-whisper.

"She's grieving. But we're taking care of her. She'll survive. Just like we all have." Octavia raised her eyes to meet Clarke's gaze squarely. Just like I have.

The chancellor blinked a couple of times and looked down at her hands. "Octavia...why did you vote for me?"

So she was slowly getting to the point, but that still wasn't it. Octavia couldn't keep the amusement out of her voice. "I thought Bellamy told you."

"He did, but I'd rather hear it from you." Clarke's trademark intense blue stare was back then, the one that was more natural to her than this hesitation and dissembling.

"Simple, really." Octavia kept her tone light. "I thought you had the potential to be a good chancellor."

Clarke shook her head like that answer wasn't good enough. "But why?"

Octavia sighed, dropping her hands to her lap. "I don't know, I like to think I understand people. I spend a lot more time observing them than actually interacting with them. Gives me a different perspective. I'm an illegal child, so I'm naturally less biased. I don't have station loyalty. My Factory neighbors would've turned me in, same as a guard or someone from Alpha or Go Sci."

Two little crinkles appeared between Clarke’s eyebrows as she absorbed this information. When she spoke, she sounded exhausted. "I don't know if I'm a good chancellor. I thought I was."

Octavia resumed her stitching. "What changed your mind?"

"Sterling." There was a lengthy pause. "Your brother."

Octavia raised her head slowly, lifting an eyebrow. "Really," she said, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

"I've realized...there's a lot I don't know. I thought I knew the Ark, but I don't. Not all of it. I know my Ark, the part I grew up in, but that's not good enough. Not anymore."

"Well, there's your answer, Clarke," Octavia said matter-of-factly, and if the dropping of her title bothered her, she showed no sign of it. "No one's ever listened to us before. I thought there was a chance you would."

Clarke's mouth gaped open and closed, like the video footage of a goldfish Bellamy’d shown her when they were little and he’d come home from science class, eager to teach her everything he’d learned that day. "How could you possibly know that? You don't know me."

Octavia shrugged a shoulder. "Like I said, I trust my instincts. And I know my brother. Look, I'm aware he comes across like a total dick sometimes, but he has a good heart. He has good intentions." She pulled her most recent stitch tight against the fabric then set everything down in her lap to level a searching gaze at the woman sitting across from her. "Do you believe me?"

Clarke's posture remained stiff, her expression guarded. "I want to."

Octavia sat back in her chair, blowing out a breath. "Well, that's step one."

If she wasn't imagining things, it looked like the corner of Clarke's mouth twitched upwards into the tiniest of hesitant smiles. But when she spoke again, her tone was low and serious, and it was obvious she was choosing her words very carefully. "I came here today to ask you a favor. I trust my instincts too, and they're telling me I can trust you. With Bellamy..." The crinkles reappeared between her eyebrows. "Well, that's difficult. He's given me little cause to trust him, he's made his opinion on my leadership quite clear, and the vague death threats sure don't help anything."

"Death threats?" Octavia kept her face impassive, but that was a new one to her.

"I suppose it would be more accurate to call them oblique references to my safety." Clarke folded her hands primly in her lap. "One of which you were present to witness."

"You mean that time in the hallway? That had nothing to do with Bellamy. We were just saying it like it is. The majority of Factory hates you on principle, just because of who you are." Belatedly, the full meaning behind Clarke's words hit her and she bristled, in instant defense mode. "Hold up, you think Bellamy would...what, kill you? You've got to be joking."

Clarke shifted in her seat then, looking uncomfortable, but her tone was defensive. "I have to be careful. After the Sydney Rebellion...and I don't know him."

"Don't you," Octavia said sharply.

Clarke leaned back, startled. "I'm not sure what you're—"

"Yes you are. If you thought about it, if you really thought about it, I think you've seen enough to know who he really is. But for some reason...you don't want to." She shut her mouth abruptly, wondering if she'd gone too far, but Clarke didn't look angry, only affronted, too startled to say anything.

Octavia stabbed the needle into the robe with more than a little irritation. "If you two would just get over your enormous egos, stop hating each other, and learn to listen to someone else's opinion for once, maybe we could make some real, permanent changes to this shitty place. But until then, well, good luck with that."

Now the chancellor was well and truly flabbergasted. All her calculated propriety melted away, and she slouched back into the couch, staring at a particular spot on the floor like it had opened up into a black hole.

Octavia meant every word she'd said. She'd just been placed in the perplexing position of confidante to Bellamy and Clarke, both of them eager to put some level of trust in her while being unwilling to place any in each other. It would be downright hilarious if it wasn't so annoying.

Did Bellamy hate Clarke, though? It was difficult to tell. He sure enjoyed acting like he did, but then, he put on all sorts of acts that were awfully convincing to everyone except his sister. For someone he supposedly couldn't stand, he sure talked about her a lot. The stink he'd made when Octavia told him she'd voted Clarke for chancellor was beyond excessive. He hadn't made that big a fuss when people voted for Jaha's reelection four years earlier, and really—to a rational person—what was the difference between Thelonius Jaha and Clarke Griffin? If anything, a new Go Sci chancellor was preferable to an incumbent. No, it was the fact that it was Clarke that had him so riled up. But why?

Octavia had her suspicions. She wasn't blind, after all. There were those first few years after she nearly died of the flu, the soft way Bellamy would say Clarke's name when it happened to come up in conversation. He'd split his knuckles open once punching John Murphy in the mouth for calling her—What was it? A fucking stone-cold bitch? And that’s probably the version Bellamy censored for me—and as luck would have it, she was the one on duty in the infirmary who'd stitched him up. He hadn't told her, of course—told some lame story about cutting it on a circuit panel cover instead—and Octavia was fairly certain Clarke didn't remember the incident. How could she, with all the wounds she'd stitched closed over the years? And then there were all those flings, all those girls, and Octavia swore he never looked at any of them the way he looked at Clarke Griffin when she publicly announced she was campaigning for the Ark council.

But then came the years when she was on the council, and nothing on the Ark changed, status quo solidly in place. He never said he'd expected better of her—why would he, really?—but it seemed he had. The weird fixation only intensified at that point, magnified by his hostility, and it'd gotten worse since she'd become chancellor.

Remembering all this, Octavia couldn't hold back a chuckle, shaking her head at her dumb big brother's utter obtuseness.

"What's so funny?" Clarke demanded, almost petulantly, arms crossed over her chest now.

Octavia pressed her lips together to hold in her amusement, studying the woman sitting across from her, who'd abandoned all formality in a matter of seconds. It was so startling and so gratifying at the same time that Octavia felt a spark of mischief rising up in her chest and bubbling out of her mouth before she could stop it.

"Oh, nothing. It's just....” She threw in a lengthy pause for dramatic effect. “I always thought he had a thing for you. Hilarious, right?"

If Clarke's mouth had gaped like a goldfish before, now it more closely resembled a largemouth bass, and it took all Octavia's self-control not to laugh at her expression. "Huh?" she said at last, probably the least articulate word she'd ever spoken in her life.

Octavia kept her eyes carefully on her last stitch as she pulled it tight, snipping the thread and tying it off as she answered. "A thing, you know. As in, he liked liked you."

She wasn't watching for Clarke's reaction, but there was no missing it—the loudest, strangest snort she'd ever heard, something of a cross between a pig and what she imagined a disgruntled horse might sound like. Octavia looked up then, and the chancellor was...laughing?

Not even a hint of a public smile from her in ages, and this was what got a laugh out of her? Octavia watched in bafflement as Clarke clapped a hand to her mouth and tried to compose herself. "I'm sorry," she managed at last, a little breathlessly. "It's just...that's probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

Octavia raised an eyebrow, cocking her head to the side as another silent giggle shook Clarke's shoulders. "I'm glad it entertains you, but I'm actually dead serious."

"What? No." Clarke shook her head, and her next words were slow and over-enunciated, like she was talking to a little kid. "Bellamy can't stand me. He thinks I'm a shitty chancellor."

"I didn't say he still feels that way. Feelings change, you know. And besides, people can feel conflicting things." She folded the finished robe neatly and handed it over to Clarke, who set it on her lap. "Like me and Bellamy. I love him more than anything, but half the time I want to strangle him too. It's a sibling thing."

Clarke looked thoughtful, like that sentiment wasn't altogether foreign to her. But still she protested. "But Bellamy's always called me princess, ever since he met me. In an insulting way, you know? And he's always had this...angry glare whenever he looks at me. Since before I was on the council, even."  

So maybe Clarke was a good leader, but she was terrible at reading people. Octavia said nothing, just raised a skeptical eyebrow and gave up. Clarke Griffin wasn't going to believe what Clarke Griffin didn't want to believe. Not when it came to her self-styled nemesis, anyway. Stubborn idiots, the both of them.

Octavia sat back in her chair, drumming her fingers on the arms. "Okay, so you trust me and you don't trust my brother. What now?"

Clarke sat up straight again, folding her hands in her lap and taking a deep breath like she was preparing to give one of her speeches. "I'm sure you're aware that relations between the council and Factory have been strained for the last ten years. It's inevitable, after an assassination attempt that killed civilians and wounded Chancellor Jaha—"

"Bellamy is not Diana Sydney!" Octavia interrupted fiercely.

Clarke nodded. "I believe that. I do. I saw him with Sterling. I've seen him with his people. Maybe I didn't believe this at first, but I do now—he's not on the council for himself."

"Good." Octavia crossed her arms over her chest, somewhat mollified.

"But—and don't even bother trying to deny it—he's planning something."

Octavia kept her face impassive while Clarke paused to study it. Apparently finding nothing there, she continued. "My advisors think your brother's dangerous. Some of them think he wants to kill me. To the extent that I often find myself—of all people—in the position of defending him. Not because I trust him, but because I want to. I want peace, I want unity, and Bellamy's placed himself in a position where we can't have it without him. But his...seemingly underhanded behavior is making my case difficult. I came here to ask for your help."

"What sort of help?" Octavia asked suspiciously.

Clarke leaned forward, voice hushed and intent. "I need you to give me some hint of what he's planning. So I can be prepared. I'm not asking you to betray his confidence. I'm just asking if you could be more forthright with me than he is, and like you said, maybe together we have the chance to make some permanent changes here."

Octavia pressed her lips together, stalling for time to think. "So you're saying you won't oppose his plans on principle, just because they're his?"

Clarke straightened her back haughtily, looking offended. "I hope I'm not that obstinate. Even if he is." Then she deflated a little, heaving a sigh, nothing but sincerity in her voice when she added, "If Bellamy's willing to compromise, then I am."

"Good. Now tell him that," Octavia said, grinning with satisfaction.

Clarke's eyes darted to both sides, like she expected him to leap out of a cupboard or something. "I need your help, Octavia," she insisted.

"You've got it, such as it is. I'm sorry, but I'm just as much in the dark as you are."

The chancellor was clearly unprepared for that revelation. She blinked a couple of times, gave a sharp little shake of her head. "But—I was so sure—"

Octavia laughed, and if there was a hint of resentment in it, she couldn't really help it. "You and me both. But he's keeping this one close. Look, the only thing I know is that he's been talking to everyone in Factory, fielding complaints, figuring out which of them are fixable. And he's got some sort of plan that involves a girl who works in sanitation."

Clarke furrowed her eyebrows. "Just one girl? That doesn't make any sense. I thought he'd at least include the department heads. Some show of strength and solidarity...."

Octavia shook her head. "I'd know about that. I'm telling you, it's just Bellamy and this girl." She refused to name Reese, afraid the information might cause trouble for her.

"You're sure about this?" Clarke asked.

"Yes. Don't believe me?"

"If it's true," Clarke said slowly, "he's starting off smaller than I suspected he would."

Octavia smiled faintly. "If you think that, you don't know Bellamy."

Clarke raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.

But Octavia didn’t have any theories, other than one improbable one. At a loss, she spread her hands out. "There's only one other explanation. This girl is completely unrelated to his political schemes and something else is going on between them."

An unidentifiable flicker of something passed over the chancellor's face. "Is that likely?"

Octavia shrugged, side-eyeing Clarke as she answered. "It's possible, I suppose. She's not his usual type. But you sure wouldn't catch me complaining. They'd have an adorable freckled baby. I'd be the first aunt in generations." So maybe she was stretching a little. Or a lot. She had almost no evidence to back up her idle suspicions. But she wanted to see the chancellor's reaction, mostly. And it was so much more fun gossiping about Bellamy with someone who hadn't slept with him. 

And she wasn’t disappointed. React Clarke did, a dark scowl taking over her face, and Octavia studied her surreptitiously, trying to figure out why. The thought of yet another Blake to torment her? Trying to figure out Bellamy's plans, without a doubt. But there was something familiar about that scowl, something that looked awfully similar to some of Bellamy's scowls....

Octavia waved a hand, as if brushing the whole idea away. "He's got a plan, and it involves her, and that's all I know. Look, I know you don't want to hear this...but the best thing to do is wait for him to tell you himself. You want my help? That's it right there."

"He's going to spring it on me in a council meeting," Clarke protested. "He's going to manipulate it into being."

Octavia was starting to lose her patience. "Chancellor Griffin, this is my advice—Bellamy will either be a hell of a good ally, or he'll fight you every step. Which one are you gonna pick?" She heaved a sigh. "You think you trust me. I trust my brother. You don't trust him. Do you see the problem here?"

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose, and when she spoke, she sounded half-frustrated, half-desperate. "I'm trying. I don't know what else to do—"

The chancellor cut herself off at the sound of footsteps echoing in the hallway.

It couldn't be the guards. Our hour's not up yet, Octavia thought dismissively, but then she froze. She knew those footsteps.

She was on her feet in half a second, yanking at the chancellor's arm, who remained unmoving on the couch, just staring up at her with wide, startled eyes.

"Come on," Octavia hissed. "Do you want him to find you here?"

"Who?" Clarke looked genuinely bewildered.

"Bellamy." The you idiot was implied. It was far too early in their relationship to be using affectionate insults.

Those three syllables had the chancellor moving with alarming rapidity, allowing Octavia to all but shove her into her bedroom. She pulled the door shut once Clarke was safely inside, issuing an order in a whisper. "Stay quiet, I'll get rid of him."

Octavia could already hear the mechanical click of the door unlocking, and she only just had time to whirl around, facing Bellamy as he entered their quarters. "Hey, O," he said distractedly, barely sparing her a glance. "Forgot my jacket. It’s freezing in my office."

She let out a silent breath of relief and waited for him to disappear into his bedroom before taking a seat again, snatching up a pair of pants and sticking pins into one leg haphazardly. "Forgot to comb your hair too, apparently," she said, raising her voice a little so he could hear her. She swore he’d never even cut it if she didn’t nag him about it all the time.

Something whizzed past her knee and landed on the floor with a clatter. She leaned over to peer down at it. Just as she suspected. She made a disapproving tsking noise. "Shouldn't go around chucking precious resources, Bell."

"Who needs a comb," he shouted cheerfully.

Someone's in a good mood, she thought suspiciously. Now if she could just crack another joke or two and send him on his way back to work, he might be gone before the guards came back or Clarke sneezed or something.

She'd just started pinning the second leg when his voice startled her, closer than she'd expected. "What's up, O?" He was leaning in his doorway, jacket in one hand.

"What does it look like?" she said, trying for a sassy tone, waggling a pant leg at him.

He raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. "Why's your door shut?"

"My room's a mess."

"Wasn't when I left two hours ago."

"Is that a question or an observation?"

Bellamy didn't answer, making a face like he'd just downed a glass of unsanitized water. "I get the picture."

Octavia settled back in her chair, allowing herself a satisfied smirk. Let him think she was hiding a naked man in there. Wasn't the first time.

"Just tell me those aren't his pants," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Nope. They belong to..." Octavia flipped the ID tag out, squinting down at it, "...Denby." She hadn't looked before. She made a disgusted face, dropping the fabric like it was covered in excrement.

Bellamy leaned on the back of her chair. "Sew his pockets shut, would you?" It was her go-to revenge method—a small thing that was disproportionately annoying to the wearer of the pants while being too difficult to trace back to a specific tailor.

Octavia smiled grimly. "Gladly." She'd been on the receiving end of Denby’s harassment on more than one occasion. The man was revolting. "Who was it this time?"

"Does it matter?" Bellamy said darkly. "It's always someone."

She tilted her head back to get a better look at his face. He used to use his fists on behalf of the disenfranchised—hell, so did she—always knowing just where to stop to avoid arrest for assault. Now that he was on the council, he had to fight with his wits instead, with the force of his will. "Bell. Don't do anything stupid."

He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Can't float someone for harassing underage girls, but steal a dose of medicine for your sick child...."

He let the thought hang, while Octavia pictured cornering Denby in some security camera-free back hallway and rearranging his nose. She'd get away with it too. No witnesses, and Denby'd float himself before admitting Octavia Blake beat him in a fight.

She eyed Bellamy again, afraid he could read the revenge fantasy playing out in her head clear across her face, but something over her shoulder had caught his attention. He frowned, stepping around her chair, and bent down to pick up the chancellor's robe, which had fallen into a messy pile on the floor in Clarke's hurry to hide.

"Pretty color, isn't it," Octavia remarked, feeling perfectly safe.

Bellamy gave a mumbled "Mmmf" that she took to be assent, but his frown deepened and he shook it out, running his fingers over the soft fabric, down the neat stitches she'd made near the hem.

Octavia tried not to gape at him. He can't possibly know, how on earth—

Bellamy's voice was low when he spoke, with a sharp, dangerous edge to it. "Care to tell me what the chancellor's robe is doing here, O?"

Her mouth dropped open, and she tried to snatch the robe back. Bellamy shifted on his feet, holding it well out of her reach. "Answer the question, O."

"Maybe because it needed repairing," she snapped. "And I'm a tailor."

"So was Mom," he shot back. "And she taught us to never leave work lying around on the floor."

Before she could come up with a rebuttal to that, Bellamy's eyes swept towards her bedroom door. Shit, he knows. So much for keeping them out of each other's way.

But he'd hardly taken two steps before a wonderful, foolproof distraction method occurred to her. "Hold up, Bell. How do you know what Chancellor Griffin's robe looks like?"

He swung back around to face her, and the slight pause before he answered was enough to tell her she'd managed to fluster him—as much as Bellamy ever could be flustered. "Midnight visit to her quarters, remember?" he said, a slight defensive note in his tone.

Octavia crossed her arms over her chest. "For business, you said. Yet you remember not only what her robe looks like, but the exact spot where a hole was?"

Bellamy's mouth snapped shut, and if she'd ever seen such a thing before, she would've sworn a flush spread over his cheeks. They had a brief stare-down, both waiting for the other to crack, and for a fleeting moment she saw a hint of defeat in his eyes, and she thought he was going to do the politic thing—admit he was mistaken even though they both knew he wasn’t, save them all heaps of embarrassment, and refrain from willfully sabotaging all the progress Octavia might've made in getting the chancellor to trust him.

But then he clenched his teeth, a muscle jumped in his jaw, and just like that all her efforts were for nothing. "I'm observant," he said hotly.

Octavia gave a scornful snort. "Observant my ass."

He breathed deeply through his nose, giving her his patented I'll deal with you later look, and turned away again.

"Bellamy!" She grabbed his arm in a last-ditch attempt to stop him, adding quietly, "Please don't open that door, Bell. Would you just trust me and go back to work? I'll explain later."

But he was a Blake—and nothing if not stubbornly set on his own course of action. She let go of his arm, throwing her hands up in exasperation, and Bellamy strode towards the bedroom door and flung it open.

Clarke Griffin wasn't hiding—of course she wouldn't hide—instead standing straight and proud just inside the door, covering any embarrassment she might be feeling at being caught yet again with defiance. Her eyes widened at the stormy expression on Bellamy's face, the only evidence to indicate she wasn't nearly as collected as she was pretending to be.

"What the hell are you doing in my quarters?" Bellamy demanded.

"Your quarters?" Octavia all but screeched. Now was definitely one of those moments when she wanted to strangle him.

They both ignored her.

"Turnabout's fair play," Clarke said icily.

“This isn’t turnabout. I didn’t go snooping around your quarters when you weren’t home.”

“Of course not,” Clarke said. “I live alone. Breaking and entering is a felony.”

Bellamy sucked in a noisy breath and made a face like he wanted to punch something. “Well maybe bullying my sister into letting you in should be a felony too.”

Before Octavia could get a word in edgewise to tell him just how wrong he was, Clarke leapt to her defense. “It’s very obvious your sister’s not the type to be bullied into anything.” The chancellor raised a challenging eyebrow. “I asked nicely, and she let me in,” she added, a mocking note in her tone that made Octavia think she was throwing words Bellamy had once said back in his face.

It was an appropriate moment for Bellamy to look to Octavia for confirmation, but he was too fixated on Clarke to take his eyes off her, anger radiating from him so palpably she could probably feel the burn of it. “I don’t care how you got here, Chancellor. I want to know why.”

“I wanted to speak with your sister. That’s not a crime.”

“About what, exactly?”

“About the hole in my robe,” she snapped.

Bellamy did that thing where he breathed deeply through his nose again—his biggest tell that he was trying and mostly failing to keep his anger in check. But instead of continuing the argument, he simply wrapped a hand around her elbow and began steering her firmly towards the door.

Shocked into inaction by his audacity, Clarke allowed herself to be towed halfway to the door before she dug her heels in, twisting her arm out of his grip. “Why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?” she demanded.

“Because you’re not welcome here,” he said bluntly.

“You’re very welcome here,” Octavia contradicted him, serenely taking a seat again to watch the show, wondering if either of them had even heard her.

Apparently Clarke had, although she didn’t take her eyes off Bellamy. “That’s interesting. You and Octavia seem to have very different opinions on the topic. Why is that, Councillor Blake?”

He shifted on his feet, a mulish expression on his face. “I told you to stay out of Factory.”

Clarke gave a short, sharp laugh. “You really expect me to believe this is about my safety?”

Of course Bellamy was too damn proud to argue the point, but Octavia knew him well enough to spot the little flinch, the wounded look in his eyes that he quickly covered with anger. He’d been fighting for respect so long, he thought it had to come at the cost of fear. And he hated it, deep down—she knew he did—having to resort to intimidation and anger for his voice to be heard by those in power. And the chancellor’s obvious suspicion that he intended her harm—he played it to his advantage yet resented it all the while.

“Believe what you want,” he said dispassionately. “I’d think at the very least you’d be concerned with your own safety.”

“I’m not afraid of my people.”

“You should be.”

“Of you?” There was no trace of fear in her voice—it was pure challenge.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How willing you are to compromise.”

“As your sister can tell you, I’m perfectly willing to compromise. Provided that you are as well.”

Bellamy’s mouth twisted up in a mockery of a smile. “Been compromising my whole life, Princess. I’m done compromising.”

“Bellamy—” Octavia said warningly.

By all appearances, he ignored her yet again, and anger was just flaring up in Octavia’s chest when he spoke again, effectively dousing it. “We have something in common, you and I.”

That was an abrupt change of tactic. Maybe he’s not so hopeless after all. Octavia snapped her mouth shut, eyes darting between the two of them, curious where he was going with this.

Clarke raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I doubt that.”

Bellamy leaned forward. “We both want to save lives.”

Something vulnerable flashed across the chancellor’s face then, and some of the stiffness melted out of her shoulders. A silent look of understanding passed between them—miracle of miracles—and Octavia could only guess it had something to do with what had happened in the operating room.

The chancellor pressed her lips together, the war within herself playing out clearly across her face, eyes glued to Bellamy’s like she could read his intentions there. At last, she asked quietly, “So what’s the plan?”

Bellamy gave a tiny, satisfied jerk of his chin. “I’m presenting a course of action to the council this week, and that’s all you need to know about it.” When Clarke opened her mouth to protest, he forged on. “I know the constitution is fresh on your mind, Chancellor, but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m under no obligation to run anything by you before presenting it. The council has every right to hear it when you do.”

Clarke’s jaw clenched, and she was silent for a few seconds—either gathering her thoughts or trying to keep her anger in check. “Nevertheless, before you go about trying to make drastic changes to the system, it might behoove you to keep me informed.”

Bellamy’s lips curled up, open amusement flashing across his face. “I fail to see how it behooves me.” He lingered over the word, mocking.

Clarke leaned closer, her soft tone belying the warning in her words. “The council is historically slow to change. You’re lying to yourself if you think I don’t have an influence on them. You might have me as an ally if you would just cooperate.”

Bellamy leaned closer too, matching her soft tone. “Is that a threat, Chancellor?”

Clarke just raised an eyebrow again, a silent challenge.

Octavia sat, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, watching the entire exchange. They were right up in each other’s faces, kissing distance, really—and it was so weird. She couldn’t tell if they wanted to punch each other in the face or jump each other’s bones—or maybe both at once—and there was absolutely nothing normal about it. Just your run-of-the-mill political rivalry, Bellamy had said dismissively once or twice when Octavia raised suspicions about the over-the-top anger they seemed to have in each other’s presence. Combined with Bellamy’s decade-long recurring fixation, the way his voice had gone all soft when he recounted Clarke’s efforts to save Sterling, and his weirdly photographic memory about her robe—not to mention that silent look of understanding that’d passed between them in the midst of all the mistrust—and it really seemed to her like they were deluding themselves to a ridiculous degree.

Political rivalry, what a joke. Octavia rolled her eyes. Not like either of them was paying attention to her to see it anyway. She hated to interrupt, but they really did look like they were about to come to blows at any second—Clarke’s hands curled into fists and Bellamy’s chest heaving up and down like he’d just been exposed to an airlock leak.

“Okay,” she said warily, moving to place a tentative hand on each of their shoulders, sort of wedging herself between them and prying them apart. “Why don’t we just cool it for a second?”

It was probably like telling burning rocket fuel to cool it—or the sun—but it seemed to work, at least momentarily. With Octavia between them, some of the tension in Bellamy’s jaw eased, and Clarke took in an enormous breath like she hadn’t been breathing for the last ten minutes.

Okay, Octavia, time for some damage control. She felt like she was going weaponless into battle. This wasn’t her sort of thing—it was the very opposite of her sort of thing. Maybe I should’ve let them get into a fistfight. At least I know how to break up that kind of argument. They’d jointly put her in the most unique position on the Ark, and maybe she was being overdramatic, but she felt the weight of future peace sitting heavily on her shoulders in these seconds while she decided what to say, and damn it, she was so mad at both of them for doing this to her.

Backing up a step, she eyed both of them, plastering a disappointed expression onto her face and doing her very best to channel Aurora Blake when she’d been mediating arguments between her children. “As the neutral party here, it behooves me to clear up a couple of things. First of all, Bellamy, the chancellor had a guard escort deliver her right to the door, and she timed her visit to be as inconspicuous as possible, so take that into consideration before jumping to conclusions about her ignoring our advice.”

The chancellor crossed her arms over her chest, giving a satisfied little nod, and Octavia forged on before she could get too smug about it. “And Chancellor Griffin, I know my brother’s being a total ass about it, but he has a valid point. The council needs to hear his plan together, or he’d be undermining his own opposition to privilege. Win or lose, he wants the council to make the decision, not one person. Even if that person is the chancellor.”

She was careful to keep her tone gentle, her words reasonable, and in response Clarke looked far less hostile to them than she would’ve if they were coming from Bellamy’s mouth. Bellamy, for his part, was keeping his expression surprisingly guarded, studying the chancellor’s reaction intently.

Octavia felt safe enough to take yet another step back. “I think, um…I have an idea. If you could both promise each other something right now, maybe we can call this a truce.”

They both shot startled, disgusted glances at her, like she’d suggested they make out with each other in front of her or something. She heaved a sigh. “Just…hear me out.”

They eyed each other then, waiting to see who’d break first, and Octavia stood with bated breath for the outcome.

Shockingly, it was Bellamy. “Fine with me,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and turning to Octavia. There was still a fight in his eyes, but he was looking at her like he trusted her. She gave a grateful little nod, then turned to see Clarke mirroring his posture exactly, a cautiously curious expression on her face.

Well that was easier than I expected. Octavia gave a decisive nod, trying to appear more confident than she felt. “Okay, Bellamy, I need you to promise the chancellor that whatever this plan of yours entails, it won’t cause any harm to the people of the Ark, the people on the council, or the chancellor herself.”

“Of course not,” Bellamy said irritably. Octavia turned a disapproving glare on him. Ridiculous as the idea might sound on his end, she could tell it was a legitimate fear of Clarke’s and she needed to do her level best to allay it right now. He scowled, resentful of the implications behind the promise, but he mumbled, “I give you my word.”

Octavia turned to Clarke, who was looking subdued and contemplative. “Chancellor Griffin, if you’d be so kind, please tell my brother that you’ll hear his plan with an open mind and a willingness to compromise if the council agrees to it.”

Clarke tilted her chin up the tiniest bit, stubborn to the bitter end, but she said in an even tone, “I promise.”

Octavia blew out a breath. “Okay, now shake on it and we can go about our business.”

Clarke’s mouth dropped open, and Bellamy worked his jaw so hard it looked like he was chewing on a stale protein cube. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, tone dropping an octave into the range he usually reserved for public speaking.

“Just do it,” Octavia snapped, at the end of her patience.

Clarke went into instant princess mode, tilting her chin up even more, drawing herself up to her fullest height and regally extending a hand out to the space between them like she was bestowing some great honor. Forget princess—she looked more like a queen at the moment.

Bellamy eyed her hand like it was a trap, like she had the power to break him and swallow him whole. Finally, after several long, tense seconds, he disentwined his arms and reached out to take her hand, which nearly disappeared inside his much larger one. Clarke started at the contact, glancing down in surprise like she hadn’t actually expected him to do it. They shook once, twice, eyes locked on each other like this was some kind of battle too. And then—they didn’t let go right away. Dead silence reigned over the room for a long moment, and Octavia had time for one alarmed thought—what the fuck is even happening right now?—before three sharp taps on the door broke them apart. They both shifted on their feet self-consciously, Clarke’s hands moving to smooth the hem of her worn gray shirt and Bellamy’s arm falling to his side, flexing his fingers like the touch had burned him.

“That’ll be my guard detail,” Clarke said hoarsely.

That galvanized Bellamy into action, and he strode towards the door, flinging it wide open.

“Councillor Blake,” Octavia heard Miller say, surprise leaching all the professionalism out of his voice. He stepped quickly into the room without being asked, worry written all over his face until his eyes landed on the chancellor, who gave him a tiny, reassuring smile.

“Lieutenant Miller,” Bellamy said dryly, spreading one arm wide in a mock-welcoming gesture, “by all means, make yourself at home.”

Miller squared his shoulders. “I’m just here to pick up the chancellor.”

“Yes, I really should be going,” Clarke said, clasping her hands in front of her. “Thank you so much for your time, Octavia.”

She was dashing for the door before Octavia could think what to say in response to that. Bellamy watched as she passed him, a smirk making a reappearance on his face. “Forgetting something, Chancellor?”

Clarke came to an abrupt halt, and everyone’s eyes fell on the shaky alibi for her presence there—the blue robe, discarded in a heap on the couch where Bellamy’d dropped it. Octavia picked it up, folding it and gently smoothing the creases before holding it out to Clarke.

“Thank you,” the chancellor said again, softly this time, and her eyes held all the other things she didn’t feel comfortable saying in front of everyone. There was a mix of gratitude and disappointment there—she hadn’t gotten the information she came for, but she was leaving with a different sort, and Octavia could only hope they’d managed to establish a foundation of trust. As long as Bellamy and Clarke were at odds, the Ark would suffer for it. Little as she relished playing the role of mediator, Octavia felt she had no choice but to do so, and on top of that, she genuinely liked Clarke. If she could be a friend to her and help Bellamy in the process—well, so much the better.

“Anytime,” she said warmly, hoping Clarke knew she really meant it.

The chancellor left then, tailed by her guards, but not before shooting one more indecipherable look at Bellamy. He returned it, then shifted his gaze to a spot on the floor near his feet, looking contemplative.

“Bell,” Octavia began, once the door was safely shut, “I only hid her because you two are so volatile around each other. She trusts me and I was trying to get her on our side—”

“It’s fine, O,” he said, no trace of anger in his tone, only exhaustion. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

She gave him a tentative smile—she hadn’t expected him to be so reasonable about it. “Now if you’d just listened to me and left when I asked we could’ve avoided this disaster.”

He sighed, retrieving his jacket and shrugging it on. “I don’t want to talk about it right now, O.”

Octavia tilted her head, studying him. The hopes and expectations of an entire station were weighing on him, and he couldn’t handle it alone forever. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to, but in the meantime, she didn’t want to burden him further. “Okay.”

He stopped short, hand on the door. “Do you think,” he said, glancing over his shoulder but not quite meeting her eyes, “she believes us?” Do you think she believes me? was the question behind it, and Octavia would have smiled at her brother’s rare show of insecurity, if it wasn’t inextricably wound up in the very real danger to his life if the security council thought he was a violent threat. The Ark would descend into chaos if they floated him, but it wouldn’t be the first time in history someone had eliminated one threat only to create an even bigger one in the process.

“Yes,” Octavia said firmly, because she needed it to be true, and she was going to make it true if it wasn’t. Her brother had spent most of his life keeping her alive, and she’d be damned if she wouldn’t fight for him just as fiercely, now more than ever.