The mirror in Clarke’s room is full length, mounted beside her dresser and encased in a silver, royal broidering. Clarke saw it at a garage sale around the time she bought this apartment – sometime before her first year of medical school. It gets dirty easily, Clarke wipes it down with Windex at least once a week, but it provides her a full access view of every inch of her body without complaint. The top of the casing reaches just below the ceiling and it’s wide enough to fit at least three of her friends, including her in a classic girls night selfie. Those nights out are really the only time she pays much attention to how she looks anyways – not really her top priority to get dolled up for a shift at the clinic.
However, as Clarke stands before the mirror, eyes blotchy, face patchy and body bare, she can’t stop her eyes from roaming over every inch of her. Her hair is piled up messily on the top of her head, pinned together with a black and brown claw clip. Shoulders slouched, her chest pinches between the top fold of her stomach and her legs are turned inward, her hips expanding because of the position. She straightens, using the reminder of someone pulling a string attached to you above your head to get all her ligaments in check. But she only feels more out place with her head held high.
Clarke’s breasts never stood perky, their natural size always causing them to droop a little. She cups them with her hands, lifting them momentarily only for them to drop back to their original placement when she releases them. Clarke turns to the side, her posture still intact. Her stomach protrudes more than usual, which she confirms by smoothening her hand over its surface. She follows her hand, eyes intent on watching it move up then down over the slight curve of her baby bump.
Clarke breathes in, closing her eyes as the tears begin to sting. She cranes her neck, the back of her hand reaching up to support. She inhales, her breath stilling until there’s absolutely no air left before she exhales, running her hand down from her neck and back to her stomach.
There’s a million life lessons for people like her to learn at a time like this. Clarke’s run through all of them; The wrongdoings unsafe sex, fucking an ex, forgetting the fifty dollar bill. It’s her own stupidity that’s landed her in the situation she’s in, Clarke acknowledges that. Failing has never been a comfortable subject for her, and now with a situation she could have very easily avoided, it’s not exactly a plus for her self-esteem.
Clarke leans closer to the mirror, examining the puffiness of her face. She’s been crying all night, curled up alone in her bed after an exhausting enough shift and she’s definitely showing it. Her cheeks are patterned with red and white blotches and her eyes are tinted pink making her look more bloated – on top of the pregnancy. She pulls at her cheeks, scrunching up her nose in attempts to look normal, but settles on light makeup.
Too late. The alarm on her phone beeps, reminding her to leave for work in ten minutes and she’s not even dressed. Clarke sighs, reaching over to her drawer to silence the alarm. She straightens in front of the mirror once more, staring at herself and wondering if it’s just her knowledge about the pregnancy that makes her feel so different today.
There’s no time to wallow, though, at least not right now. Clarke pulls on sweatpants and a tank top, packing the utilities into her duffle back and dashes out the door, leaving the string of positive tests sitting on her bathroom counter from the night before.
Normally, Clarke is a star at work. She exceeds expectations, receives numerous amounts of praise from the attendings and fulfills tasks promptly. She takes pride in her job and her abilities to do zero in, no matter what’s going on outside of work. However, she’s just so happened to jinx it, because this baby isn’t lending a helping hand.
It’s all she can think about. A baby with olive skin, a litter of freckles and a mesh of curly black hair. The vision of it fills her brain and it’s only accompanied by an image of Bellamy, cradling their child or bouncing it on his knee or just being a fucking amazing father because that’s the type of parent Bellamy Blake would be. Granted, the man stated weeks ago he wanted nothing to do with her and she doubts parenthood is on his radar in the middle of his divorce.
Clarke has no idea what type of parent she’d be. A mediocre one at best.
“Ouch,” the twelve year old Clarke is treating yelps.
“Sorry,” Clarke apologizes quickly, shaking her head to refocus on the scene before her. A simple flu shot, and she spaced out completely. She retracts the needle, grabbing a cotton ball and dabbing at the blood that’s left behind. “There you go.”
“That hurt,” the girl grumbles like Clarke hasn’t already apologized, rolling down her sleeve.
“Needles don’t tickle.”
“They also don’t drill a hole through my arm.”
“I didn’t-” Clarke grabs the girl’s arm, inspecting to see she did not in fact puncture a double sided hole in this child’s arm. She’s a doctor, she knows that’s not possible, but the smirk on the girl’s lips tells her she fell into her trap. “Ha, ha.”
“It still hurt.”
The patient hops off the bed, not bothering to spare a second glance at Clarke before darting out the door to rejoin her mother. Clarke turns to watch her go, mouth agape, taking the words a little too personally. She’s not one to take patient bitterness to heart, especially since everyone endures a wackjob or two almost daily, but the patient definitely doesn’t assuage her pre-existing insecurities.
The day continues to worsen. Patients complain about her lack of attentiveness, files scatter all over the floor due to her own clumsiness and during rounds, an intern has to take over for a summarization because Clarke’s eyes just can’t seem to focus on the words. Clarke assumes it’s pregnancy brain, at least for the first half of the morning, but she’s undoubtedly been pregnant for weeks. It’s herbrain thinking about how this baby is going to ruin her career – if she doesn’t do it first.
“Dr. Griffin,” Dr. Nyko, the chief approaches Clarke on her break, while she’s nibbling on a granola bar. Clarke gulps down the food in her mouth, sputtering at the fact that he’s even talking to her – it’s just been one bad day. He takes a seat across from her in the cafeteria, and smiles warmly like nothing is wrong. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”
“Oh,” Clarke manages to say. Stupid, she curses internally, you can’t think of anything else to say that shows him you have actual braincells?
“I’ve been extremely impressed with your work over the year and bit you’ve been with us,” Dr. Nyko praises. “You remind me so much of your mother.”
Dr. Abby Griffin, Clarke’s mother, is basically a world-renowned doctor. When Clarke was little, her mother would leave for weeks at a time to perform some ground breaking surgery somewhere in the world and come back with a souvenir for her and her father to say she missed them. But then she’d jet off, sometimes just mere hours later, to the local hospital to work what she would call her day job as an attending.
Clarke barely sees her mother now, even less than she did as a child. But she’d be ungrateful to say that Abby hasn’t opened doors, despite Clarke’s pleas against it. She won’t admit it, but Clarke knows she put in a good word for her at this clinic. She just won’t ask her, because she doesn’t want to call just to fight and honestly, doesn’t want to admit to herself that her mother may have just got her where she is today.
“Thank you,” Clarke puts on a smile. “She’s really paved the way.”
“I’m surprised you’re not in surgery,” Dr. Nyko comments.
“It’s not really what I’m drawn to,” Clarke admits honestly. “I much prefer to have my own clinic one day. And this position has only further affirmed that.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to have you on board. I’d like to see you apply for Chief Resident, actually.”
Clarke chokes on the tiny bits of granola bar in her mouth. Chief Resident positions are typically reserved for third years, and they’re in charge of all the interns throughout their training. It’s that, on top of regular resident responsibilities and Clarke’s been striving to look good for the position since she was an intern herself.
“Thank you, sir,” Clarke fathoms. “I’ll consider it.”
“Please,” Dr. Nyko heaves himself up from the chair. “I’ll be reviewing the applications in December, so you have some time to think about it. It’s a lot of work. You’ll barely have a social life.”
“I barely have one now.” Clarke’s attempt at a joke works, earning a chuckle from Dr. Nyko.
“Good to hear. Nice speaking with you, Dr. Griffin.”
Dr. Nyko excuses himself. Clarke watches as he wanders through the cafeteria before waltzing out the exit doors before she breaks into a grin. It’s a huge praise to be recommended by the Chief of the clinic, and it’s a boost to Clarke’s self-esteem after an especially horrible day at work. Clarke chomps on her granola bar, giddy about the next couple of days, almost completely forgetting about the bad morning she’s endured.
And then, the day continues. And Clarke’s reminded that she’s eating for two.
The day worsens. Clarke forgets to check up on patients, accidentally bruises one when she’s drawing blood and the dizziness that clouds her head only makes the day more intolerable. This pattern continues for a week, her brain everywhere else but this job. People comment, patients, colleagues, all noting her strange behavior. Some are angry, noting how her lack of focus puts people at risk while others are more understanding because maybe it’s just a bad week. But Clarke knows, this will only continue if her mind isn’t completely fogged out.
The week before, Clarke was at the top of her game. Colleagues envied her, patients adored her. Now, colleagues are covering up for her – giving them the opportunity to look better and words spread around the clinic about her lack of skill, making patients fearful of getting her as their doctor. It’s this baby, she realizes, her awareness of it, that’s fucking up her routine. And all she wants to do is go back home and cry some more because poor her for forgetting to take Plan fucking B.
Instead, Clarke spends her breaks crying out her tears, so when she goes home she can pass out and prep for the day ahead. She tries to do better, she does, but she has absolutely no idea what is happening with the fetus growing inside her and it’s killing everything she’s worked for. Chief Resident is slowly sipping further and further away from her and it’s only the first week of September.
“What’s with you?” Luna demands to know one day.
Clarke’s in no mood. “Nothing.”
“You’re really bringing down the team, Clarke.”
“Thanks for the input.”
“No problem. It’s the least I can do since you won’t sort out your shit.”
Clarke can see Luna stomp out the bathroom door from the mirror. Her hands grip the sink, allowing her knuckles to turn a different shade of white as she does so. The tears have stained her cheeks, and her eyes are a blaze of red. She doesn’t look any close to work ready and her break is over in five minutes, give or take. Clarke stares at her reflection and scowls at the woman she’s become.
This isn’t Clarke. To be going about her day without a plan. She knows her goal; Chief Resident. But Clarke knows she’s being neglectful of the obstacles in her way that are eventually going to become more hazardous than they already are. She has to get out of her own head and do something, anything pertaining to some resolution with the baby growing inside of her. But she has no fucking clue.
Clarke’s shoulders shake, the beginnings of a sob starting up again. She dips her head, casting her gaze to the sink. The whiteness of it stares back at her, bothering her already irritated eyes. She squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a low, shaky breath halting the crying session before it can even begin. Clarke has to get back to work, and she has to do her job well if she wants to continue being a part of this residency program. Luna’s right. She needs to sort out her shit.
She’s smart enough to know she can’t do it on her own. Clarke can’t even see a finish line in sight with her own perspective. Yet, she can’t tell her friends, who’d probably all be excited about a new baby and a playmate for Jordan. She can’t tell her mom because oh God, why would she even think about contacting her. There’s only one person who would be just as excruciatingly scared as she is. And he deserves to know.
Clarke feels the string pulling at the top of her head. Her limps align and she stares into the mirror, stoic and determined to get back to work. But first, Clarke heads to the receptionist desk located at the other end of her unit and schedules an appointment.
Right now, Clarke’s only course of action is to get to Murphy’s apartment. From there, she’ll talk to Bellamy and she just kind of hopes things will fall into place. Usually, it’s her with the plan and the vision – thinking of logistics and timelines while Bellamy is caught up in the emotion of everything. But somehow along the way, the roles have reversed. She’s stunted by her own fear and Bellamy has a way of calming her. And with a problem that’s also inevitably his own, he’s more than inclined to assist.
It’s not really a thorough plan, but it’s a next step and it brings Clarke some sort of comfort knowing that there is a goal in mind. Clarke packs all six pregnancy test in individual Ziploc bags on Saturday morning and brings herself to put on some mascara and concealer so she looks somewhat put together, before travelling to Murphy’s apartment.
Clarke enters the apartment building with her purse slung over her shoulder and head high. Her nose scrunches up at the stench that follows. Murphy’s apartment building is less than ideal, with the cheapest rent and accommodations to get people by. Neighbors really aren’t friendly and the staff could not care less about their tenants. It’s the perfect place for someone like Murphy to live. Yet, she can’t help but think of Bellamy, who does not fit in with the vibe of this place. People walk by, not taking any notice of her, as she struts to the elevator, out of place and happy for it.
The lack of security is scary. Clarke waltzes into the elevator and presses the correct floor and nobody so much as asks her if she lives there. With Clarke’s building, she has a key to enter in addition to the one to get to her room. However, she really isn’t in the mood to exchange pleasantries with strangers. So today, she’s thankful. She’s thankful until she reaches her destination and her heart drops just standing in front of the door.
Murphy and Bellamy’s apartment is right before her, on the other side of that door and yet Clarke can’t bring herself to knock. She’s about to destroy any way of life that Bellamy has built for himself, just with a couple of words. And she knows she shouldn’t, but there’s an immense feeling of guilt settling in her chest and then –
“Who are you?”
Clarke registers the door swing open after an olive skin woman stares back at her. She stares at Clarke, annoyed and disgusted, like she’s done something wrong. She assumes it’s because she’s been awkwardly standing at this door for a couple minutes, not that this strange girl, sporting a lacy red bra and boxers, would know that. Unless she’s been looking out the peephole for the same amount of time.
Clarke peers at the number on the door, double checking she’s at the right place. 53b, definitely Murphy’s apartment. But she’s never seen this girl before. Granted, it’s been a while since she’s even seen Murphy, he makes his appearances only when he feels like it. But there’s a twist in her chest stemming from a fear that this girl could be here for Bellamy. It is a Saturday morning, but it’s also the morning after a Friday. Maybe Bellamy’s way of getting over his wife is fucking a string of girls and keeping them company until early hours of the next day. Her heart lurches just thinking about it.
“Oh, I’m Clarke,” she begins to say tentatively. “I-I’m friends with Murphy.”
“You’re here for John?” The girl quips an eyebrow.
“Well, no, I’m here for Bellamy.”
“Then why did you mention John?”
On cue, Murphy appears behind the girl. He’s confused and mostly naked, with only boxers and an untied robe on when he spots Clarke, but not alarmed. He places a hand on his friend’s shoulder, calming her to a degree where it surprises Clarke. “Emori, this is Clarke. She’s a friend.”
“Did you know she was coming?” The girl, Emori, inquires.
“I did not.”
“I’m not here for you,” Clarke admits. It comes out harsher than intended, but before Murphy can make some snarky remark about it, she continues. “I’m here for Bellamy.”
“I didn’t know you guys knew each other,” Murphy’s twisted smirk graces his features.
Clarke doesn’t even know what to say to that. “Is he here?”
Murphy mulls it over for a while, debating between teasing her or just giving her a straightforward answer. Emori looks less than pleased with Clarke’s presence, which he takes note of. Her arms are planted firmly across her mostly exposed chest, and she stands strong in front of Murphy, like she’s marking her territory. At least Clarke knows this girl isn’t here for Bellamy’s benefit.
“No,” Murphy reveals. “He has a meeting with the school board or some crap like that.”
Clarke’s shoulders droop. She glances at her purse, instinctively holding it closer to her, then looks back at the couple before her. Murphy’s not really sure what’s going on, and Emori is tapping her foot impatiently, just waiting for Clarke to scurry off to wherever she came from. She’s not going to have the balls to do this in person again, but she really doesn’t think she should be telling Bellamy he’s going to be a father over the phone. She stares down the empty hallway and then back at Murphy.
“He should be back in, like, half an hour, though,” Murphy settles on. He steps aside, holding the door open wider for her. Yet, Emori doesn’t move. “Come in.”
“Thanks,” Clarke breathes out gratefully. She steps closer, but Emori still doesn’t move aside to let her in. Normally, she’d push past her, but Clarke’s not sure if that’s the safest option right now. Murphy looks on with a Cheshire grin, clearly enjoying this and just like that, his sudden act of kindness comes to an end. Clarke narrows her eyes at Emori, who tilts her head up at her in response. “Sorry, am I supposed to jump over you?”
“You can try,” Emori challenges.
“Wouldn’t be difficult,” Clarke shrugs.
Murphy laughs, grabbing Emori by the hips and pulling her to his chest. He avoids conflict, burying his face into her neck and eliciting a slew of giggles. Clarke visibly cringes, but takes the opportunity to slip past the pair into Murphy and Bellamy’s apartment. And to no surprise, it’s an absolute pigsty.
There’s dirty dishes piled up in the sink so high, Clarke can barely register it as a sink. The plates that litter the counter tops all have some form of food on them and the chairs at the miniature kitchen table aren’t just not tucked in, but are flipped backwards to face the TV in the living room. It’s not the worst thing, if there wasn’t one singular dining chair in the middle of the hallway, diagonal from the television. The living room also has its fair share of disregarded plates, in addition to a stack of playboy magazines and three remotes – half of which are turned on their front to reveal an absence of batteries. Yet somehow, the television is blasting the Sopranos at almost full volume.
Clarke tentatively approaches the couch, careful not to step on any forgotten food or God forbid, live animal. She feels tingly taking a seat on their pleather couch, and she shivers at the random thought of tiny bugs crawling on her skin. She can’t imagine Bellamy peacefully living in a place like this.
Murphy reads her mind, plopping on the couch beside her and slinging his arm around her shoulder. “I know, the place is a little meh, right now. Bell’s usually an excellent maid, but he’s been so overworked being a school teacher he just comes straight home and passes out.”
“I know how that is,” Clarke affirms with a nod.
Emori crosses over her and sits on the opposite end of Murphy. “You never mentioned how you knew Bellamy.”
“Oh, they definitely fucked,” Murphy shrugs.
Emori’s eyes narrow at her. Clarke rolls her eyes, trying desperately to come off like that is not the case. She holds her purse closer. “We’re old friends. From high school.”
“So you fucked in high school?”
“That doesn’t explain what you want with him now,” Emori brushes Murphy off, staring intently at Clarke.
Clarke stares back at Emori, dumbfounded by her boldness. She seems to be Murphy’s plaything of the week, but damn, she’s sure hung up over Bellamy. Emori folds her arms over her chest, leg crossed over the other, patiently waiting for a response like she deserves one. Clarke can’t help it but let out a laugh in her direction. Emori’s lips purse, her cheeks turning a little red as Clarke disregards her, instead turning to Murphy.
“I didn’t know you had a new girlfriend,” Clarke teases.
She expects Murphy to quickly clarify that Emori is not his girlfriend. In the years she’s known Murphy, he can’t hold down a job much less a girlfriend. He travels a lot, gets bored easily and has a pretty shitty personality sometimes. The amount of times he’s tried just to sleep with her is more than Clarke can count. She even recalls him trying a couple of times when she was with Lexa without any shame. Yet, to her surprise, Murphy removes his arm from around Clarke and places his opposite one around Emori, leaning over to plant a kiss on the girl’s cheek.
“Officially a month,” Murphy announces. “You guys didn’t wonder why I never hang out with you guys?”
Clarke bites down on her tongue, trying desperately not to spit out a snarky remark while she sits alone with him in his apartment. She considers Murphy a friend, but it’s the loosest of terms. He dropped out of undergraduate sometime within the first semester of the first year, but by then he already assumed he was ingrained in the friend group that consisted of herself, Harper, Monty and Jasper. Although he no longer attended the school, Murphy would just pop up at around times that were most convenient to him. Sometimes they would go months at a time without hearing from him, but he always weaseled his way back in.
Now that they’re older, Murphy’s no more consistent. He comes and go as he pleases, so much so they don’t bother to invite to him to anything anymore. But he’s gotten surprisingly close with Raven’s fiancé, so sometimes he’ll hear about things and just invite himself.
“We figured it’s because you’re just an asshole,” Clarke shrugs.
Murphy reaches down to forcefully slap Emori’s ass. It echoes through Clarke’s ears, the giggle that follows from Emori’s lips even more haunting and for the second time within five minutes, Clarke visibly cringes. The whole interaction makes Clarke more confused. The two are clearly all over each other, leaving Emori’s invasive, judgmental behavior unexplained.
It becomes a dangerous situation when the pair fully begin making out, with Clarke less than a couple centimeters away from them. Her jaw nearly drops, seeing Murphy and Emori’s lips so entangled with company present, but then again, it is Murphy. Clarke shouldn’t be surprised he found a partner so similar in his cruelty. It’s not even surprising when Emori climbs onto his lap, Murphy cradling her tiny body as if Clarke disappeared into thin air.
Clarke leans back, neck craning to one, put as much distance between her and the couple as she can and two, scan for any semi-clean waiting areas in the apartment. There doesn’t seem to be any areas to flee to, as all she’s met with is a whiff of the natural, abhorrent smell of the apartment and the sight of dirty dishes. Her face twists into disgust and she debates just waiting in the hall when an overwhelming feeling of nausea washes over her.
The combination of the stench of the area and the scene before her ignites a morning sickness that has mostly been dormant. Clarke can feel the bile rise up in her throat, too powerful for her to swallow down. In a flash, she’s up from the couch, not even bothering to exchange pleasantries with the entangled duo before she darts to the bathroom. She throws the door open with such force it smashes against the side of the wall. She throws her purse somewhere on the floor, with little to no time to even close the door before the vomit is spewing from her mouth, into the toilet below her.
Clarke coughs and coughs, the liquids inside of her splashing into the water below her. Embarrassment swells up inside her, the hotness of her cheeks being any indicator. This is the first time her morning sickness has got the best of her and it’s not even in her own apartment. She can’t even bring herself to scan the bathroom because she knows it’s probably even less kept than their kitchen and living room combined and she doesn’t want to reignite the urge to throw up.
“What the fuck?” Emori’s voice spits from behind her. Clarke doesn’t even look up, her head hung delicately over the toilet bowl.
“I’ll clean it,” Clarke groans.
There’s a pause and Clarke prays Emori just got up and walked out of the room, but it’s wishful thinking. She hears rustling around the bathroom, bare feet squishing against the tiles. The soft pinch of plastic crushing together follows when the footsteps stop. Clarke assumes Emori’s now staring at her over the bathroom and she’s already thinking of a way to pass this episode off as alcohol poisoning, when the sound of plastic fills her ears once more.
Clarke tries to recall any view of the bathroom, but all she remembers is rushing inside and abandoning all senses to yack. She finds the strength to lift her head, wiping any contents that remain on the corners of her lips. She sees Emori’s legs first, eyes travelling up to see her staring down at a package in her hands. Clarke eyes widen. The Ziploc bag is gripped in between the girl’s fingers and she’s staring at it with a face so red Clarke thinks she’s about to erupt.
It’s only when Clarke takes a look at the floor that she sees the flap of her purse open and all its content scattered across the floor. Her phone, wallet and the five remaining pregnancy tests decorate the floor, exposed for anyone who wanders in the bathroom to the see.
Clarke panics, surging to the floor in attempts to round up her items, going for the tests first, but it’s too late. There’s the one already in Emori’s hand, and the rest displayed before her eyes. She shoves the Ziploc bags back into her purse, along with her phone and wallet and gets to her feet, leaning to snatch the final test from Emori’s grip. However, the girl is quick, jumping back into the doorway of the bathroom with the test still in her possession.
“So you and Bellamy are fucking,” Emori scoffs. “Enough to get knocked up.”
“Give that back,” Clarke seethes.
“You homewrecking bitch. He’s married, you know.”
“He’s in the middle of a divorce.”
“Is that what he told you?” Emori smirks. She crosses her arms across her chest, the test still gripped tightly between her fingers.
Clarke’s chin tilts, her lips pursing together. Her chest constricts, a familiar rise of panic settling within her. The last time she was the other woman, she destroyed a four year relationship. Granted, she was completely unaware that Finn and Raven were even together, much less for four whole years, but the sickening feeling settled in the pit of her stomach took her months to get over. But with Bellamy, it’s different. For him to be committed to someone else through marriage, is an entirely different set of pain. Clarke feels dizzy, the blood draining from her face as she thinks of carrying a baby with a man who’s not only married, but is someone she used to love more than life itself.
God, Clarke has to get out of here. She lunges for the test again, but Emori is crafty. She jumps out of Clarke’s reach, easily bypassing the blonde as she darts into the living room for safety. Clarke snarls, following her into the next room with her purse tightly clutched in one arm and hand balled into a fist for the other.
Clarke’s urge to tackle Emori is only assuaged by the fact that she’s pregnant because never in her life would she allow someone who barely knows her at all to have this much sway over her. By the time she reaches the living room after collecting her items, Emori’s already in the midst of complaining to Murphy, who switches his gaze from his girlfriend to Clarke in middle of her rampage. She notices Clarke, positioning herself to face her as she dangles the test in between her two fingers.
“This, isn’t happening,” Emori states.
“Right,” Clarke draws out. “Because I’m going to listen to a girl who thinks sleeping with Murphy is a good idea.”
“Um, hello?” Murphy jumps in. Clarke shoots him a fiery glare and he retracts with an eye roll.
“Bellamy is married to a great woman, who he loves very much,” Emori reiterates to Clarke, her tone surprisingly calmer than it was just a couple seconds ago.
Clarke’s lips smack together tightly. She’s curious as to what’s changed, because people who love each other very much don’t get a divorce. A surge of panic rises in her as she wonders if that was one of the reasons Bellamy didn’t want to see her again. Did he always have plans to go back to his wife?
Emori notices the disdain on Clarke’s face and approaches her slowly. “Listen, you seem like a relatively normal girl. Murphy says you’re some sort of doctor – good for you. You’re smart enough to know that Bellamy won’t leave his wife for a one night stand.”
“What happened to their divorce?” Clarke sputters. She doesn’t mean to come out like a school girl with a crush, but the naïve tone in her voice does just that. She resigns, trying to compose herself like the twenty eight year old woman she is, but Emori latches on it.
“They’ve been through a lot. They made the wrong call on this one, both of them realize it.”
“But he lives here now.”
“For the year, maybe. But you don’t give up on a marriage when it gets difficult. You look like a someone with two parents who are still together.”
Clarke thinks back. Maybe. Jake Griffin adored his wife, so much so that her being absent weeks at a time didn’t cause a dent in the way he felt about her. Clarke remembers dinners he would plan for her return, special outings as a family – and although rare that the three of them were together, Clarke looks back on it fondly. The only time things fade to grey are after her father’s passing when she was ten.
Somehow, Clarke understands what Emori is trying to say. She doesn’t look like a girl that’s lead a tough life, and maybe there isn’t a distinct appearance for someone who has, but Clarke acknowledges how she comes across. Blonde, pretty and intelligent make up a substantial list of credentials on their own. So, Clarke gets it. She also gets the sanctity of marriage. But she also gets Bellamy.
Bellamy’s a lot of things, a lot of wonderful, amazing things. A liar is the furthest word she would ever use to describe him. She stares at Emori, the Ziploc bag still firm in her grip and steps forward to tell her just that – Bellamy would never sacrifice his relationship with someone he loves to wreak havoc in another’s life. He may not want to be with her, it may have just been sex for him, but if that marriage is really what he wanted, Clarke wouldn’t have kept him occupied that night.
The words don’t come from her mouth, though. Emori’s face is mixed with annoyance and some form of pity and when Clarke looks back at Murphy, she can tell he has no interest in piping in. She second guesses herself and leans back.
“I won’t tell Bellamy about this,” Emori offers, ever so kindly. “You can go about your day, Doctor. It’ll be like this never even happened.”
The venom that Clarke desperately wants to spit at her stays inside her mouth. Clarke inhales, trying her best not to let tears slide down her cheeks in front of this strange girl and Murphy of all people. Instead, she nods her head, allowing Emori to have her triumph and heads to the door without a fight.
It’s unfair of me to have wanted to put this on Bellamy when it’s a decision I have to make, she reasons with herself as she walks towards the elevator. Her pace painfully slow, a part of her wishes Bellamy would emerge from the elevator before she has a chance to get to it and change her mind. Yet, as Clarke gets closer and there’s no Bellamy, she realizes this is just how it’s going to be. It’s on her to figure this out. Clarke’s faced worse.
Clarke reaches the elevator and presses the button. She waits for a couple moments, eyes scanning through the bleak halls of the apartment building, arms hugged around her. She’s the only one in the hallway, the dim lighting singling her out to no one in particular. One light above her head flickers unnaturally quickly, and shuts off completely when the elevator doors open. It’s empty, Clarke confirms when she steps inside.
Clarke goes about her days like Bellamy Blake doesn’t exist, as if this pregnancy is another immaculate conception. She goes to work, overworks herself as per usual, goes straight home and researches. She spends hours reading stories of people who became parents in the midst of their residency program, or who raise children at the peak of their careers, but it’s discouraging when most of them have a partner in the picture who is a tremendous help.
She considers other avenues, too. But Clarke isn’t convinced those options aren’t for her.
It’s a vicious cycle. Clarke throws herself into the notion that she can’t do this, doesn’t wantto parent and ruin the career she spend years building for herself. Then she thinks about the possibility that this is it for her and after months of wanting something more substantial in her personal life, this is the universe’s gift to her. It seems cruel to give her a baby whose parent wants nothing to do with her, but nonetheless. Her fears and anxiety mix with the slight of content she feels running her hand over her stomach at her most stressful times.
She finds herself doing it at awkward times, though.
“Are you queasy or something?” Luna stops in her tracks. Clarke looks down at her hand planted on her stomach and quickly moves it to the patient file she’s reviewing. “I’m happy to take your patient off of your hands.”
“I’ve got it,” Clarke gives her a sickly smile. She closes the file and tucks it under her armpit. “She’s ready to be discharged anyways. And then I have my next patient and I’m going on lunch.”
Lunch, otherwise a code word for her appointment. Clarke can’t fathom the fact that she’s already six weeks along, it’s almost as nauseating as the morning sickness. She almost appointment she scheduled a couple weeks ago, but it’s the only part of her plan that remained intact since talking to Bellamy was out the window.
Clarke grimaces just thinking about him. Sometimes, she thinks he has a right to at least knowand make his choice on his own. She’s found herself stopping by Murphy’s apartment after work sometimes. But Emori’s words echo in her ears, that he is married to a great woman who he loves very much and is currently in the process of working things out with. She has no right to go and uproot his life, for a second time, ten whole years later.
Luna opens her mouth to say something, but Clarke’s already handing the patient file to the receptionist in exchange for her next client. She smiles at Luna, the plasticity of it mocking, and bounces to her next patient in a rush. Luna’s been quite bold with her stray of rude comments and belittling judgements and Clarke is in no mood for it. Most times, she’s too nauseated or dizzy to come up with a good comeback and she can’t tarnish her reputation more than she already has.
Clarke approaches the client’s room, knocking lightly in order to signal her entrance. She hears a huff through the door as she opens the patient file. She scans the file, eyes glazing over until she reaches the reason for visit; sore throat. Clarke shrugs, turning the doorknob, her eyes still on the file as she walks in.
“Hi there, I’m Dr. Griffin, I’m here to check out that sore throat,” Clarke’s eyes travel back up the file to address the patient by name. She freezes, reading the name Bellamy Blake over and over until she has the courage to look up.
Bellamy sits on the patient table, looking more than healthy. His feet touch the floor, enclosed in a nice case of black loafers that go with his dress pants and white button up shirt. He’s slouched over, making the navy blue tie he’s loosened around his neck dangle against his chest. Clarke almost smiles, recalling his lack of fondness when it comes to formal attire. Yet, he becomes a teacher.
The desire to smile is gone when she takes a look at Bellamy’s face. His eyebrows are furrowed together like he’s lost in thought, his lips twisted into a frown, showcasing the scar over his lip proudly. The creases on his forehead are indented prominently and as his hands clasp together, he looks up at Clarke, a stare of betrayal running deeper than she could have ever imagined. She gulps.
She doesn’t have to guess, she knows he knows. Yet, when Bellamy holds up the plastic Ziploc bag with one of pregnancy tests inside, the stoic expression she's hellbent on maintaining drops from her face, replaced with guilt and regret. Instead of an apology, Clarke marvels, “Emori.”
“No, actually,” Bellamy laughs bitterly. “I found it in the trash, since I’m the only one who cleans up the place. She tried to pass it off as hers, but who puts a pregnancy test in a Ziploc bag?”
Clarke’s shoulders straighten. “Many people, I’m sure.”
Bellamy’s lips purse. “I saw these exact Ziploc bags in your drawer the last time I was there.”
“They’re a popular brand.”
“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice cracks. His eyes are wide, desperate, pleading for her. “Please.”
A lump forms in Clarke’s throat, just the expression on his face making her heart leap. She stares at him for a moment, until it makes her want to burst into flames, turning away from him and walking over to the counter on the other side of the room. She gently places his file down, gripping onto the counter to steady herself. She takes a deep breath that exhales shakily. “I went to your apartment. I was going to tell you.”
“What stopped you?” Clarke hears his feet collide with the floor.
“She said you and your wife were working things out.”
Neither of them say anything. The silence is all the deafening, the words left unsaid forming their own conclusion in Clarke’s mind. Before she can pull herself, her shoulders hunch over and a quiet sob is wracking over her body. She grips the counter tighter, her skin stretching over her knuckles excruciatingly and her head bows.
The sound of footsteps echo from behind her, before a pair of arms silently snake up her forearms. Clarke tries not to take advantage of the comfort, staying still as Bellamy moves his arms around her. It only makes her cry more, her chest hiccupping up and down as his arms shield her from herself. She leans into him, hands moving up to hold onto his arms that are planted across her collarbone. She takes the relief, the second of them encapsulated in that moment together and breathes.
Clarke composes herself, allowing his warmth to level her. Her cries subside, and her breathing resumes as normal. She gulps down the rest of the lump that clouds her throat and exhales, drawing a low breath from the O shape of her mouth.
“It’s not true.”
Clarke turns so fast, her and Bellamy are almost nose to nose. The words that come from his mouth are soft and if she wasn’t so close to him, she wouldn’t have heard them. He looks at her, a pained smile written across his lips. He looks down at her, and Clarke sees his Adam’s Apple bob. Bellamy detangles himself from her, much to Clarke’s dismay, putting much needed distance between the two. He backs up against the patient table, leaning against it once more. Clarke stands up straight, patiently waiting for him to continue, her ability to breathe again returning.
“Echo and I are on good terms. But the divorce was never on pause.”
“–Is a wishful thinker.”
Labelling Clarke as relieved is an understatement. Her heart swells at the news, and definitely calms the anxieties she’s manifested over the course of the past couple of weeks. But one look at Bellamy’s face is enough to bring her back to the ground. His expression, solemn and mournful, his eyes darting to the floor as he avoids eye contact. His curls fall over one another, his sorrowful expression disappearing underneath them, away from Clarke’s eyesight.
Clarke’s two for two, always fucking up when she brings up the wife. She mentally kicks herself for it, for causing Bellamy even more unnecessary pain aside from the one she’s directly responsible for. Bellamy’s disdain towards it is evident in the way he carries himself, his spirit visibly breaking every time she reminds him of their status. Clarke understands, she assumes it would similar if she actually had married Lexa, only for it not to last.
Bellamy takes a deep breath. Tentatively, Clarke wanders over to him, leaning against the table beside him, so close their hips are touching. She ignores the burning feeling in her chest, ignited just by the feel of him. She glances at him, his eyes still drawn to the ground, silently begging him to look at her.
"Emori's been our friend for years," Bellamy explains simply. His gaze is still casted downwards, and the words are almost too soft to hear. "She's just...a wishful thinker."
Clarke yearns to take the pain away from him, every inch of her aching just looking at him. Ten years ago, she’d know exactly what to say or do. Today, she can’t even begin to guess. It scares her, how different they are now, only for them to soon be thrusted into parenthood. It’s their only common ground that she knows of.
“I have an ultrasound in,” Clarke checks her watch. “Five minutes.” Bellamy’s head lifts instantly. His bewildered expression makes her giggle. She tilts her head, controlling the laughter he so easily elicits from her. She peering at him with a smile and hopeful gaze in her eyes. “If you want – I’d love for you to be there with me.”
As a doctor, Clarke knows a basic list of what to expect. She lays on the patient table, changed from her scrubs into the traditional gown, exposed beneath to the doctor as she inserts the sonographer into her. It’s all very typical for a first trimester ultrasound, especially one done at just six weeks. All Clarke can guarantee is a due date and the number of fetuses – one, please – not even a confirmation of a heartbeat is common. So she lays back, allows the doctor to excuse herself before getting started and allows her anxieties to focus primarily on Bellamy.
Bellamy’s hands are crossed over his chest, his teeth chewing at his lap as his foot taps nervously at the tiles. Clarke’s been anxious for weeks, paranoia consuming twenty four seven for a while now. But when she looks at Bellamy, who’s not a doctor and was far too young when Octavia was born to remember the normalcy of these appointments, she feels her worries fade. He’s not even looking at her, his eyes glued to the ultrasound machine, blank as a board.
Clarke’s head lays down on the forefront of the patient table, cheek pressed against the coolness of the protective sheet. She stares at him, watching him poke his tongue out of his cheek and pretend he’s playing this off cool and not like a total wreck. It’s only when she extends her hand out to him that his eyes lift to look at her. He forces a smile, stepping forward to take Clarke’s hand as she pulls him towards the patient chair.
Dr. Cartwig returns, a nice big smile on her face. “Alright, let’s get started.”
Bellamy squeezes her hand.
All the doctor does is sit and Bellamy’s eyes dart to her. Clarke smoothens her thumb over his hand, trying to keep his protectiveness at a minimum. She notes his shoulder’s relax slightly from their tense state, but Bellamy’s eyes don’t leave Dr. Cartwig, watching as she types away at her machine, oblivious to the stares. Clarke can’t take her eyes off him, oddly secure just being next to him. It’s nice, being the one not freaking out for a moment.
Dr. Cartwig maneuvers her mouse, the tones of black and white finally popping up onto the screen. Clarke sees Bellamy’s eyes go wide, turning her head to see the doctor’s exaggerative movements minimalize as she centers in on one specific section of the ultrasound.
“Your due date seems to be around the beginning of May,” Dr. Cartwig announces, eyes not leaving the screen. She pauses for a moment, Bellamy straightening a little as she does so. Then, she turns back to the odd pair with an easy smile. “May third, if we’re being exact. Want to hear something cool?”
Neither of them respond, Dr. Cartwig not bothering to wait for a reply as she taps a couple more buttons on the machine. Then she points to a section on the black screen, indicating the location of the baby with her index finger and using her other hand to hold up her other one, signaling for them to wait a moment. Soon enough, the low chorus of steady beats sound through the system. Clarke’s heart pounds, both her and Bellamy leaning in to hear better. For the first time that day, Bellamy breaks out into a grin. He doesn’t have to be a doctor to decipher what that is.
“It’s not often you hear a heartbeat this early,” Dr. Cartwig comments. “You’ve got a wonder child on your hands.”
Clarke stifles a laugh, because damn, does she have no idea how accurate that statement is. Her eyes focus on the fetus, as small as grape she estimates by Dr. Cartwig’s index finger. She lets the slow, steady sound of the heartbeat fill her ears and for the first time in weeks, it's tears of joy in her eyes. She looks to Bellamy, a smile lifting on her face to compliment his grin. It takes a moment, his eyes permanently etched to the screen before he glances at her. Their eyes lock, earlier moments of resentment fading into the background.
Bellamy kisses the top of her forehead, silently reassuring the both of them. Clarke leans into him, this time her being the one to squeeze his hand.
Clarke has to finish the rest of her shift, but Bellamy’s itching to talk about this more in depth. So instead of her having to trek over to Murphy’s apartment only to be met by his she-devil of a girlfriend, Clarke hands Bellamy her apartment key and tells her she’ll be back sometime after six thirty. He hesitates, but hey, she’s already carrying his child – what’s so scary about the key to her apartment?
Clarke reaches her apartment just before seven. As she approaches the door, the smell of fresh food fills her nose and her stomach rumbles – thanks to her diet of a granola bar and a minimal amount of fruit throughout the day. She assumes it’s her neighbors, but the aroma only strengthens as she gets closer to her own home. Before Clarke’s hand is even on the door handle, she knows it’s coming from Bellamy.
Sure enough, Clarke opens her door to the sight of smooth steam rising high in her kitchen. She tiptoes in, removing her jacket and hanging it on the coat rack beside the door, peering at Bellamy as he maneuvers something in a pan over the stove. She slips off her shoes before stepping into the kitchen, seeing the two plates of chicken laying on her marble countertop. She stifles a laugh, recalling the last time Bellamy was here, when something very different was on her countertop.
“Hey,” Bellamy turns, pouring the contents of the pan into an empty plate across from the ready prepared ones. “I figured you hadn’t eaten.”
“You’re going to have to pay me back for hogging all my ingredients,” Clarke jokes, slipping into one of the barstools. She peers into the plate, noting the steamed vegetables Bellamy just finished with.
Bellamy smirks, dipping a large spoon into the carrots and peas before sliding it closer to their plates. “Maybe you can use the fifty dollars you clearly didn’t use before.”
Clarke glares at him, but Bellamy’s smirk only deepens, his dimples flashing at her.
The chicken is amazing. Bellamy’s been a great cook since he was young, always preparing food for him and his sister and eventually Clarke, since it was usually just the three of them around his house. He’s perfected the simple things a long time ago and this is no different. At least their baby is going to be fed well by someone cause Clarke has no cooking skill in her back pocket to fall back on.
Clarke anticipates he’s waiting for the big talk until after dinner because all that comes from his mouth is small talk, how is she feeling, does he want her to grab groceries for her, all stupid shit that drives her crazy. Clarke brushes it off, answering simply and politely, antsy at the fact that she’s tiptoeing around this man that she’s known for over half her life. Their interaction is all very reserved, the both of them compacted in their fear of saying something wrong. She’s already anticipating the blowout that will occur after dinner, especially if this is the avenue Bellamy’s deciding to take – where she needs to be looked after, while he takes charge. She thought he knew her better than that.
They move to the couch after dinner, slap something on television that’s fresh off Netflix and sit on opposite ends. Bellamy’s eyes stay transfixed on the screen, commenting on the show that neither of them could care less about. Clarke gets it, he’s worried, she can tell by the way his lips purse together – again showing off that infamous scar on his upper lip. But now that he knows, they can formulate a plan and she’s itching to have one.
“Bellamy,” Clarke starts. “Can we just get to it?”
Bellamy’s slouched over on the couch, balancing his elbows on his thighs. He chews at the inside of his lips, contemplating for a moment as he looks down at his hands, clasped together. Then, he looks to Clarke, eyes pouring into hers. “I want to keep this baby.”
Clarke’s heart opens. “So do I.”
It’s the first time she’s said it aloud, and it’s still void of a plan, but it’s more than a relief.
Clarke feels herself relax, swinging her legs onto the couch and stretching them outwards in Bellamy’s direction. He moves slightly, getting close enough to her that she can place her legs on top of his lap. He leans back, the color returning to his face, relief washing over him in synchronization with Clarke.
“So?” Clarke ponders. “What’s next?”
“I’m going to move out Murphy’s apartment,” Bellamy announces. Clarke silently thanks the universe. “It was never supposed to be permanent, so I’ve been looking anyways. There’s a couple of good places near the school, townhomes.”
“How far away are they from here?”
“Twenty minutes – give or take,” Clarke’s shoulders slump as he says it. Bellamy is quick to reiterate, “I know it’s not ideal. I can look for some places close to here-”
“You can always just move in here.” The words sputter out of Clarke’s mouth before she can reign them in. Bellamy’s head tilts, the hint of a smile on his face, like he thinks she’s joking. She sinks back into herself, regretting the words sounding so forward. When his face twists into confusion, Clarke continues, “There’s two bedrooms. I usually use the spare for a painting space, but we can always move that out, move your stuff in-”
“What about a nursery?” Bellamy inquires. “This place is way too small for the three of us.”
“So it’s better to have two separate places, almost half an hour apart?”
“We have to adapt to the situation. It’s not like we’re together.”
“Yeah, because you don’t even want to try.”
It’s a low blow, Clarke winces as she says it. Bellamy looks away from her, shaking his head, teeth grazing over his bottom lip. She sucks in a breath when he stands and brushes past her, neck craning to follow his movements. He waltzes into the kitchen, opens one of her top cabinets and retrieves a glass, filling it in the sink with water. He leans over the countertop, sipping his glass.
Clarke stands, tentatively taking steps towards him. She leans against the countertop, peering at him as he stares down at the marble. He takes a sip of his water, eyes fixated on nothing. Clarke knows he’s in deep thought, and her heart sinks. She knows the reason he’s not with her and normally, if he were anybody else, she’d understand. She has no idea how he was with his ex-wife or even what warranted the divorce and yes, she’s being selfish. But damn it, they’re having a baby.
The sound of the Netflix show is the only thing occupying the space. Otherwise, it’s just Bellamy and Clarke, separated by the marble of her countertop. Bellamy takes another sip, a couple more away from emptying the glass. He settles the glass on the marble gently, palms gripping the edge of the countertop. He looks up at Clarke.
“I can't, Clarke,” Bellamy croaks. “I want to be able to, for this baby. But that wouldn't be fair, to either of you.”
Clarke gulps down the thickness in her throat. She nods quickly, eyes not leaving his, pleading with him that she understands. Bellamy sighs, his eyes departing with hers as his head hangs. She sees him inhale and exhale, and walks closer. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, his head falling into her neck. Their breaths are steady, her cheek pressed against the top of his head, as they stand in her kitchen, undeniably uncertain.
Clarke yearns to take his pain away. He’s not vocal about it, but whatever his wife did, Clarke wants to ring her neck for it. It weighs on him, she can see just by the way he carries himself. And yet, Bellamy hasn’t said a word condemning his wife, not an insult thrown in her direction. His wife doesn’t deserve his complete and utter kindness. Bellamy deserves someone better, he always has. She almost wishes he found that someone, because after what she did to him all those years ago, he definitely didn’t need whatever the woman he ended up marrying sent his way.
They’ve been standing in her kitchen, in each other’s embrace for a little too long. Bellamy straightens himself, coughing to relieve the awkwardness. Clarke’s eyes follow him, watching as he brushes himself off. He’s still in his work clothes, except the tie is discarded and his white dress shirt is unbuttoned halfway. Clarke peers at him, his chest somewhat exposed and etches closer.
Her hand moves up, tracing the outline of his chest and following up to his collarbone. Bellamy sucks in a breath, but no words leave his lips. Clarke moves closer, her hand snaking up to behind his neck. She leans up, planting a slow slew of kisses from his collarbone to the base of his neck. Bellamy grunts, falling against the countertop for support.
“Clarke,” he breathes. Her lips are still on his neck. “I-I can’t be what you want me to be.”
“I want you to be here,” Clarke murmurs between kisses. She looks up at him, hand still on the back of his neck, his eyes glistening. “That’s good enough for me. That you’re here.”
Bellamy allows her to lean upward, their lips smoothening over one another. They move in sync, slow and intimate, caught up in the presence of one another. Clarke leans against his chest, one hand still at the back of his neck while the other grazes over his exposed collarbones. He moves his hands to snake around her waist, gripping her hips as he pulls her even closer.
Clarke pulls away, Bellamy’s eyes on her as she lowers herself to her knees. He follows her, watching her nimble hands unbuckle his belt with ease. His breathing gets more shallow and soon he’s panting, and Clarke hasn’t even touched him yet. She smirks to herself, knowing that at least she can still get this reaction out of him, no matter how many years they’ve missed.
His pants fall to the floor and soon his boxers accompany them, his dick already half-hard. It springs free, Clarke gently caressing him with her hand. His dick fully hardens in her hand, encased by her fingers. She continues to stroke him for a while, her free hand massaging the base of him as Bellamy grips the countertop for support. Clarke can sense he’s waiting for her, but she finds pleasure in knowing that she has him like this, wrapped around her finger while she’s physically wrapped around him.
Clarke slowly brings her lips to the tip of him, Bellamy’s head falling back at the contact. She swirls her tongue around him, licking the pre-cum that’s already oozed from him before she brings the rest of her mouth down. Bellamy grunts, adding to her motivation as she bobs her head up and down. His dick is slick with a mixture of her saliva and his cum, the extra lubrication making Clarke go faster and faster.
“Fuck, princess,” Bellamy’s hand scrunches Clarke’s blonde locks. He’s careful not to push her head down, her already doing a more than adequate job. Clarke hums, causing him to pull at her hair harder. Clarke moans, bringing her hand down to rub her clit through her pants.
More focused on the task at hand, Clarke switches between her tongue exploring the base of him and enveloping his whole cock in her mouth. Her strategy drives Bellamy crazy, his moans sending her over the edge as she furiously rubs at her clit.
They come together, Clarke sending herself over the edge just as she sends him. His cum sputters into her mouth, Clarke’s lips still attached to him. She feels herself release, her eyes closing as she swallows him. Bellamy’s hand drops from her hair, just so he can catch his breath. Clarke eases her lips off of him, wiping any remnants of him off with the corner of her mouth with her thumb. She gets to her feet, Bellamy pulling her in for a long, drawn out kiss.
Clarke knows him well enough to know that even though she came, he’s not satisfied it wasn’t by his hand. Their lips still attached, Bellamy’s hands lower to intertwine with her fingers. He pulls away from Clarke, leading her to her bedroom and it’s enough to get her cunt yearning for him again.
The minute they enter her bedroom, Clarke turns to him, hands leaving his to cup his face. She brings him in for another kiss, their lips moving in unison almost immediately. Their lips still interlocked, she guides him towards her bed, allowing him to fall on top of her as she sinks into the mattress below. Clarke locks her legs around him, grinding against his bare bottom half with her pants still on.
Bellamy sinks his hand lower, bypassing the waistline of her sweatpants and panties. His fingers gently caress the bareness of her cunt. He massages over her clit with his thumb, twisting his hand so that he can insert his other two fingers inside of her. Clarke lips open in a moan, his lips gnawing at her bottom lip as her hips buck against him.
Clarke maneuvers her hips as his fingers furiously pump in and out of her, trying her best to wiggle out of her pants while Bellamy’s still working away at her. She unlocks her legs from his torso, hips still yearning for him to be closer. Bellamy moves his lips to plant kisses along her neck.
“I’ve got you,” Bellamy whispers in her ear. Clarke shivers.
He removes his fingers from her cunt, giving her ample time to wiggle out of her sweatpants. As she removes them, Bellamy’s legs move on either side of her, straddling the blonde as he unbuttons the rest of his dress shirt. He throws it over in the new pile with her sweatpants, before turning to Clarke and helping her remove her shirt.
Clarke feels less sexy about her sports bra now that Bellamy’s looking at her. Yet, he doesn’t think twice about it, only wanting it removed. Clarke sits up, pulling it over her head and throwing it elsewhere before Bellamy’s already gently pushing her back to down onto the bed. Their lips interlocked again, bare chests pressed against each other, his hand moves to resume what he was doing. Clarke catches his wrist before he gets to her, switching their positions so that now she’s the one on top.
Bellamy’s eyes travel her body as she sits comfortably on him, hands moving to grip her hips. He smirks as she gets ready to position herself, knowing her cunt is aching for him. “What, no condom?”
The joke goes over Clarke’s head, far too horny to care. “I got checked right after finding out I was pregnant.”
“Are you sure I’m the father?”
Clarke eyes move up to glare at him. She is sure, only having been with girls aside from him for at least three months. But by the look on his face, he’s not any bit uncertain this baby belongs to him. Bellamy’s smirk deepens, hands moving to grip around her ass. She suppresses a yelp, yearning to remain in control. Her hips move downwards as she leans up, grabbing his cock with her free hand and positioning it in front her entrance. Slowly, she lowers herself onto him, sighing in relief as he fills her.
Bellamy’s hands tighten around her ass as she moves them forward. Clarke hips form circles around him, her steady pace turning fast and furious in a matter of seconds. Bellamy pushes her as close to him as he can, Clarke’s hips bucking wildly as she fucks him into her. He matches her pace, Clarke’s clit colliding with the base of him, giving both of them the extra edge they crave. Moans fill Clarke’s apartment, both of their paces quickening as they desperately grasp one another.
Half-opened eyes accompanied by blurry vision, Clarke can see the two of them interlocked in the mirror through her peripheral. It's a glimpse, very different than her self-loathing morning stares, the reflection showcasing the two of them moving together in sync. The view makes Clarke's chest tighten and nearly fucks up her rhythm, turning her attention back to Bellamy. His mouth formed in a perfect O shape, his eyes barely being able to stay open as they enwrap themselves in one other, reaching their heights in unison. It's even more motivation for her to keep going, intent on making him feel just as good as he makes her.
Clarke collapses against him as they cum, Bellamy’s arms moving around her torso to push her closer. Bellamy grunts as Clarke cries out, filling her with his load as she clutches onto his shoulders. Their movements subside as their climaxes slow, ligaments wrapped into one another, breathes bouncing off one another's soaked bodies.
Silence consumes them, their naked bodies embracing one another. Clarke’s head rests against Bellamy’s chest as it rises and falls. She can hear his heart beating rapidly. She presses her ear even closer to him as he smoothens his hand over her hair. Her eyes slowly close, taking in the beating sound.
Bellamy presses his lips to Clarke’s scalp. Her head lifts, looking up at him as she balances her chin on the dipping of his chest. She can see the concern that creases him, the bliss from sex replaced by the worry lines that plague his forehead. Clarke moves her hand up, brushing a curl away from his face, before settling her palm against his cheek. He leans into her hand, dark eyes peering at her, half-lidded, yet all the while pleading.
“What are we going to do?”
Clarke doesn’t know what to say, she certainly doesn’t have an answer. She opens her mouth, expecting to say something half-reassuring and just as unsettling, when her train of thought is interrupted by the ring of a cell phone.
She heaves her bare body up from Bellamy, already missing the warmth of him as she wanders over to her sweatpants. She leans down, delving her hands into its pockets to retrieve the source of the ringing. Her phone flashes a photo of her and Raven, lips puckered as they pose for a photo in their swimsuits. Clarke smiles, recalling the months prior when they picture was taken at the local beach. She almost misses the call, thinking about how her body won’t resemble anything close to what it did then in just a matter of weeks.
Bypassing Bellamy’s fatal question, Clarke presses the Accept button and holds the phone to her ear. She sighs, hoping Raven doesn’t sense the exasperation in her voice. “Hey, Raven–”
As usual, Raven’s spitfire nature barely provides Clarke with ample time to take a breath. “Murphy told Shaw that Bellamy Blake knocked you up.”