Archive of Our Own ^beta

She’s a femme fatale, as the French say, the lipstick-stain on her whisky glass scarlet red, her eyes an electric kind of blue, with a cigarette dangling between her fingers. Naturally, it draws the men in the bar towards her as if she’s the only source of light and they’re a swarm of insects, but she only has eyes for James… Which is good because James would be filled with rage if she dared to look elsewhere for attention.

But it isn’t James’ jealousy that drives him forward. It’s Bellamy’s worry, because the men in here are looking at her like a piece of meat. When he has made his way to her, he leans in close, whispering — not to the femme fatale, Roxanne, but to his partner, Clarke, “You got that knife handy?” Then, in order to maintain his cover, he acts like James Mayson would, running his hand up her back.

“Of course. It’s in my garter.”

He swallows, trying not to picture it. Suddenly, she tenses a little against him, which tells him that the men that he has come here with are watching them. Quickly, Bellamy murmurs, “Forgive me,” into the crook of her neck before he starts to kiss her throat and collarbone, and in that moment, the line between them and their covers blur: Are they Roxanne and James, or Bellamy and Clarke? Are they working for the FBI, trying to solve a murder or are they criminal lovers living life dangerously, their relationship as volatile as a loaded gun?

She relaxes in his arms, sighing, which definitely isn’t just for show, because the gang members can’t hear her. Pulling away, Bellamy runs the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip, murmuring, “I should present you to them.” 

Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin were teamed up at the Bureau two years ago when Blake’s former partner, Nathan Miller, received a long-deserved promotion. At first, Bellamy didn’t think that anyone could possibly replace him, especially not a rich girl who grew up on Sunset — Damn, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

WRONG (adj.)

Definition: 20 solved cases and counting, if it wasn’t for her, he would be dead.

Keeping his arm around her waist, James proudly shows off his girl to the bulky, tattooed gang members, and one of them, who goes by the name of ‘Choker’, shows off his crooked teeth, snickering, “What’s yours is ours, right Malicious?” But Bellamy holds her closer, clenching his jaw, an attempt to control his anger, yet it doesn’t work for long.

“If you touch her, you’re dead. Capisce? She’s mine!” 

Luckily, Bellamy’s protectiveness easily passes as James’ possessiveness, so the gang members back off. However, Choker can’t resist commenting, “She must give it to you real’ good.” 

Although Clarke is a highly trained FBI-agent who can fend off attackers that are three times her size, Roxanne is not. The thing that Bellamy hates the most about this cover is that he has to treat his partner like meek prey, like a sexual object. In actuality, she has a knife and a .32 hidden underneath her dress, and if everything else goes to shit, she knows how to make a high heel shoe into a perfectly good murder weapon. He’s seen her do it before. 

They’ve discovered that the gang changes the location of their base every second week to avoid discovery (as it turns out, however, none of them is smart enough to tell an agent from a brute). For the next couple of weeks, they’re staying at the wrong end of L.A. in a building that looks like an abandoned motel.

The room that Bellamy and Clarke — James and Roxanne — share reminds them of something taken straight out of a horror movie: The mirror is covered in dust and broken, and the bed is definitely moth-eaten. “I don’t like this, James. Just the thought of spiders makes my skin crawl, you know that,” Clarke changes her voice to suit the damsel in distress role, applying a fresh coating of scarlet lipstick for good measure. Then she walks to him, dragging her thumb across her lower lip before running it along the edge of his white shirt collar. 

“Easy now, Roxy. I’ll take you out tonight to make up for it,” although he replies as James, Bellamy searches her eyes for permission, and she nods, tilting her head a little to expose the side of her neck. The thought of bruising her even slightly makes him feel disgusting, but they already discussed this, and they have a cover to maintain. Using his thumb and index finger, Bellamy pinches the skin a few inches below her jawline. Is it all right? His lips shape the words, letting no sound emerge. In response, she nods once more, faking a moan in case anyone’s listening at the door.

“Use your teeth.”

What? He mimics, furrowing his eyebrows.

It works faster.  

Oh, so it is uncomfortable. Even though he wants to make it less painful, Bellamy wishes that she wasn’t as nonchalant about the whole thing, about asking him to give her real fucking hickey. Noticing his restraint, Clarke arches her brow in challenge as if to say, ‘you’ve done it before. It can’t be that difficult’.

In the end, he gives in, allowing his mouth to take over as his fingers release her skin. Cradling the back of her head, he exposes her neck even more, dragging his teeth across the patch of her skin that looks the thinnest. When she shivers, Bellamy pulls her closer like it’s a reflex before soothing the area using the tip of his tongue. She moans again, but this time it doesn’t sound fake at all. Surely, he has learned to tell the difference between acting and reality some time ago.

Before the memory can flood his brain, Bellamy pulls back, brushing his thumb over the blooming hickey that he’s left on the side of her throat. However, Clarke narrows the distance between them again in order to unbutton his shirt a little. If he looks at her now, he might drown in her eyes, which is why he keeps his gaze fixated on a crack in the wall. 

It’s a dangerous game…

DANGEROUS GAME (adj. + noun)

Definition: A half-empty whiskey bottle and his office after hours

“Oh James, you’re so good to me,” the words emerge as a purr. Then again, Roxanne has the spirit of a cat, craving attention while still seeking her freedom.

“You can pay me back when we come back from our stroll, baby. Let’s go,” meanwhile, James has the spirit of a ferocious Dobermann, growling and barking when anyone stands in his way: He’s controlling, uncaring but oh so charming. Clinically, a psychopath, much like the rest of the gang members, which is a testament to how impressive Bellamy’s acting skills actually are.

They head into the star-speckled night together, only putting their cover on pause once they’ve sat down at a table in the diner. It’s a huge relief for Bellamy to be able to smile again, and the waiter looks at him a little weirdly because of the grin that’s plastered to his face. Letting Bellamy order for her, Clarke goes to the bathroom to remove the lipstick. 

“Two chocolate shakes, a BLT and a cheeseburger with extra fries, please.”

Obviously, it’s almost impossible for them not to discuss their case while they finally have the time, but because it’s not actually appetite-inducing they try not to.

Four months ago, two young girls were drugged, kidnapped and killed by James’ fellow gang members. The motive for the crime is still somewhat unclear, but the evidence against them is overwhelming, since Bellamy has managed to tape a private conversation between Choker and Slither, in which they discuss the girls.

“I like this dress,” Clarke remarks, stealing a fry off his plate with a grin. “It shows off my curves.”

Well, she looks good in anything, Bellamy admits to himself. Even the yellow plastic suits that they wear to crime scenes. Without giving too much away, he smiles, fighting off the urge to wink at her, though apparently he’s not nearly as smooth as he thinks he is, because Clarke makes note of something. 

“You look tense. Is your back bothering you again?” 

“No,” the word stumbles awkwardly out of his mouth, seemingly throwing her off for a moment, which isn’t surprising. “My back is fine,” is what he ends up adding in attempt to save himself from her suspicion.

What she says next, however, takes him completely off guard. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make you think about it, but I do too, and it’s—“ Difficult. So fucking difficult.  

“Clarke…” 

She shakes her head at that, keeping her gaze down as heat rushes to her cheeks, leaving them in a rosy pink color. Of course, Bellamy wants to say something, anything to save her from embarrassment, but his brain seems to have tied itself into an awkward knot, and the words of comfort that usually come to him naturally have been completely lost. Gathering the courage to look at him, Clarke lowers her voice to say, “We agreed that this wouldn’t affect our partnership. We’re adults, it’s fine. We just need to forget that it happened.” 

Even though it’s not rational, the last part feels like a blow to his chest, a bullet to his heart. He remembers the first time that he was hit while they were working in the field; falling and hearing Clarke’s scream rip through the air like lightning. When he woke up in the hospital, the FBI medic, Maya Vie, told him everything, hoping that it would help with his amnesia: His partner had saved his life, killing the hitman with a single shot to the head while applying pressure to his wound with her free hand. His bloodstained shirt was hanging across a chair, ready to be thrown out after analysis, but as soon as he noticed some drops of black mascara around its collar, he decided to take it home for safekeeping. 

“I can’t forget it,” he blurts out. “It wasn’t a hook-up, Clarke. We know it wasn’t, and we shouldn’t treat it like one.”

As if any of them would risk their partnership for the sake of a quickie in his office. That’s not what happened. And yes, what did happen shouldn’t have happened either, but at least they’re not ashamed of it…

Three months earlier

It quickly became a ritual, indulging by having a drink in his office after they solved a case together, their preferred kind of booze being Bourbon on the rocks. This night, however, they choose to go a step further by playing a game of darts, which Bellamy unfortunately has to forfeit. 

“Something’s wrong,” she remarks when he winces. “You’re in pain.” 

Clarke spent enough time working as her mother’s assistant in the hospital to immediately read when somebody is hurting. There’s no point in denying it, which is why Bellamy replies without much fuss, “It’s my back, but don’t worry. I just think my muscles are a bit tense from the fall. Maybe I didn’t land perfectly after all.”

On the case that they solved that day, Bellamy had actually thrown himself off the roof of a building in attempt to catch a runaway suspect, landing on top of a mental garbage container. Witnessing it, Clarke couldn’t resist rolling her eyes at his recklessness, and she can’t help doing the same right now before she steps behind him, running her hand up his spine. “Take off your shirt.” 

“Really Clarke, I’m fine. You don’t need to—“ 

With a sigh, she steps in front of him again, crossing her arms. “Is that so? I barely touched you before and I felt all of your muscles tighten. Don’t be a baby and let me help you. Unbutton your shirt,” unfazed, she moves close enough for her breath to ghost over his lips while she undoes his tie. Smiling, she hangs it over his desk chair, then returns to watch him intently as he starts to take his shirt off. 

The fabric glides off easily, revealing his broad, toned shoulders, and she attempts to keep her gaze natural while it travels to his abs. “Good…” Managing a dry comment, she stands behind him, massaging the muscles around his spine. “Tell me if it hurts too much.” 

At that, Bellamy only hums. In fact, he doesn’t say a word during the entire massage, the only sounds emerging from his lips being occasional groans, but it seems like appreciative groaning, so Clarke can only be pleased. 

“Stay for another drink,” he bargains afterwards, undoubtedly a lot more relaxed, as a smile seems easy on his face now.

“Beam me up,” holding out her glass, Clarke doesn’t take her eyes off him while he pours Bourbon over the leftover cubes of ice. “I might have to call an Uber tonight, leave my car in the parking lot. You’re such a bad influence.”

Bellamy only grins around the edge of his drink, but she notices the countless sparks, which light up his dark gaze like the stars that bedazzle the night sky. Surely, it’s no secret: He’s an attractive man, but the alcohol in her bloodstream and the exhaustion in her bones seems to be drawing her towards him, so he’s no longer just nice to look at… He’s sexy.

SEXY (adj.)

Definition: Tall, dark and handsome, but also: Kind, inspiring and intelligent.

“I’m sorry that I was so hesitant to take my shirt off. You know I trust you, right?”

Clarke nods, frowning despite herself, because she doesn’t want to reveal that she did in fact see the scars across his chest, which are consistent with shock lash torture. More than anything, she doesn’t want to make him feel as if she pities him, since that sort of thing can come across as cheap to someone who chooses to put themselves in danger every day. 

Still, she can’t quite hold her heart back. “I’m here for you.”

“I know,” Bellamy breathes, placing his glass on top of the desk so that he can put both of his hands on her shoulders. For a short minute, they look into each other’s eyes, ocean blue mixing with earthy brown. It’s a wordless connection that Clarke hasn’t had with anyone before, and even though it gives them an advantage in communicating, they have no idea just how powerful it is… 

… But they’re about to find out.  

Without saying anything, Bellamy lets his hand cup her cheek, which has her leaning into the touch, resisting the urge to close her eyes at the sensation. Softly, she presses the pad of her thumb against the dimple in his chin, and when they look at each other again, it’s before their lips meet.

First, it lasts a mere second until he pulls away, blinking as the bewilderment creates a chasm between his brows. Clarke parts her lips, granting him permission, and though he clearly hungers for it, all he can do is breathe heavily into the inch that makes up the space between them. Burying her hand in the dark curls of his hair, she captures his lips again, releasing a sigh into his mouth.

The Bourbon isn’t the culprit; it isn’t to blame for them making out against a wall or him lifting her onto his desk, or her taking off his shirt again. 

“Fuck,” he curses as soon as the black lace of her bra peeks out from beneath her shirt, which he has unbuttoned halfway. “You should really warn me.” 

“And spoil the fun? Never. You haven’t even seen the best part yet,” when she rubs her thighs together, he knows exactly what she means, and it has him groaning against her chest. Even though his fingers make a quick work of her bra as well as the sipper of her pants, he still hesitates to go further. 

“Clarke, I’m not going to have sex with you on my desk. It’ll be too uncomfortable for you.”

“Then fuck me against the wall, I don’t care.” 

Bellamy blinks, taken aback by her bluntness, yet he quickly collects himself enough to kiss her neck, and once he has removed her pants, he carries her to the wall that they’ve already approved. But when he pushes into her, she nearly claws at his back, inhaling sharply and although she’d never admit it, it clearly hurts. Of course it does... She’s nervous in spite of her desire, her body tense against his, trembling as she lets her heavy breath fall onto his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes, aware that he sounds completely wrecked, and starts to pull out, but she only holds him tighter, playing with some of the curls at the back of his neck. 

“No, it’s okay. It’s just been a while, and you’re so… I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He murmurs, moving a strand of her hair behind her ear. When she nods firmly in response, they kiss languidly for a minute before he attempts to move again. Actually, he doesn’t do much until she moans, ‘Yes, I want you’ into his mouth.

After a couple of minutes, Bellamy finally feels her relax, and as soon as she does, sounds capable of driving him crazy fall off her lips at a regular pace: Sighs, moans and whimpers while she tugs at his hair, clinging to the back of his shoulders every time he thrusts, pushing her spine up against the wall. Having sex with Clarke has more adrenaline coursing through his veins than on an important mission. This feels much more important, chasing release, and being inside her instead of next to her is mind-blowing.

It’s amazing…

… Even after it’s over. They hold onto each other, kissing unapologetically until her legs and his arms give in. Then it takes them an hour to dress, twenty minutes for Clarke to officially leave his office, but it’s the sudden loneliness that keeps them both awake all night.

“You’re right. We shouldn’t,” Clarke agrees, reaching for his hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. Afterwards, they fall into silence as she reapplies the lipstick, getting ready to leave. Bellamy places a few bills on the table as tips, putting his arm around her. They’re officially back undercover.

Nevertheless, they haven’t walked more than a mile from the diner before they have to round a corner and somebody pulls Clarke from Bellamy’s grasp. In the fraction of a second, he senses another person behind him, so he flings his elbow backwards into their face, all while grabbing his concealed revolver with his right hand. 

Only now he recognizes the man holding a knife to Clarke’s throat as Slither and the other man lying on the sidewalk as Choker. The two men must’ve followed them, maybe just to get Roxanne alone, but now their cover is as good as blown.

“If you don’t let her go right now, I’ll plant a bullet between your eyes,” Bellamy spits as Clarke tightens her grasp on the arm that Slither has around her chest. At the same time, he steps onto Chokers crotch before he can pull himself back up, turning back simply to watch his partner rake her sharp nails down her attacker’s arms, drawing blood (there’s a good reason why she always files them before going undercover…) When Slither loosens his grip just a bit, Clarke reaches for the hidden knife in her garter and stabs him in the leg.

Although he releases her at that, the knife he was holding against her throat nicks some skin off her jawline. 

“Daniel Sanderson and Elias Caberett, we’re placing you under arrest for suspicion of murder, kidnapping and assault,” Clarke states upon sharing a look with Bellamy. With surprising ease, they place the criminals in handcuffs. 

“That’s what you get for attacking my partner, you piece of shit,” Bellamy growls into Slithers ear, pushing him to start walking despite the injured leg.

They call for assistance, so that their fellow agents can bring Sanderson and Caberett into custody. Once that’s done, Bellamy and Clarke head back to the base before the two remaining members become suspicious. “I genuinely hope they didn’t know about our cover. I want to take these fuckers by surprise,” she whispers, nodding at Bellamy before he kicks the door of the kitchen in. 

“ON THE GROUND! NOW!” 

One of the two remaining men, Castiel, looks as if he’s about to run. “If you even think about it, I’ll shoot!” Clarke shouts, “Hands behind your head!” 

Luckily, the men were unsuspecting and their guns were on the kitchen table. That makes things a whole lot easier, and the partners have placed Castiel and Hopper in handcuffs within the next minutes. However, not revealing their true identities to them before the arrest was deliberate, because these guys can be dangerous even in jail. 

“Well, Roxy. Let me help you with that cut,” Bellamy grins as she sits down at the edge of his desk when their shift has ended. From the cabinet, in which he keeps a bunch of boring files, he pulls out the first aid kit that Clarke made him have in there in case of an emergency.

“It’s usually you who gets injured in the line of duty,” is what she says, wincing a little as Bellamy carefully applies some rubbing alcohol to the cut by her jawline. Angling her head using two of his fingers, Bellamy places a small piece of cotton on top of it, securing it with some tape.

“I must confess that I enjoy being the one taking care of you for a change.” 

At that, Clarke raises her eyebrows, which has the possible misinterpretation of Bellamy’s words dawning on him. Feeling his skin heat up, he runs a hand through the back of his hair. “Uh, bad choice of words… You want some Bourbon?”

Smiling, she hesitates and worries her lower lip for a long moment before saying, “Remember what that flask of Bourbon resulted in last time?” Instantly, his lips part, and because it looks as if he’s about to make some sort of protest, Clarke adds, “Bellamy, I think we should talk about it.” 

With a sigh, he sits down next to her, agreeing, “Yeah… We should,” then, a full minute of silence passes, which almost makes it seem as if they’re not going to talk anyway, but Bellamy breaks the ice by making the first confession of the night. “I admit that once I woke up and got past the whole ‘Holy shit, I had sex with my partner and now everything might be doomed’ thought spiral, my biggest worry was that we didn’t use a condom. I mean, how fucking stupid.”

Reassuringly, she places her hand on his forearm. “Relax, I’m not pregnant. I’m on the pill, Bellamy. I thought I told you before.”

He chuckles at that last bit, smoothing his thumb over the tape on her jaw. “Yes, because talking to your FBI-partner about what kind of contraception you use is very normal. You didn’t tell me, but I’m glad that you are. It clearly works.”

The next minute passes with laughter until her face suddenly falls into seriousness, her gaze turned towards her feet, which is something that he has never seen her do before. For two years, Clarke has always been the first person to listen in a group whenever he calls out for sharp eyes and hot weapons. Now, she looks really nervous.

“… I think about it too much.”

“Whatever’s on your mind, you can tell me, Clarke. You know that.”

She shakes her head, briefly biting her lower lip before admitting, her voice low, “I think about it when I’m alone. That’s why I’ve been working so much lately.”

Before he has the time to realize what those words mean, FBI-technician Raven Reyes bursts through the door. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s something you have to see on the video footage from the gang building.”

Sharing a look, Bellamy and Clarke follow Reyes to the video room, in which the other two technicians, Monty Green and Jasper Jordan, are drinking energy drinks while staring at the screens. As it turns out (once they magnified the image fifty times), some of the video footage shows Choker meeting up with a supposed accomplice outside of the building and paying him for something before showing him a few photos. 

“Can you make it clearer, so we can see his face?” Clarke asks, trying to ignore the fact that her heart is beating a tattoo against her ribcage. 

“We’ll try our best,” Raven says, looking at both of them. Everyone who dares to question the abilities of this technical team is without a doubt very foolish, as they have assisted in more than thirty cases and played a huge part in securing the arrests in all of Bellamy and Clarke’s jobs. They’re lucky to have them.

Bellamy follows her out of the FBI-building and while they’re waiting for a cab, he tells her, “Go home, eat some chocolate, have a nice bath. There’s no reason to—“

“I don’t wanna be alone,” she struggles, and it sounds as if she’s at the brink of tears, maybe because of exhaustion or fear, or both. Nevertheless, it causes him to pull her into his chest, placing a kiss to the crown of her golden hair. Of course, it’s not certain that those photos that Choker gave the accomplice were of them, but it’s a possibility, and he understands that she’s scared. After all, one of these men held a knife to her throat a couple of hours ago.

“You won’t be, ‘cause I’m coming with you, Princess.” 

‘Princess’ is what he used to call her out of spite at the very beginning of their partnership before any of their cases were solved, before she saved his life. Now, trust and respect has morphed the nickname into a term of endearment, and she no longer rolls her eyes when he says it.

For some reason, he has never been at her apartment before, but he quickly realizes that it’s a lot nicer than his own. “Where’s the kitchen?” Bellamy asks after locking and bolting the door, prompting Clarke to lead him into a narrow yet modern kitchen, lit by strings of fairy lights and brought to life by a bunch of succulents.

Without saying anything, he turns on the stove, heating some milk in a pot as she watches him from her place on the counter next to him. To the milk, he adds cocoa powder and two types of chocolate (milk and dark) that he apparently carries in his backpack for some reason. Once it’s all melted and mixed together, he pours it into a mug and hands it to her, finally explaining, “Miracle hot chocolate… My mom used to make it for me whenever I had a bad day in school.” 

While he cleans up, tears start to roll down Clarke’s cheeks, and he only realizes it at her first sniff. She blows on the hot chocolate, shaking a little to prevent the sobs from ripping through her, but Bellamy takes the cup from the hand and hugs her again. “I’m so sorry,” she sobs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

At that, he pulls away slightly to cradle her face in his hands. “Listen to me, Clarke. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just tired and scared, and that’s okay,” before she has the chance to say anything in response, Bellamy kisses her forehead, embracing her again until she stops trembling. “Drink your hot chocolate. It helps. Then we can do whatever you need, okay?”

It turns out that what Clarke needs is to watch a marathon of ‘The Good Place’ while cuddling with Bellamy on the couch. Even though they’ve had sex before, this seems strangely intimate, as she rests her head on his chest and he runs his fingertips soothingly through her hair. When exhaustion catches up with them, instead of going to sleep, they start to kiss. It feels a lot more natural than it sounds, stolen pecks slowly growing more passionate until she’s in his lap, running the tip of her tongue along the seam of his mouth.

“If you don’t want to go to the gang building tomorrow, I can go alone,” he offers once they part to breathe, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone.

“No,” staring at him, she adds reassuringly, “You won’t be by yourself.”

Bellamy expresses his gratitude by kissing her neck, knowing that it’s wrong despite the fact that it doesn’t seem that way. Right now, he can’t think of anything more important in the world than making her feel good and secure. Still, having sex with her again isn’t going to help him with that — at least not tonight — so he ends up carrying her to bed and lying down next to her, deciding to wait until she falls asleep to walk back to the couch.

When he wakes up the next morning, however, he’s still in the bed and Clarke’s still next to him. At least they’re both fully clothed. The bad news is that they have work in a couple of hours, and neither of them is ready to be on duty, suffering from lack of sleep. 

“You know what would save some time?” Clarke says after downing her shot of espresso and stuffing the last piece of toast into her mouth. Wordlessly, Bellamy sends her a single look that speaks for itself: Fire away, Princess.  

“If we showered together instead of apart.” 

For a moment, he thinks that she’s just trying to throw him off, but the situation doesn’t call for it, and Clarke’s not one to make awkwardly timed jokes — that’s usually him, and when it happens, it’s surprisingly morbid. For once, he decides to act nonchalantly, shrugging. 

“Yeah, okay.”

Because when you look at it objectively, she’s right. It will most likely save them some valuable time so that they won’t be late for work, even if it’ll undoubtedly take every ounce of his self-control to resist the urge to nail her against the shower wall. 

To his surprise, it’s actually quite calming once they’ve gotten over the initial awkwardness of seeing each other naked again but not being allowed to do anything drastic because they’re on a strict time limit. They kiss a little bit, agreeing not to talk about it afterwards, and then simply shower, helping each other with the hair-washing part of the job, since it’s relaxing — something they deserve…

They show up at work on time only to find out that their surveillance cameras in the gang building have been disabled, presumably by the unidentified accomplice they saw on the video footage. Without hesitation, Bellamy and Clarke drive the civil cop car back to the location. 

Before leaving the vehicle, Bellamy places a comforting hand on his partner’s shoulder. “You alright?” At that, she nods, clenching her jaw. More than anything, she wants to see the bastards locked up for the rest of their lives for what they did to those innocent girls, and she’ll do anything in her power to make sure that justice is served. That’s the main reason why she joined the Bureau in the first place.

“Let’s go.”

They check that no one is in the building before they start to search for any clue that might shine a light on the accomplice’s identity, but to no avail. Not even turning over every moldy couch cushion and looking through the hidden panels give them anything, which is annoying to say the least. When Bellamy takes his frustration out on the rotten coffee table, the noise of metal hitting the ground echoes from outside.

“Go around the back. I’ll take the front,” Bellamy whispers before they part ways. Clarke hates this part of the job, because even though she can defend herself, being around him makes her feel safer. They’re a team, a unit, and everything seems to work out when they’re together… Suddenly, the sound of hushed voices stalls her out of her thoughts, and as she creeps around corner, she catches a glimpse of Bellamy kneeling to the ground while the accomplice from the surveillance tape has a gun aimed to the back of his head. Execution style… 

“If you want your Roxy to live, you better not try to fight me. My friends don’t trust you since they noticed the cameras you planted in the house,” this man clearly likes being in control, but he’s not going to be in that position for much longer. 

“You can kill me if you promise that nothing will happen to Cl… Roxanne,” to her utter amazement, Bellamy’s pleading with a criminal as if he doesn’t know that she’s waiting for the right moment to save his life for a second time. Still, it makes her heart quiver and soften.

But the accomplice only laughs cruelly, “Fallen for a hooker, have you, Malicious?” 

That’s Clarke’s cue, so she appears from her hiding spot, her finger placed on the trigger of her .32 revolver. “I’m his partner, you piece of shit,” she announces, firing a bullet before the accomplice has the chance to react: A flawless headshot, which kills him instantly. Immediately afterwards, she rushes to Bellamy, falling to the ground in front of him, so that she can throw her arms around his neck in a tight embrace. 

While she inhales the scent of his skin: Dirt, sweat and spicy cologne, Bellamy tells her, “Choker apparently put a hit out on both of us. He wanted us dead and buried by tonight, so the photos must’ve been of us… Good thing you killed him first, Princess.” 

Pulling back, she smiles. “Well, my timing has always been great,” and he can only agree with that.

They return to Bellamy’s office, but instead of taking out that notorious flask of Bourbon, he simply changes his shirt and makes a proposal. “I was thinking that maybe we should celebrate in a different way tonight, since this was such a difficult case.”  

Intrigued, Clarke moves closer, placing a hand on his chest. “What do you have in mind?” At her question, his smile grows to a mischievous grin, but he still won’t tell her anything about his plans.

In fact, she’s not given a single clue until she’s sitting on the couch in his living room and the lovely scent of pasta sauce greets her nostrils. “You’re cooking?” She nearly gasps, her stomach already roaring in need of some quality food, a nice home-cooked meal like the ones her dad used to make every day despite his long work hours. Naturally, she can’t resist the temptation to join him in the kitchen, ignoring that he told her to have a look around the apartment. 

She has seen already enough of it to have a good impression: It’s small yet extremely cozy, his bookshelves are filled with classic novels and an impressive collection of old records. Every piece of furniture in the living room seems to have been carefully picked out, because they all appear to have an elaborate history. Given the tiny garden of herbs that flourishes on the matchbox-sized balcony, Bellamy has a green thumb, which is something that Clarke definitely can’t boast about herself.

“What are you making?”

“Authentic Italian pasta. I lived in Rome for a year before I was accepted at Quantico and fell in love with the simplicity of the comfort food that they value there,” he smiles at her, dipping a spoon into the sauce so that she can taste it. “All you need is some quality tomatoes, a little bit of garlic and salt and pepper to make a perfectly decent pasta sauce.”

Wow, he’s not kidding. Closing her eyes, Clarke wonders how something as simplistic as that can taste so wonderful. For a moment, she considers keeping her opinion entirely to herself yet ultimately decides against it. “You can cook for me anytime,” is the compliment that she opts for, aware that it’s flirtatious.

While they eat their dinner, they don’t turn on the television. Instead they talk about everything…

EVERYTHING (noun)

Definition: A two-year partnership built on trust and respect; unplanned kissing and the past.

… And nothing.

NOTHING (noun)

Definition: Gardening, constellations, food, board games…

As the stars come out from their hiding, Bellamy and Clarke look at each other softly — she memorizes how mesmerizing the features of his face look when they’re bathed in the silvery moonlight that spills through the window glass. It’s difficult not to focus on the fact that he was almost murdered today, that she could’ve lost him had he gone to the building by himself like he had offered. Sighing, Bellamy glances at her lips before murmuring something that takes her by utter surprise, “I want to tell you about the scars if you want to hear it.”

Lips parting slowly, Clarke simply nods; ready to give him all of the time in the world if that’s what he needs. Still, he evidently only needs a single moment and one more look before he begins, “It was while I was partnered with Nathan Miller. We were on a dangerous mission for the Bureau in Iraq after the war… One day, I was taken hostage by some Europeans who wanted information about The U.S. government—” Then, his voice turns a little gruffer, more emotional as he inhales quickly, but Clarke only listens. “—I was starved, drugged, shock lashed and beaten for four days until they realized that they weren’t going to break me, so they… They shot me and left me to die outside of a village. Some brave children realized that I was alive and contacted my unit that was stationed a few miles from there.”

She notices the tears in his eyes although he tries to blink them away, so she wordlessly reaches for his hand, kissing his knuckles one by one, then his fingertips and his wrist, hoping that he doesn’t mistake it for pity. It’s appreciation, it’s… It’s love, raw and boundless. 

And she doesn’t ask for anything in return.

But Bellamy, selfless as he is, would never take without giving anything back. His exterior is made of hard edges, all muscles and bravery. Still, his heart runs as deep as the Pacific Ocean, spilling a flood of softness once you brush off the top layer. Placing his hand at the back of her head, Bellamy draws her closer to capture her lips with his own. 

“I’m so glad you’re with me. You’re irreplaceable,” she breathes against his lips, sensing tears tightening her throat. Judging by the way his eyes widen at her words, they have a huge impact on him. Good. Pulling back slightly, Bellamy takes off his shirt, gulping. No doubt, it makes him feel vulnerable, so she says nothing — only lets her fingertips travel across his chest, mapping every burn and scar.

“You see the one by my heart?” He whispers. “That’s the only one I actually like, because it reminds me of when you saved my life.”

When she looks at him then, the last part of her armor breaks… At last, her heart is untamed and fearlessly ready to love him like he deserves to be. Slowly, she pulls off her own shirt, bracing her chest against his. His warm breath ghosts over her skin, creating shivers at the swell of her breasts as he lowers her to her lie down, her spine colliding with the cool fabric of the couch cushions…

She supposes that it’s one of the greatest mysteries of the universe: How a man who has experienced a lifetime of pain can be so full of love. All that Clarke understands is that she adores him even more for it — for interlacing their fingers, for nuzzling her cheek and keeping their gazes locked until they both fall off the edge. His body anchors her like their partnership has for the last two years… He’s the man who still keeps the file of her father’s murder in his desk drawer if he should realize that he missed a possible lead. 

He’s always told her that everything was going to be all right, and right now, locked in his embrace, she actually believes those words to be true. 

For a few minutes, the only sound in the living room is the occasional gush of night air through the open window. Bellamy squeezes her hand a little, causing her to look at him as he sighs, “You realize that this can’t keep happening, Clarke… It creates a conflict of interest,” there’s a distinct tone of sadness to his voice, although he clearly tries his best to hide it.

Meanwhile, Clarke tries her best to play ignorant. “What conflict of interest?”

At that, Bellamy closes his eyes briefly, and she can almost feel the mess of emotions weighing on his heart. However, she doesn’t expect his words, “I’m falling in love with you,” he even says it as if he’s convinced that she doesn’t share those feelings, which has her furrowing her brow, pulling herself up to look him in the eye as she frowns.

“If you see that as ‘screwing up’, then you’re not the only one who’s done it. I don’t make love to everyone, you know?” In fact, the last time she had sex with anyone like this was with her girlfriend in high school, and that relationship ended many years ago — but Bellamy’s right, if she wants her next relationship to be with him, it’ll most likely result in the Bureau severing their partnership.

He blinks, his lips parting in disbelief as if he’s unaware of just how amiable he is. Nevertheless, he quickly collects himself to kiss the frown off her face, and another hour passes before either of them has the heart to bring the topic of their partnership up again… 

In the end, they agree that speaking to the director of the FBI on Monday is the right thing to do. Hopefully, honesty is the best policy…

That weekend is the best one that Clarke and Bellamy have ever experienced, mostly because they spend it together and don’t even waste a moment on work. For two years, their relationship has revolved around cruelty, so it’s no surprise that simply eating ice cream together in Lincoln Park brings them an infinite amount of joy.

Who would have figured? They can actually do normal things together! It doesn’t always have to be a fight or a chase that binds them together; it can be Thai take-out and an intense game of Monopoly or going to museums and taking silly Polaroid photos like a couple of teenagers…

“You—“ She starts once he has wrestled her to the floor of her own living room (the audacity), but he only grins at her, keeping her wrists locked above her head as he slowly lowers his face to hers, allowing the tips of their noses to graze. Of course, she can’t resist the opportunity when he practically hands it to her on a silver platter, which is why she wraps her leg around his and flips them around.

“I prefer this position,” Clarke smirks, which has him mirroring her expression.

“I know you do.” 

When he sits up to kiss her, Clarke grins against his mouth, pulling him closer. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he mumbles sweetly about how good she smells, of lavender with a hint of vanilla bean. He plants kisses to the side of her throat and her shoulder, which makes her want to forget that they have to be in the director’s office in an hour. 

Solving cases with him is the thing that she loves the most in this world. Her partnership with him has given her a sense of purpose, of true friendship — Hell, it’s even made her want to start painting again. Words couldn’t possibly explain how much she adores working with him, but on the other hand… She has fallen in love with him, and this past weekend has given her an irresistible taste of what a romance with him could be like.

There’s no doubt that she will love that, too…

Choosing to form a partnership between Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin was a risk for Thelonius Jaha, and yet he had faith in the possible success of pairing the two agents. However, he had somehow not imagined that it would head off to such a rocky start, with them budding heads at any given chance, rolling their eyes and throwing sarcastic remarks at each other constantly. Watching them from the sidelines, as he shook his head, he decided to give them one last chance to make it work: The Georgetown University homicide case in 2016. 

They solved that case in two weeks, proving that handling a bunch of youngsters could make them work together in a way that they didn’t believe possible. Three solved cases later, Griffin saved his life, and since then their bond has become the tightest one Jaha has witnessed during his thirty years at the Bureau.

Today, they’re sitting in front of him, fidgeting in their seats and trying to avoid eye contact. 

Clarke dares to speak after about two minutes of dead silence. “Sir, there’s something we need to get off our chests. Something has… happened that, uh, jeopardizes the professionalism of our partnership,” clearing her throat a little, she briefly glances at Bellamy before she turns her attention back to their boss, expecting the ceiling to come crashing down at any moment as he watches them intently. 

He’s no fool. “You’re attracted to each other,” is what he concludes, the words emerging as nothing short of a statement, which takes both of them off guard, but before they can respond, Jaha continues, “That’s very normal. You work under very intense, stressful circumstances, which is bound to draw you closer to one another. It’s the human need of comfort and security that you find in your partnership, but as long as you don’t act on those feelings, there’s no reason to worry.”

At that, Clarke lowers her head, swallowing the lump in her throat as she feels Bellamy look at her. Quickly, Jaha seems to put two and two together, because he sighs, leaning forward to rest his head on his folded hands. “You already have, haven’t you?”

This time, it’s Bellamy who gathers the words for a response first. “Yes, Sir. We love working together, and we never wanted to compromise our professional relationship, but— the decision’s in your hands.“

His face blank, Jaha simply nods and this hesitation sends Clarke’s heart into a fearful gallop. However, when their boss speaks, his voice is calm. “That’s true, Blake. It is, and as it stands right now, the two of you are my best agents. You managed to arrest four gang members. You’ve solved all of the cases I’ve assigned to you in the past two years, except for the first one. Believe me, at this point I have no grounds to sever your partnership or claim your badges.” 

While Bellamy and Clarke look at each other again, finally finding the courage to smile, Jaha adds, “I’m the one who determines whether your personal relationship negatively affects your partnership, and so far it doesn’t. But please, keep the personal part of things away from work.”

Well, it’s not like they are going to fuck in his office again, or plan to tell their co-workers anything.  

In the end, Clarke’s the one who nods. “What goes on between us, that’s ours. No one will know.” 

They specialize in hiding details about their relationship and activities after all…