Chapter 2:

"Father McKenna," Her accent feels heavy on her tongue and hates the implication that she's adapting to the America. If Father McKenna notices her internal struggle, he doesn't comment.

Father McKenna is forty-two years old with salt and pepper hair that is always tidy. He was the priest that christened Clarke when she was born, just as he was the priest that read her brother's last rites. Her mother likes his company, although it's obvious that Abigail Griffin is of better faith than most of her family.

It helps that the priest is part of their community. Father McKenna is a key member of Phoenix's intel team because people aren't suspicious.

Clarke watched his sermon today and had to fight the urge to cry as he recounted the day his home church was defiled. It's not in her nature to shed a tear. Even when she was little, she was resilient. Clarke thinks crying is the ultimate weakness.

Her brother's murder was a point of contention because she cried when it first happened, but the tears dried before he was in the ground. She knows that it's rational to experience grief, but she's tough on herself.

Clarke happened to be home for the first time in months on the day he died. Phoenix sent her all across Europe and Asia with a series of missions: information extraction, ally relations, and the occasional assassination (all pretty standard for her lifestyle). Her parents were supposed to be at church, but she was debriefing her father about a meeting that had gone horribly wrong in Russia while her mother was stitching Clarke's stab wound.

It was supposed to be a meeting about territory, but it quickly became a blood bath and Clarke's team barely walked away with their lives.

The Russian intel group that Phoenix typically works with was experiencing some internal leadership issues—and a general lack of manners.

It definitely left a bad taste in Phoenix's mouth, but her father was able to mend bridges before Clarke even returned to Ireland all bloody and pissed off. He was quite angry that she had been stabbed considering the context of the mission, but the well-being of Phoenix comes first.

He was in the middle of a long rant about the Russians and their shady habits—minus a few expletives because Madi was listening intently—when the phone rang.

Clarke knew someone was dead by the look on her father's face. She just didn't think it would be innocents. People she grew up with. People she prayed with. People she attended grade school with.

There's something to be said about the loss of childhood friends, but she hasn't found the words, yet.

Clarke went to the scene of the explosion, despite her mother's desperate protests and endless tears. She didn't understand that Clarke needed to go. Clarke had to see what she planned to avenge.

Clarke tried to be there for Madi when she wasn't self-destructing. She was never quite able to say the right things, though.

Eventually, Jake Griffin exiled her to California for her own "well-being" because he was terrified that she would end up dead after two months of fighting her demons in the field.

She came to LA because she wanted to talk with someone that knows her. He's supposed to be dead, too. He lost people he loved, too. He had to pray over the bodies of people that were too young to die—teenagers, kids, babies. He had to break the tough news to families that had hoped that someone, at least someone survived. Clarke needs to be around someone that can look in her eyes and recognize her pain without confusion.

But now, she's not sure it was a good idea to entertain such foolish thoughts.

Father McKenna reaches for Clarke's hands, grasping them in his own. It's a familiar notion to Clarke, but she has never been on the receiving side before. He used to grasp Jake's hands in the same manner when the Griffin patriarch actually attended church, "I hoped you would come, child."

Child, Clarke thinks darkly, I was never a fucking child.

"How could I resist a priest?" Clarke asks with a well-rehearsed smile.

Father McKenna laughs, but it doesn't sound real.

The cathedral is located on an extremely busy street, designed to reach more pupils. It appears to be an expensive church—insanely large and detailed. Clarke's never cared for obscenely ornate cathedrals. She can't help but notice that most of the parish seems to be speaking other languages—mainly Russian, though.

Her eyes narrow with the realization, but she doesn't call attention to it. Clarke and Father McKenna are standing on the back steps of the church, but the world around them can't be silenced. City life has integrated itself through the church campus in the most sickening of ways. Father McKenna interrupts her observations, "You've talked to your mother?"

"Yes, Father," Clarke says mockingly.

Father McKenna continues to speak like an upstanding member of society, "My heart is with her today, as it is with most of our remaining congregation."

A handful of sinners, killers, and drunks.

Clarke wants to laugh out loud but she contains herself. Father McKenna's attention wavers as he observes the people exiting the church. Clarke asks, "Why has my father sent you to California?"

Much like every soldier in Phoenix, Father McKenna has little choice in what he does with his life. If he had a choice, he would be home with his people. Not here.

Jake Griffin gives orders and they're expected to be followed.

"I forgot how direct you are. You're just like him," Father McKenna says despondently, releasing her hands, "Let's go for a walk."

She hums, raising her eyebrows, "You're deflecting."

Father McKenna leads her to an unoccupied stone bench in the Cathedral's expansive garden. The temperamental weather has killed most of the plant life, but it's still beautiful. Perfect for a day like this.

Clarke crosses her arms defiantly but takes a seat. He joins her, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his slacks. He offers her one, and boy does she want to take it, but she declines on account of her condition.

She's a little exhausted from the drive. Distantly, she wonders if her pregnancy factors into it. She's been trying not to think about it as if Father McKenna can read her mind and alert her entire family. She wants to be spared from the Catholic-mother guilt trip, if only for a while.

"Your father doesn't want me to tell you," Father McKenna says outright and Clarke can't bite back her annoyance. Today, she wants to be at home with her family. Clarke wants to tell Madi a story that will make her smile about Ethan. She wants to sit on the sofa with her mother and flip through her brother's baby book—and maybe, just maybe, ask her mother all the questions that she has about pregnancy and babies and life.

Her father has taken her life away from her because of fear and now he's conducting ops in her own backyard and she's not allowed to know why? It makes her want to discharge her weapon. Repeatedly. Fortunately, she's not carrying.

Clarke switches to a different tactic, "Well, I hope you can sleep safely knowing I'm going to endanger myself to find out."

Father McKenna swears as he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a drag from his cigarette, "Only you, Clarke Elizabeth, could make a priest curse in the house of our Lord."

He takes another drag. Clarke looks at him expectantly. She doesn't realize how intimidating she looks at that moment. She can't see how her blonde hair whips around her face, or the coldness in her eyes.

Father McKenna surrenders, "I am following a lead on Russian movements."

"Ah, my favorite people. They're lucky my mother has plenty of experience with the needle and I didn't scar."

He ignores her comment, just as he ignores most things, "We have concerns."

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, positively annoyed, "My father negotiated peace a year ago exactly. What problems could they have?"

Father McKenna exhales, tossing the cigarette on the ground. It looks right at home. McKenna looks at her desperately, "Peace is often broken in times of desperation…or new, impending rule."

The gears in her head start turning as she unravels the meaning behind his careful words. She asks lowly, "My father thinks the Russians are weak right now because of a transition in power. Who is the next leader? We could ask the local Natasha's, they know—"

"Clarke, please enough. I can't defy your father. He doesn't want you involved." Father McKenna is rarely stern, so his tone startles her. His quick reaction tells her everything she needs to know, though. Dante Wallace is going to be succeeded by a monster.

Hopefully not his dimwit son.

Father McKenna tries to steer the conversation in a different direction, "How are you?"

Clarke stands up too quickly and feels nauseous. She speaks in an uneven tone, "I just want to go home—I deserve to be home with my family. Mum, dad, Madi…my team. My people. I just want to go home."

But you can't go home, the voice in the back of her head cruelly teases, your father won't need you once he finds out you're knocked up…all that wasted training. He'll be ashamed of you.

"What about your life here?"

Clarke minutely pouts and kicks the grass, "I don't want a life here."

I don't have a life worth talking about.

"California is a wonderful place to settle."

Fear picks up in her chest.

My fight isn't over.

"I'm not done, Father McKenna," Clarke says, hope getting the better of her. She continues stubbornly, "I spoke to my mother this morning, she sounded as if he could be swayed."

Father McKenna seems to hate his job today, "Your mother hasn't been honest with you, then. Your father wants you out. It's a simple truth. Your father wants a better life for you that doesn't consist of death and darkness and anger."

Clarke remembers all the nights she spent training to be the perfect weapon. Her father taught her how to fight, and then he taught her how to kill. Clarke remembers the first life that she ever took—a man that had crossed Phoenix.

He wasn't particularly evil like some of her other marks. His partners just needed to be reminded that they were messing with the wrong people. Clarke was seventeen—and she didn't cry, or throw up, or blink when she pulled the trigger because he had hurt her family and she was serving justice.

Jake Griffin used to be proud of her for not flinching at the thought of war. He used to say that she was the best of them. And now what?

"I wasn't built for anything more," Clarke whispers and it's the closest she's come to a proper confession in some time. She doesn't trust the priest in Arkadia enough with her sins. "I didn't follow every order—every fucking order—to end up here. I killed people. I tortured people. I did unimaginable things because that's what I was raised to do."

Clarke pulls aside the neckline of her formal black dress, revealing the tattoo she received at sixteen when it was time to grow up. It's a burning phoenix, something only an insider would recognize. There are many variations of the mark, but her family members all wear the same one. "I'm a Phoenix. I'm not supposed to be here. This is not my life. It's someone else's."

Father McKenna is silent for a few minutes while Clarke calms down. It's been some time since she was visibly affected by something. Her breakup with Bellamy was significantly less dramatic.

He says, "When you have your own children, you will understand why he is doing this. I believe your father thought he was training you to survive in our world but now has accepted that you deserve to live—prosper, even. He has many regrets."

He stands up and offers her his hand. Clarke does not want to take it, but what choice does she have?

"Now, let's get something to eat and I'll tell you about your troublesome niece."

-x-

It's been three days since Clarke returned from Los Angeles and the bitter taste of exclusion has not left her mouth. Father McKenna's words twirl around her mind in the most violent of ways because she knows that he is right—and that makes it worse.

The only relief she's had is teaching two evening dance classes for Margot.

Clarke thinks of her unborn child and what it would be like to return to Ireland. Her mother would be disappointed that she had gotten pregnant out of wedlock, but she would soon accept it, just as she did when Ethan announced he would be a father.

Abigail Griffin might start a rumor that the baby's father had died rather than admit the truth. Clarke would be too ashamed to correct her in Dublin society. Her mother would dote on the baby though—boy or girl, although Clarke secretly likes to imagine the baby is a girl. She would be safe and protected and loved. And then, at four years old, her mother would insist on training and Clarke would have to break her child's spirit day after day until the pain becomes a dream and quick death becomes mercy.

These thoughts keep her awake at night. Even more so, the fact that it isn't much different here in Arkadia.

Clarke would still be labeled a whore but by much more vicious mouths. She would work at a diner instead of Phoenix—and then there's the Bellamy of it all. Would he be a good father? Clarke wants to say yes because of her personal feelings for him, but the truth is, she doesn't know. Alright, maybe she does know and she's not prepared for the answer.

His line of work isn't much different than hers. Clarke just gets to travel more.

Then she thinks of Harper and Monty and Jordan…

They make it work.

"It's dead in here," Wick calls from behind the counter as he makes himself a sandwich.

Clarke is grateful for the peace because it gives her time to research without interruption. Harper has been sitting at the bar with a notebook and a laptop for the last thirty minutes while Clarke has been scrolling through a list of OBGYNs in the area.

Okay, well, if she's being honest, she stopped scrolling through that list ten minutes ago and switched to stalking the most appealing doctors' social media accounts to make sure they're not weird, psychotic or closeted alcoholics.

If she could have the best of both worlds, her mother would be her doctor and she would give birth at home just like her mother did. Clarke's never been a fan of hospitals, but she needs to be responsible. It isn't about her anymore. It can't be about her. It has to be about giving her child the best chance in the world and that's going to a doctor with at least half a brain.

So far, she hasn't had great results.

A text pops up on her phone from Wells. It reads, "Hey... Want to get dinner tonight?"

Clarke swipes out of it.

"Maybe we should close early," Wick says, waiting for someone to agree. Clarke thinks he's being weird. For starters, he's wearing his kutte at work, which typically means something is going to happen.

Secondly, Wick detests closing early because he does not want to lose profit. His behavior gets under her skin, but not because she's worried about her boss. It bothers her because it means Bellamy is most likely doing something stupid.

Harper sighs, putting down her pen, "You don't have to pretend like you don't have plans, Kyle."

"You aren't supposed to know about them," Wick grumbles like a spoiled child.

"Says who?"

"Says me."

The two stop bickering when they remember they aren't alone. Clarke has the urge to disappear into the worn wallpaper of the diner for eternity. Clarke continues scrolling through her phone as if she hasn't noticed anything. Her fingers rapidly scroll through her Instagram feed of an OBGYN an hour away.

Wick finally makes a judgment call, "Okay, let's clean up and close down."

Clarke follows orders and does her side work. Harper flips the sign on the door and joins her in wiping down the counters and reorganizing chairs. Harper starts, "About last week... I really am sorry for intruding."

"Well, you were right," Clarke says before she can stop herself. It's unlike her to share personal details, but her brain is over five thousand miles away at the moment. Her eyes widen briefly when she realizes her mistake. To keep up appearances, she continues to clean as if she never opened her mouth.

Harper just watches her, utterly dumbfounded.

"Uh…" Harper manages after a few seconds pass, "I- I don't know what to say. Last week I had this entire speech prepared but now it seems stupid? Wow." The woman is clearly shocked and probably running through a hundred different scenarios in her head—all in which most likely involve Clarke getting her ass beat by Echo.

Unfortunately, if Echo did try something, Clarke would probably slip into old habits and kill her. Although, Clarke doubts Echo would try to fight a pregnant woman.

Clarke looks over her shoulder and notices that Wick is outside smoking a cigarette and eating his food while talking on the phone. She smiles, "Why don't you tell me what doctor you went to when you were pregnant with Jordan?"

Harper visibly relaxes, "Okay…okay, I went to Jackson. Uh, Doctor Jackson. I highly recommend him and he's gay, so it's not weird when he's down there, you know?"

Clarke gives her a weak smile, "I didn't see his information online."

"Well, it's a small town so he doesn't really need to do a lot of online selling. If you get pregnant, you go to him. Beforehand, it was his father. Now, he was a little weird." Harper is overdoing it with the chatter, but it does not bother Clarke.

Harper is the first person that she's told, and she only feels mildly guilty about it. In a sense, she knows that Bellamy should have been the first person but every time she tries to call him, she falters.

Harper adds, "Miller and Eric have been dating for a long time, too, so he's tight with the club."

Clarke clears her throat nervously, "I wasn't looking for anyone affiliated with Skaikru."

Harper's a lot quicker than she looks, because she responds, "So, you haven't told Bellamy, yet?"

She sucks in a deep breath, "No."

"But you are going to tell him?"

Clarke stops cleaning, "Of course I'm going to tell him. I just haven't found the right moment."

"You want to keep the baby, right?"

She almost says something along the lines of I'm Catholic, so yes, but the words don't feel right. Clarke agrees that a woman should have the right to choose. She's also known many Phoenix women that have chosen to terminate their pregnancies because of the job.

It's something she understands, especially after months of grueling, unsavory tasks. Clarke isn't just keeping the baby because of her religion.

There's a gnawing feeling in her chest lately. One she's never felt before.

For instance, when she was covering for Margot, she thought about teaching her hypothetical daughter ballet. Clarke would let her wear the fluffiest pink tutus. She would make sure it was fun. Clarke doesn't want to raise a warrior. She wants to raise a human being.

Clarke's at peace with becoming a mother.

"Yeah, I want to keep the baby," Clarke responds somewhat elated.

Harper shoots her a radiant grin and starts to ramble, "Okay, well, congratulations. Being a mom is great…but being a single mom is hard. I couldn't imagine doing it on my own. You need to tell Bellamy before he finds out. This town is too small to keep a secret, especially when you start going to the doctors or your boobs get bigger. It won't be pretty if he hears it from someone else."

Jesus Christ.

-X-

Clarke doesn't run into Bellamy for another two days, and that's entirely by design. It's almost been a week since she found out that she's pregnant, but she still hasn't figured out how to broach to subject. Hell, she barely knows how she feels about it other than the fact that she's doing it.

Harper's been giving out advice like candy and has become Clarke's greatest resource on all things morning sickness related. Thankfully Harper's not pushing her to tell Bellamy about the baby just yet. Honestly, she just needs time to figure things out before she has to deal with Bellamy's reaction.

Clarke scheduled an appointment with Dr. Jackson for next Tuesday because it's her day off. Harper offered to go with her but Clarke declined. She's already nervous about going to an American doctor, she doesn't want to make it worse by bringing her new friend along.

Besides, she plans to tell Bellamy tomorrow before the club's weekly dinner at The Dropship.

Clarke would pull him aside quickly and tell him that she's pregnant and then leave. He wouldn't follow her because of the Echo situation and then he would have time to process her confession. It's a cowardly plan, but it's the best one she has at the moment. Clarke doesn't want to stick around for Bellamy's full reaction because she's worried it won't align with her overly optimistic vision of co-parenting as responsible individuals.

Unfortunately, her entire plan goes to shit when Bellamy comes into the diner on Friday by himself. Wick opens his mouth to tell Clarke to leave, but Bellamy holds up a hand, "She can stay. It's fine."

Domineering as ever.

He smiles at her in a characteristically effortless way. Harper must sense Clarke's tension because she's suddenly by her side. Harper sweeps Clarke's hair away from her face. Oddly, Clarke thinks, she must have an affectionate mother.

Clarke is standing behind the counter, essentially twiddling her thumbs until it's time to go. Harper stops trying to comfort her with an awkward smile. Bellamy regards the women closely, an eyebrow raised in an unspoken question. Clarke sucks in a deep breath and averts her eyes.

Harper turns on Bellamy with a dispassionate smile, "What brings you here tonight?"

"Wick's gorgeous face," Bellamy says with a wink to lighten the mood, but Harper scowls.

Clarke doesn't acknowledge the exchange. Her mind is counting music, one, two, three, four, one-two, three-four, and one, two, three four…

It doesn't do shit for her nerves and she's pissed because she's used this method for years to relieve her anxiety. Before moving to California, she reserved it for special things like precarious business meetings and guaranteed carnage.

Bellamy surprisingly buckles under Harper's glare, "I needed a break from my mother's constant nagging. Went to the bar, now I'm here. Ever since I moved back to the clubhouse, she's been a pain in the ass."

Wick grimaces and pours Bellamy a cup of coffee, "Yeah, but it beats living with Octavia while she dates all the available bachelors in town."

Clarke knows that the coffee is cold because it was brewed hours ago. She toys with the idea of making a fresh pot for him but she beats it to submission. He's got a whole girlfriend for that now. Bellamy takes a sip and doesn't spit it out.

Oh, he's drunk.

Clarke's surprised when Bellamy doesn't jump to Octavia's defense. The whole town knows that she's been dating more than usual. Something about independence and rebellion. Octavia's only two years younger than Clarke, but it's difficult for Clarke not to view her as a child.

Wick looks like he wants to shoot his friend when Bellamy turns his attention back to Clarke. Bellamy implores her, searching for something she can't define. He shouldn't look at her like that, not when his heart belongs to someone else. Wick waves a hand in front of Bellamy's face, "Hey, leave my waitresses alone, man. I don't want any trouble with Echo."

"She'll survive," Bellamy takes another sip of coffee, this time grimacing.

Obviously, she knows that she can tell him right now. Clarke doesn't think Wick can keep a secret though and it'd be more drama than it's worth to pull him aside right now. The tension is too thick.

Clarke speaks up, "Is it okay if I leave?"

Wick looks relieved, "Yeah, that's fine. I'll just reject Wells for you tonight."

"Thanks," Clarke whispers, not commenting on Wells Jaha, and heads for the supply closet.

Clarke originally planned to dance tonight but now she's not in the mood. She just wants to go home, crawl into her bed, and sleep until her alarm clock goes off tomorrow morning.

She slings the duffel's strap over her shoulder and walks out the back door without saying anything. A few moments later, she hears the door ease open behind her. Clarke recognizes the sound of Bellamy's heavy footsteps.

He clears his throat, assuming that she's unaware of his presence, "We don't have to keep doing this, Clarke. Not like this."

Clarke wants to laugh even though the situation isn't funny. It's tragic in all sorts of ways, and Bellamy doesn't have a clue.

Instead, he's chasing after her because his girlfriend isn't actively preventing him from speaking to her. Clarke turns around to face him and he's smirking at her as if he's already won.

So bloody annoying, she thinks, but it tampers down the rage inside of her.

"You can't look at me like that anymore," Clarke tells him firmly because it's the right thing to do.

He's closing the distance between them with comfortable, slow steps. Bellamy holds up his hands like he's calming a wild animal. He calmly asks, "Like what?"

Like you don't know.

"Like you want me."

"What if I do?"

Clarke frowns, impervious, "Then you have a funny way of showing it."

"I could prove it to you."

"Where's Echo, hmm?" Clarke says and Bellamy looks dismayed by the reminder. A part of her wants to be angry because of the principle. He has a girlfriend; he shouldn't be trying to seduce her in a diner parking lot. Hell, is girlfriend even the right word to use? Bellamy has a submissive that loves him.

The part of her that wants him—needs him—recognizes their chemistry. She's happier when she's with him. But it's not about her anymore and she's not going to let him make her some modern-day Hester Prynne.

Clarke's jaw clenches as she tries to compose herself. She bites out, "You're the one that wanted to work things out with your ex. I'm no one's mistress, Bellamy."

Bellamy runs his long fingers through his hair and she takes notice. He's frustrated by something, maybe what's been going on with Skaikru. He says, "I didn't mean to offend you. I just miss you, okay? I'm allowed to do that, right? We had a good friendship and now we don't even speak to each other."

"You're committed to Echo. She's your sub, right? She doesn't want me around, so you have to respect that or you're failing her. Maybe if you stopped—" Clarke wants to tell him to stop watching her all the time. Stop caring. Stop trying to intertwine himself in her life but the words don't come out because she's not really sure that's what he's doing or if that's what she hopes has been going on. Instead, she mumbles, "Doesn't matter how I feel."

"Echo and I...we're not compatible in that way." Bellamy explains, but it's clear he doesn't want to talk about it, "That's why we broke up the first time."

Clarke finally laughs, not believing that this is what they're wasting their breath on. They've been running around in circles for two months. If he had reached out before her flipping over that test, they might be having a different conversation right now but she can't compromise herself for his sake. It doesn't matter how she feels about it. She starts to walk away, "I don't have time for this. "

"Please, Clarke. I want you in my life." Bellamy calls after her, vulnerability evident in his voice. She's never heard him sound so weak. She tells herself that it's because he's been drinking. He continues, "I've been going crazy not being able to talk to you. I'm tired of following the goddamn rules. Why the fuck are you walking away from this?"

"You made your choice," Clarke stops and turns back to him, "I'm pregnant, Bellamy. I can't be your fool anymore."

Bellamy doesn't respond, but he looks quite pale. She wonders if he's going to throw up.

"And, before you ask, it's yours."

He mumbles, "I need a fucking drink."

Clarke watches as he walks away, feeling like a total idiot.