a/n Hello and welcome to a missing scene from "Child of our Time". This is Bellamy's point of view of the aftermath of "the worst night of Clarke's life". A brief warning that this therefore alludes to a situation of dubious consent. Thanks so much to Stormkpr for betaing. Happy reading!
Timing has never been their best thing.
If there's one thing Bellamy can be sure of, amidst this whole impossible-fatherhood mess, it is that. The universe simply doesn't want to allow his life and Clarke's to align for longer than a heartbeat before throwing something else in between them.
All the same, he thinks he has really outdone himself, this time round. Of all the moments to realise he still cares about Clarke, obviously he had to go and pick the second that she ran out of her bedroom in tears, hot on the heels of their first attempt at sex.
He smacks a hand to his jaw, harder than necessary to wipe away the sweat, but not hard enough for the pain to block out the guilt. Of course he still cares about her. And, sure, it might not be the same way he used to care about her, but it's there all the same. It's real. And he hates himself for throwing all that away with his utterly careless behaviour of the last few minutes.
He can hear her muffled sobs from the bathroom, and it makes him hate himself even more deeply than before. He hates himself for doing this to her, for being such a brute tonight and hurting her in the heat of his frustration and grief and desire. Behaviour like that is inexcusable, in anyone, and he never thought he'd have to sit here and grapple with knowing that kind of monster existed inside of himself. Sure, he's done other monstrous things before now – he's even let Clarke forgive him for more than a handful of inexcusable deeds – but somehow, this feels like the worst of the lot, in this moment.
He hates himself, too, for failing to notice his own feelings for so long. There's something about the way she's gone off to cry, gone to be wrecked in private in that lonely bathroom, so that she can pretend to be calm and in control when she gets back here. Something in her failure to admit that she's breaking inside is just so thoroughly Clarke that he cannot believe he didn't see it before. He cannot believe it took him this long to notice that she's still the same woman, even if the last thirteen decades have not been kind to her.
He should have worked it out, too, from the way he's been turning over that confession from last week in his mind ever since. All things considered, I wanted it then, too is not the most loaded sentence that has ever passed between them. But it's been the refrain to his every thought and action for the last seven days and it makes sense, now.
It's been on his mind, because at least a tiny part of him still wants it now.
He lets out a strangled sob at that and wonders what to do next. He needs to stay and apologise to her, that much is clear. Apologising in the decent thing to do, of course, but there's more to it than that. A heartfelt apology is surely the only way he stands any chance of putting this right and getting anything resembling a relationship here and now with Clarke.
No, that's a selfish thought. He shouldn't be dreaming of anything with her, not after what he's just done. He ought to be selflessly looking for ways to put it right, and ways to show her that someone still cares about her. It breaks his heart to see how alone she looks, these days.
It breaks his heart even more to know that it's partly his fault. To know that she believed every word he said in his drunken fury, last week.
If he's staying to apologise, he reckons he ought to get dressed. That will minimise unpleasant reminders of what he just did to her, he hopes, but it will also save some of his dignity. He doesn't want her to see that he's still half-hard at the mere thought of sitting in her bedroom. It doesn't seem like that will be a useful contribution to a selfless apology.
He looks for his shirt for a long time, and is beyond embarrassed to realise that the reason he can't find it is that he's still wearing it. That sums up everything that is wrong with his stupid, selfish brain tonight, he thinks. He's got so little self-awareness he never even noticed that he was still half-dressed, even while he was ripping her clothes from her back. He locates the rest of his outfit, too, and tugs his trousers clumsily up his legs.
And then he sits on the edge of her bed, and waits.
He's dreamed of waiting in her bedroom more times than he likes to admit, and somehow, now that he's confessed his care to himself, those youthful fantasies are crowding his brain quicker than he can push them away. And then the guilt is closing in on him, too, the horror that comes with every heartbeat as he remembers anew what he did to her, and then the tears are tracking down his cheeks with renewed urgency.
He hears footsteps in the corridor, and scrubs angrily at his eyes with the back of his hand. He has no right to cry, here. He is not the one who has been... violated.
The door opens and he looks up to meet her eyes. She looks devastated, and it makes something crumple inside of his chest. He has never seen her look quite like this in all the time he has known her. Even the night she killed Finn, he thinks, she wore a different kind of grief. This is such a frightening mixture of looking utterly wretched but trying desperately to hide it from him that he scarcely knows where to begin.
He should begin with an apology. He can do that much.
"I'm sorry." He croaks out, hoping she can make sense of the words through the sob stuck in his throat. He forces himself to hold eye contact, and sees something soften ever so slightly in her gaze.
Acting on pure instinct, he opens his arms for a hug. He knows he's supposed to practise using his head – that was her dying wish, he used to think – but he is powerless to do that, just now. Everything that has ever been wrong between them before has been fixed with a hug, and he figures that it can't hurt to try it on this occasion, either.
To his shock, she doesn't even hesitate. She walks straight into his open arms, and crumples onto the bed at his side, still holding him tight. He curls his body towards her, trying for protective rather than predatory, and buries his face in her neck.
She's crying again – or perhaps she never stopped crying. Either way, he whispers his remorse into her hair and waits for her to decide that she's done. Or at least to decide that she wants him gone from her space and gone from her life – whichever comes first.
It's a long hug, but she does pull away eventually. She gives him a nod, and a hint of a smile, and she stands up as if indicating that he ought to do so, too.
He follows her lead, and turns for the door. Whispers another useless sorry into the space in between them, and tries to hold in the tears.
He has no right to cry. He has no right to cry. He has no right to cry.
He shows himself out, shutting the bedroom door, then walking the length of the corridor, then opening the front door and pulling it closed behind him. He listens carefully, checks that there is only silence coming from inside the house and that she has not, for some insane reason, followed him down the hall.
And then he falls to his knees on her doorstep, and just for a second, he allows himself to weep shamelessly. There is only one thing, here, that he reckons he can almost permit himself to cry about.
She didn't say she could forgive him.
For over a century he has clung to the idea that forgiveness is what they do best, and tonight he has screwed up so badly that Clarke Griffin won't forgive him.
Shaking his head, he gets to his feet. He's serious about Clarke – he always has been. He's serious about still caring for her, even if he's not quite worked out what he means by that yet. And he's certainly serious about putting this right. He therefore needs to get his head straight, and he needs to make a plan.
When he puts it like that, his next move is obvious. There is only one strategist left in his life who might be willing to speak to him right now. Without allowing himself to hesitate, without acknowledging the voice in his head that points out this is a damn weird turn of events, he sets out for Echo's quarters at a jog.
She's shocked to see him there, when she opens the door. She might not wear her emotions like a crown for all the world to see, but he knows her well enough to note that he's taken her by surprise, showing up unexpected and visibly distressed in the middle of the night. It's not the first time she's had to deal with a situation like this, and based on the way he's going, he doubts it will be the last.
"Which is it this time?" She asks, with a wry twist to her brow. "Clarke or Octavia?"
He isn't at all surprised she worked out that much. After all, she did spend six years watching him mourn one and miss the other. She knows that there are only two people on this moon who can get this kind of emotional rise out of him.
Well, he supposes he might be ready to add his daughter to the list, too. He has to admit he's more than a little excited to have a family.
"Clarke." He mutters, and Echo nods and stands aside to let him in.
"I should have known." She tells him, eyes narrowed. "If you're here to screw it out, I'm not up for that. You'd regret it. We both would."
He shakes his head, although he's not sure what exactly he's denying. Maybe he's just denying that this horrible evening has happened at all. She's certainly right – screwing it out won't help anyone. He's already proven that once, tonight.
"Is this weird?" He asks, suddenly nervous. "Me coming to talk to you about her? I can go if – if it's not – I didn't think." He swallows thickly. "I don't really have anyone else to talk to about it."
"It's weird." She confirms, voice cold and calm in that way that he's come to find strangely reassuring over the years. "But it's OK. You can talk. Believe it or not, I want you to work things out with her."
"You do?"
She's looking at him like he's lost his mind. "Of course I do. I watched you mourn her for years, Bellamy. What we had was good but – it wasn't what you have with her. You're going to be very happy together."
He snorts. He cannot help it. "I wouldn't be so sure."
Echo takes a seat, gestures for him to do the same. "What did she do this time?" She asks, all business. "Betray you and leave you for dead again? She's got a funny way of showing she cares."
He bristles. "She didn't do anything. She would never – I mean, she did. But I deserved it for betraying her and -"
"Relax." She waves a hand. "It's good to see you defending her again. That's how it should be. Now tell me what you did."
He breathes out a long sigh and wonders if he is brave enough to put it into words. He's faced down armies before now, but this – this is something else.
"I hurt her." He settles on that, in the end.
"Nothing new there." Echo says with a shrug. "She'll forgive you. She always does, she can't stay mad at you for long."
"No. No, I mean, I hurt her." He swallows with difficulty, feels almost dizzy with shame. "We were trying to – you know. We're trying to have a kid. And I talked her into it, and then I hurt her."
He's never seen Echo gape in shock before. It doesn't suit her. And it certainly doesn't suit her to spend the next seven seconds fishing for something to say. It scares him to see her lose control of her wits like this. It is the final confirmation he needed that he really has done something unforgivable.
"When you say you talked her into it...?"
"She wanted to do it. She asked me the other week." He explains slowly. "But – she wasn't ready. She didn't want to do it tonight. I pushed because I just wanted to get on with it before I drove myself completely crazy. And then I hurt her."
"I'm pretty sure no one can push Clarke Griffin into doing anything she doesn't want to do."
He whispers a rather frightening truth. "I'm pretty sure I can." He scrubs a hand across his face, and it comes away wet. "I've – it's always been like that. I'm about the only person who can change her mind. And then I hurt her."
"Yes. I think you've mentioned that." Echo sighs. "You hurt her, and you feel guilty. Have I got it covered?"
"Yeah."
"So why are you here?" She asks, not unkindly. Or at least, no more unkindly than he ought to expect his ex-girlfriend to ask why he's shown up at her apartment to cry about the mother of his child. "You could have sat and cried about your guilt in private. Isn't that what you usually do?"
He sits up straighter at that, and chooses to gloss over the fact that she knows him a little too well for comfort. "I need a plan."
"A plan?"
"Yeah. I – I want to make it right and I don't know how. And – like I said, who else could I have gone to?"
"You could have gone to your sister if you were speaking to her, but I think that's an argument for another time." She points out, plain-speaking as ever. "So you want to know how to make it right?"
"Yeah." He swallows thickly. "I just – I realised something tonight. And it's bad timing – the worst. But – I realised I still care about her." Another swallow. "A lot."
Echo has the audacity to laugh. "Took you long enough. Why did you think I broke up with you? It was hardly for fun."
He fixes her with a tearful frown, but she doesn't even blink. She's never been intimidated by him, and he seems to remember that's why he's here tonight.
She admits defeat with a shrug. "You just need to show her that."
"What?" He doesn't understand what she's talking about.
"You've realised you still care about her. That she's important to you. And I think – she needs to know that. She doesn't think she matters to you at all any more, Bellamy. I know that from the way she spoke to me the other week, and things Raven's said to me. That's only going to be worse after what happened tonight."
"It was bad." He agrees. "She didn't – it's the first time she's ever not told me she forgives me when I've said I'm sorry."
"I think you're going to need more than words." Echo suggests, with rare gentleness. "Forgiveness is what you two do best, remember? So I know you'll get there. But you're going to need to put more effort into showing her that you want her back in your life. And – after what you did tonight, you're going to need to show her that you're sorry, and that you care about her happiness, and that you're willing to work for her forgiveness."
He nods a little, processes her words. This is why he came here – of all the people he's still speaking to, Echo knows him best, sure. But she's also one hell of a strategist, and rather better at looking at the bigger picture than he will ever be.
"Thanks." He mutters, wondering if this is his cue to leave.
It is not. He knows this, because she continues to speak, tone sharp. "And next time you have sex with her, you have to behave better. I know you know that, but it needs saying. You can't just feel guilty but keep getting it wrong."
"I doubt we'll be doing that again." He chokes out, unable to force himself to say the word sex after what he did tonight.
"You will be." She says, completely matter-of-fact. "I notice things, remember? Wrong time of the month. She won't be pregnant. And she loves that kid, so you'll be trying again."
He nods, mute, and stands up, ready to flee towards the door before Echo can turn his world on its head again.
"Thanks." He forces the word out as he hovers at the threshold.
She nods. "Good luck. The next time you hit rock bottom, I have a feeling you won't be talking it out with me."
Before he can quite make sense of that statement, she has shut the door in his face. He wanders back to his quarters, and muses on her words. Showing Clarke he wants her forgiveness, rather than only saying it, does sound like a solid plan. He seems to remember that was how their relationship used to work, once upon a time – it wasn't all about words, but it was about standing in front of her when there was danger on the horizon, and keeping watch when she pulled a late night in the chancellor's office, and knocking presumably-poisoned goblets from her hand in the nick of time.
He wonders what that kind of relationship would look like, here, on this moon where there are fewer enemies to protect her from. He supposes part of it would be showing how much he cares about Madi, but he needs to be careful with that. He doesn't want Clarke to think that he is only spending time with her for their daughter's sake. He wants it to be quite clear to her that he's interested in having her play a part in his life again, too.
He thinks about his daily routine, as he unlocks the door to his apartment. He could pop into Medical more often to chat to her, perhaps, but he doesn't want to get annoying. And it would make sense that she might want some space after everything he has put her through, of late. He could certainly take her up on that invitation to go over to visit her and Madi in the evenings, and make a bit more effort to include her in the conversation as well as their daughter. He could, he thinks suddenly, ask after her day. He seems to remember that's a thing people who care about each other often try.
He could start with breakfast, if nothing else. Breakfast is supposed to be a good beginning to any day.
With that decided, his head hits the pillow. And somehow, confident in his plan, he falls asleep within minutes.
He wakes up the following morning a little later than he would have liked, and throws his clothes on with a fair dose of urgency before striding out the door. He needs to get to breakfast, and make a start at his new family life. He needs to get to breakfast, and show Clarke his remorse. He's loosely aware of Murphy trying to attract his attention as he overtakes him in the street, but he doesn't pause. He has somewhere to get to on time, and he knows that Murphy would understand.
He's pretty sure his entire Spacekru family worked out what was going on in his heart long before he did.
By the time he arrives at the mess hall, Madi and Clarke are already there, just sitting down. He sends a prayer of gratitude to any deity foolish enough to still give a damn about his selfish concerns, and takes a bowl, and follows them.
"Do you mind if I join you?" He asks, carefully polite, directing the question towards Clarke. If she needs some space, he will give it to her, of course.
"Bellamy!" Madi exclaims, and gestures to a seat.
He looks to Clarke, and gives her the chance to object. She does not choose to do so, but rather gives the smallest of nods. He sighs in relief and takes a seat.
"How are you this morning, Madi?" He asks his daughter with good cheer that comes surprisingly naturally, now he is looking at her excited smile.
"I'm great. What are we doing this afternoon?"
"I'm supposed to be scouting out in sector four. Miller and Indra are coming too, hope that's OK."
"Oh wow. Of course that's OK. This is going to be so cool." He hears Clarke give a little laugh at Madi's excitement, and the sound warms his heart. She made it to breakfast, so he was already hoping things couldn't be too bad, but she almost appears to be in good spirits, for all that she has not yet spoken to him.
He decides it's time to help her out with that.
"How are you doing, Clarke?" He asks carefully, and is relieved that she willingly meets his eyes.
"I'm doing OK." She tells him, tone even. "It was good that you came round last night." Well. That's not what he was expecting.
"Thanks for inviting me back again." He says, hoping she can hear the remorse in his tone. "I said I'd see Murphy tonight, but maybe tomorrow? Or the next day?"
"You're welcome any time. We don't often have plans."
"What will we do, next time?" Madi asks, all exuberance. "Can we maybe read?"
"I'm pretty sure reading isn't a team activity either, honey." Clarke teases, and he cannot help the burst of surprised laughter that escapes from his throat.
This could be it, he thinks, in a dizzy rush of joy. This could be that beautiful family life with Clarke that he used to dream of. Just as long as he stops screwing it up.
He makes cheerful conversation with Madi for a while. He lent her a book about Greek heroes, and she seems very keen on it, so that's something. It's still not clear to him whether she actually likes Greek heroes or whether she just likes having a father, but either way, it's a point of view he can sympathise with. So he keeps the conversation as upbeat as he can and hopes that he's not sneaking too many glances at Clarke across the table.
He is sneaking too many glances at her. He knows he is. But that doesn't seem to matter because she's actually smiling as she watches him chat with Madi and he's not sure what he did to get this lucky.
She's not the same as he remembers. He knows that. The Clarke he remembers would have dived headfirst into this conversation and taken a leading role, whereas this Clarke sits back almost nervously and lets them chat. But that's OK, he reckons. He's not the same Bellamy, either, and this new Clarke is quite something in her own right.
He runs out of porridge, eventually, and Madi seems to run out of either real or feigned enthusiasm for Greek heroes – although she's certainly still full of eagerness for the idea of having a father. She tells him yet again how excited she is about their afternoon plans, and he can't resist the urge to pull her in for a hug.
She's a great kid, and he's full of awe for the way Clarke raised her without him all these years. Full of guilt, too, but he hopes they might have a lifetime together to work that out.
He picks up his tray and weighs up his next words. He doesn't want to make Clarke uncomfortable, of course, but there's something he's been meaning to say for a while now. Something that, he hopes, might help her to see that he notices her in her own right, still, and not just as Madi's mother.
He takes a deep breath, and a risk. "You know, I should have said yesterday. Madi was right. Your hair does look great."
It shouldn't be that simple. He knows it shouldn't be that simple, and he doesn't want her to think he's seeing her as some shallow sexual object or something after last night. But as she smiles at him with more genuine warmth and happiness than he's seen in centuries, he begins to wonder if, maybe, it could be that simple.
Maybe he does just need to show her that he still cares.
He grins straight back at her, and goes to get on with his day with a spring in his step. He has an incredible daughter, and an incredible Clarke. He's a brute who makes mistakes – but he has always been a brute who makes mistakes, and she's forgiven him for that before now. And this time round, he decides, he is more determined than ever to fix things between them.
He will put this right, in time.
a/n Thanks for reading!