This is just a one shot chronicling what it would look like for Bellamy and Clarke to have a daughter. Hypothetical scenario a dear friend asked me to try out. (Shout out to you, Jessie!) So here it goes. (side note: I didn't include any scenes with Octavia because I wasn't really feeling it but I might later.) I've never written scenes like this before (like hands down this is the fluffiest Bellarke story I've ever done so I would love to hear your thoughts!
"I'm scared, Clarke," Bellamy murmurs one night in their cabin, the words crowding the space between them.
Clarke stares at him in surprise. Those words were so rare with him, as fleeting as shooting stars. "Of what, Bellamy?"
He peers down into the perfect face of the tiny girl he holds, her lashes long enough to cast their own shadow. "Of this," he says quietly. "I'm going to be scared of this . . . tiny little person for the rest of my life because I can't imagine what it would be like to lose her." He traces a line down her small nose. "I'm scared about what she'll get into when she's two. I'm scared about how I'll teach her how to swim, because I'm not a great swimmer myself. I'm scared when she's able to run, if she'll get lost." He groans. "I'm terrified when she dates, and that I'll accidentally kill him."
Clarke lets out a gentle laugh. "You won't kill him, Bellamy."
Bellamy gives her an unconvincing look. "I'm serious."
"I am too." Clarke leans her head against Bellamy's shoulder. She touches one of Aquila's tiny fingers. "She's perfect. And you . . . try not to worry so much."
He makes a sound of exasperation. "Telling me not to breathe would be easier."
Clarke smiles, knowing he can't see it. She lifts her eyes from Aquila's face to his profile, studying it like she would a drawing. "I've never seen you this dramatic before."
He turns his head towards her in surprise, only stopping when his cheek brushes the tip of her nose. "Dramatic? I'm not dramatic. These are legitimate fears, Clarke."
Clarke's smile widens. "Uh-huh. Totally legitimate."
"So what, are you telling me you're not afraid?" He asks, picking up one of Aquila's hands with an index finger. He waits until her little ones fold around his, gripping as tight as they can.
Clarke kisses his shoulder. "No, I'm saying we don't have to try and stuff a lifetime of it into one day. This little girl is a survivor, Bellamy. Just like her father."
She feels some of the tension leave him, diffused by her words. "And her mom," he says. Suddenly he laughs, a short puff of air that makes Aquila's free hand flutter once. "The famous Blake-Griffin." He chuckles. "Our reputations alone will be enough to scare people off, I guess. Long before we get there, anyway."
Clarke nods. "No one will be stupid enough to mess with her."
Bellamy sighs contentedly. "I wonder what she'll be like. Will she want to work as a medic, healing wounds? Will she be an artist, like you?"
"Or stubborn, like you?"
He leans his head against hers. "Hey, we're both stubborn." Clarke feels him shrug. "I hope she has your brain," he mumbles. "Like I really hope that. I've made too many dumb decisions."
Clarke purses her lips. "I hope she has your heart." She tilts her chin up until she can look into his eyes, big and brown and perfect like their daughter's.
"The head and the heart," Bellamy murmurs. He smiles, his attention dropping from her gaze to her lips. "I like the sound of that."
"C'mon, you can do it. 'Ma-di.' Madi."
The toddler stares at the girl blankly, tiny fingers crammed into a tiny mouth. She gurgles.
Madi tosses her hands up, exasperated. "What does it take to get her to say one simple word?" She asks no one in particular.
"At the rate you've been teaching her, I'd be surprised if she doesn't have it down by the end of the day," Clarke says from her place at the table. Across from her sits a man, his elbow propped over the counter. He lets out a sound of discomfort as Clarke cleans an ugly wound that runs the length of his forearm.
Madi sweeps the little girl from her makeshift carrier and bounces her on her hip. "This child will know how to say my name if it's the last thing I do."
Clarke smiles without looking up. "You don't have to convince me."
Madi shakes her head at the little girl. "I'm pretty much your big sister, you know," she tells her. "I'm gonna be the one to teach you some pretty important things. Least you can do is say my name. Ma-di."
Aquila purses her tiny lips. She forces air out so fast that she spits in the older girl's eye.
"O-kay," says Madi slowly, blinking out the saliva. "A little on the forceful side, but maybe that's a start?"
From the table, Clarke laughs.
"Ow!" the man hisses.
"Sorry."
"Now, I know this is a lot to remember, but the really important bit is that if you want a high explosive, carbon and hydrogen are your friend. That's extra important, you copy?"
Aquila looks up from her spot on Raven's lap, her dark eyes big with curiosity. They sit at a table, the two-year-old balanced on Raven's knee; standing has become too hard, adding pain to her lower back and more pressure to her bad leg. If Raven drops one of the utensils she holds, there is no bending around her bloated stomach. She will not get it back.
"Now that we have that detail out of the way, we get to talk about the fun stuff." She touches Aquila's nose. "The stuff that goes 'boom.'" Raven claps her hands together once to demonstrate. "Can you say that?"
Aquila smiles. "B-oo."
Raven shrugs. "Close enough. Now, none of this is very complicated. I mean, if you take out the empirical formulas, making things go boom is easy. You could do it with a toaster. An explosion is essentially just a lot of energy released very quickly into a small space . . . kind of." She sighs, folding up a piece of cloth with her free hand.
"What are you doing?"
Alarm shoots up Raven's spine. She looks towards the entrance to her tent to find Clarke there, one eyebrow hitched up high as she takes in the scene before her.
Raven gives a small, nonchalant smile. "Nothing. Just . . . teaching the kids some chemistry."
Clarke nods once, her eyes narrowed slightly. "Mm-hmm." She sidles over to the table, taking note of the miscellaneous contents strewn across it. "What were you teaching on?"
Raven tickles Aquila until the little girl lets out a peal of laughter. "Formulas."
"For?"
Aquila grins up at Clarke and claps her hands together. "Bo-om," she says.
Raven's smile turns into a grimace. "Little traitor," she mutters under her breath.
Clarke smiles as she scoops her daughter up from her perch on Raven's knee. Raven, I know you. And I told you to take it easy. Not to teach a toddler how to build explosives."
"They weren't high explosives. It's a basic mechanical bomb." She looks at Aquila. "We only brushed over the big ones."
Clarke appraises her. "I think I know the answer, but I'm going to ask anyway. Wouldn't it be better to make something non-incendiary while pregnant?"
Raven rolls her eyes. "Please. This kid's gonna have to learn to live on the edge. Besides, I know when chemistry gets dangerous." She gestures to the equipment before her. "And this is, well, pardon my pun, but baby stuff."
Clarke smirks at her friend. Explosives or no explosives, she knows Raven would trade her own life before endangering the lives of their children.
Still. "Maybe you could work on an alarm system. Or better yet, a personal heating system."
Raven's already pulled herself to her feet, ponytail swinging. "No can do, Mama Griffin. I'm nearly done with my Ferrocerium rod and I'm not about to stop now."
"'Ferrocerium rod'," Clarke tries, the word rolling uncomfortably off her tongue. "That sounds like a complicated subject for the unborn."
"It's never too early to start teaching." Raven says, smiling at her stomach. "And you know no lesson is complete without pyrotechnics."
He is learning patience today. In fact, he has been learning patience the last three years, ever since Bellamy set a small warm bundle in his arms and called him "Uncle Murphy."
Murphy grimaces. Manipulation started young.
Now that three year old trots behind him like a puppy, her eyes just as big as the day she was born. She takes big steps, looking at her feet. Impressed, he's just about to comment on her deft navigational skills, when she suddenly slips, her tiny hand slamming against a small rock.
Aquila looks up at him, her brows knitting together with worry.
Dread shoots through him. For a moment, he doesn't know whose eyes are bigger. He's known the kid long enough to tell when she's about to cry.
"No, no, no." He nearly trips himself in his haste to get to her and kneels down, Bellamy's face flashing through his mind,. "Shh, you're okay. Don't let a stupid rock make you cry."
She whimpers, the sound cutting.
Guilt slams into him and he scrounges for something. Anything. Hugs of comfort are still awkward. "Hey," he says after a moment of thought. "Want to see a magic trick? Want me to make that stupid rock disappear?"
With wobbly lips, Aquila nods.
Murphy lets out a breath and sweeps up the rock, about the size of his palm. "Now, to make a rock disappear, we have to . . . grip it tight. Okay? And we have to . . . blow on it," he says lamely.
The little girl does, exerting a surprising amount of force that leaves Murphy's hands slick with spit.
"Good," Murphy gives her a lukewarm praise, scrunching his nose. "Now, it only works if you squeeze your eyes shut and say the magic words." He thinks of the words. "Bye-bye, stupid rock." He cringes internally, but Aquila isn't fazed. She closes her eyes and mutters, "Bye-bye, stupid rock."
By the time she finishes, Murphy has already hurled the rock over his shoulder.
He hears the distant thump of contact, followed by an audible shout.
Murphy looks back at Aquila. Is it necessary to look indifferent to a three-year-old? He spreads his palms wide to show her they're empty. "Look! The rock is gone!"
And to his utter amazement, the little girl looks up at him, eyes wide with shock.
She bought it, he thinks, a little surprised. How terrifyingly trusting could a kid be?
"It's gone!" Aquila squeals, delighted. She claps her hands as though Murphy has just accomplished something great. He's equally surprised to find himself actually feeling a sense of accomplishment and takes a half-hearted bow. "Thank you, thank you."
Her attention suddenly shifts to the area around them, and she surveys it carefully. "What else can you make dis-pear?" she asks, curiosity crowding her eyes like she expects Murphy to hand her the stars.
Murphy lifts a shoulder. He will never admit it out loud, but the way the kid is looking at him makes something in him expand with inexplicable pride. And all he had to do was throw a rock.
He shakes his head. Kids were weird.
"Well," he looks around the compound himself, a few passersby waving at her. Murphy waves back mockingly. "What do you want to make disappear?"
The little girl bunches up her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, a habit that Murphy instantly recognizes as from Bellamy. "I don't know," Aquila says honestly. Those eyes suddenly light up again. "Can you make the rock come back?" She asks, like this is the most exciting thing she's known in her whole three years.
Murphy raises a brow. Oh sure, the kid can't understand how he made a rock disappear by throwing it, but can reason that what he made disappear he can make reappear again.
He can't tell if this is the making of a very gullible child or one with a higher IQ than himself.
Dismissing that thought, Murphy mirrors her imitation of her father's shrug. "You know, I could. But maybe a rock is too easy. Think we could get something better?"
She nods, blonde curls bouncing.
He rubs his hands together, racking his brain. "Okay, but first, we need a helper. See that nice lady who's waving to you? Well, we're just gonna walk by her, and I want you to say hi."
They do. Aquila plays her role, waving up at the dark-haired woman and introducing herself like a three-foot dignitary.
As the woman is distracted, Murphy spots something in the woman's back pocket. He quickly waves goodbye to the woman and peals Aquila away.
"All right," he says when they've walked a little. "Ready for another magic trick?"
"Yes!" Aquila nearly shouts.
Murphy smiles, gripping the object in his hand. "All right, remember to close your eyes again."
She does.
"And say the magic words. . . 'ta-da-."
"Ta-da!"
Murphy opens his hand to reveal a round piece of shining metal. He's not sure what it is himself, some sort of trinket, but it catches in the light and glimmers like silver. Kids, he's found, are like birds; they like shiny things.
As if to prove him right, Aquila snatches up the coin and jumps up and down in delight. It lasts approximately thirty seconds. "What else? What else?" She asks, looking about as though things will appear out of thin air.
By the end of the afternoon, Aquila is holding an assortment of different treasures in her tiny hands. Murphy glances around warily, catching his neck; he knows that time alone will have Bellamy or Clarke asking him questions about this. Aquila will probably lose her pretty toys, but that'll be a tantrum Murphy won't be around to see.
For now, the little dignitary seems content.
She looks away from her full hands and cranes her neck up to him. She asks if there's more.
Well.
Murphy rustles her hair as they head to the clinic. "Now don't get greedy," he says. He smirks at the irony; as if he should be the one to teach that lesson.
They've just reached the front of the small building when the door to the clinic suddenly swings open and out walks Miller, a white bandage secured above his right eye.
Murphy raises his eyebrows, looking at the man in surprise. "You okay, Miller?"
Miller rubs the area around his wound, wincing. "Yeah. Fine. Weirdest thing; some rock came out of nowhere today and hit me."
Murphy's quick to feign innocence. "Huh. That is weird."
"Was that our rock?" Aquila whispers, her mouth dropping into a small 'o.'
Murphy takes her by the shoulders and ushers her quickly into the clinic. "No, no that was a different rock," he assures her. "See that's what happens when you forget to blow on it."
"All right, so the thing about tomato plants is that you have to plant them deep," says Jordan. He takes a wooden spade and begins pulling out the soil, one scoop at a time. "It's also best to use cages," he continues. "That's what that wire mesh over there is for."
Aquila watches intently, her own spade in her hand. She looks at the strange sheet of wire. "Why do they need a cage?"
Jordan looks up from the hole he's dug. The question carries a profoundness to it, and suddenly he finds himself thinking back to his time on the ring. His life there. That had been a cage of sorts, but he hadn't known it then. How strange it is that a cage doesn't look like a cage until only after you've left it.
"This helps them stay in place," he answers after a long moment. "So they can grow."
The four year old looks between the sprouted plant and the wire, as though she is not entirely convinced.
Jordan has to hand it to her; she might be young, but she asks good questions. He gestures for her to come closer. "Here, get as much dirt on there as you can," he says, helping her dig. "Don't fall in."
After the hole is deep enough, Jordan picks up the plant. Now, since this seed is already sprouted, we want to lay it on its side."
Aquila looks at it, unimpressed. "It looks like a stick," she deadpans. "With some dirt."
Jordan smiles, his laugh turning into a cough due to a wayward particle. "It might not look like much now, but it will one day."
"When?"
"In a few months."
Her eyebrows nearly rise to her hairline. "That long?"
"It'll go by fast."
He can tell by her expression that she doesn't believe him.
The collar of his jacket catches suddenly on the item around his neck. It pinches his skin and makes him feel as though he is being choked. Jordan readjusts it with his free hand, until the goggles he often keeps on himself now are resting against his chest. He takes the plant back in both hands.
Aquila's eyes fasten on them instantly. "What're those?"
Jordan glances down. "Oh, these were my dad's," he says. The mention always has a strange effect on him, pride mingled with a sharp ache. It's dulled over the years, but it is still there. Jordan hopes it never goes completely.
"Well," he amends. "They're technically from my dad's best friend. He's who I'm named after."
Aquila studies them, so full of that curiosity. It reminds Jordan of himself. "Can I try them?" she asks, almost timidly.
Jordan doesn't think about it for too long. He pulls them from his neck. "Now these are very special to me, but I know you'll be careful." He extends the pair to the little girl.
Aquila sets her spade down. With care he's never known a four-year-old to possess, she takes the goggles in her hands. She holds them as though they are something priceless, as fragile as glass.
She raises them to her eyes. "Are they magical goggles?" She asks quietly, peering up at him, her whole face nearly fitting within the protective wear.
Jordan grins. "I guess they are, in a way."
She looks from him to the field they sit in, observing the area with a careful eye. "What can you see with them?"
Jordan sets the tomato plant in the hole before sitting back. Again with those simply profound questions. "I like to think I can see my dad and my mom," he says softly.
Aquila looks back at him. "Can you?"
His smile turns a little somber. "No."
"Then how are they magical?"
He thinks about it. "They're not magical because of what we see. They're magical because of what they've seen." He leans over and taps the plastic surface gently. "These goggles traveled all the way from another planet. They've come all the way from up there," he points. "From the stars."
Aquila follows his finger with her gaze, craning her neck back to see. "They've seen all the way into Heaven?" She asks, staring as if she can see from the blue sky to the place he's speaking of. "Wow," she murmurs. She looks for a long while before finally lowering her gaze, the goggles falling lopsided over her eyes. Aquila suddenly squeezes them shut and waves to nobody in particular. "Hi, Jordan's mama and daddy," she whispers conspiratorially.
The words make his chest squeeze. "What was that for?" He asks.
Aquila opens her eyes. She readjusts the goggles and picks up her spade. "Just in case," she murmurs.
Bellamy thinks his favorite time of day is when it's ending.
When the work is done and there are no distractions. When it is quiet, and he can be still. When everything big falls away and the substance of what matters fits within the confines of the small cabin he built nearly five years ago. In all his time on the ground, it was the first real roof he's made, pulled from the earth instead of plucked from the stars. It wasn't a frail piece of covering. It wasn't metal. It wasn't reused or recycled. He had built it himself, for no other purpose than for his own family.
Family.
No matter how many years pass, that word still catches in his throat. It makes a place in his chest feel light. He hopes there never comes a day when it stops having that effect.
Tonight, Bellamy is putting out the last flames flickering in the small furnace, a little something Raven whipped up a few years back to offer some heat. He's just finished when a high voice calls to him from the small bedroom.
"Coming." Bellamy stand and walks over, entering the room to find Clarke laying on a cot beside a messy-haired five-year-old. The little girl's brown eyes look up at him expectantly. She pats the available corner of her bed.
Bellamy smiles and sits down. He rustles his daughter's feather-soft hair. One of his fingers catch in a tangle. "Someone needs to brush their hair. It's turning into a bird's nest." He grins at Clarke. "Our wild-child."
Aquila runs her hands over her hair as if he's somehow messed it up. Then she lays down, fully prepared for her story.
They tell her one every night, some at a higher demand than others.
Bellamy lies down with her, propping himself up on his shoulder. His free hand reaches across Aquila for Clarke's, intertwining his fingers through hers. "What'll it be tonight, Princess?"
Their daughter's expression turns contemplative. "The star one," she says.
Bellamy glances at Clarke, a knowing look in her brilliant blue eyes.
Of course.
"Do you think you'll ever get tired of hearing it?" He asks.
The little girl shakes her head. "No."
Bellamy bumps her gently with his shoulder. "Good, because I don't get tired of telling it." He sighs, unfurling the story in his mind like a beloved book. "Well, a long time ago, way before you ever came, the ground wasn't a safe place. So people had to live in the stars."
"Because it was bad, huh?" says Aquila, having to tilt her head back to look at him.
Bellamy nods. "You're right. But someone had to go down to the ground sooner or later to see if it was safe."
"And you did!" She squeals. She looks over to Clarke. "You and mama."
"That's right. Me and your mama."
"But you didn't like each other very much at first."
Bellamy tickles her. "Do you want to tell the story instead?"
"No!"
"All right then. Yes, your mother and I didn't get along very well. But that's because we didn't know each other. And when we did, we began to work together instead." He lets the memories wash over him, the good and the bad, the ones that make him smile and the ones that still haunt him. They run over him like water. "Lots of hard things happened, but your mom was so strong." He taps her on the nose and looks at Clarke, who's staring back at him, a gentle smile on her lips.
"And you, Dad?"
Bellamy shrugs dismissively. "Oh, I was-"
"Hard-headed," Clarke interjects, her smile turning into a grin. "But very brave. You have one tough Dad."
Aquila smiles proudly, as though both compliments are hers to own.
"Anyway," Bellamy forges on with a faux look of irritation at both of them. "The ground was still hard. There were lots of problems. Eventually one came that was so big, we had to build a big rocket that would take us back to the stars." Bellamy doesn't tell her that Clarke wasn't there with him. He doesn't tell his daughter that on that day, he left her mother behind.
Clarke squeezes his hand and he finds her gaze, just as he does every time at this part of the story. Never once has he seen blame in her eyes. Never once will he.
"And we went back," he continues, pointing up towards the wooden ceiling. "Way up there, past all the birds and even the clouds."
"Was it dark up there?" Aquila asks quietly.
Bellamy considers. "Sort of. But you had all those stars around, you couldn't fear the dark."
It isn't technically a lie. Bellamy feared the dark, but it was a different dark than the one she speaks of now.
"And you had to stay for a long time," Aquila continues with a knowing nod, because Bellamy can't count how many times he has told her this story. As numerous as the stars it features.
"Right. But when things got better, we were able to go back to the ground."
"When it was safe again."
It's Bellamy's turn to nod. "Yeah. In fact, I think you know this story better than we do," he muses. "What do you think, Clarke? Should Aquila tell it to us this time?"
Clarke settles deeper into the bed. "Oh, absolutely."
Aquila sits up, gaze snapping between the both of them.
"What happened after they came back from the stars again?" Bellamy proffers a starting point.
The girl doesn't miss a beat and twists around to face them. she plops back down and crosses her legs. "Oh, there were more problems. And then, something else happened! And they had to leave. Again!"
Bellamy feigns shock along with Clarke. "No way," Clarke says.
Aquila bobs her head, disturbing her tangled curls. "Yeah." She weaves her fingers together diplomatically. "But this time, they had to go to sleep. They were put into these special boxes that kept them- that kept them safe. And it took so so long. So long."
"You emphasize very strongly," Clarke notes.
Their daughter brings an index finger up to her lips, gesturing for them both to be quiet.
Bellamy bites back a chuckle.
"And while they were sleeping, Uncle Monty found a whole new place for everyone!"
"Was it a big place?" Clarke asks.
Aquila nods again, evidently accepting questions but no statements. "Yes. Huge. Uncle Monty did not come with us because he had to stay in the sky with Aunt Harper."
The memory makes Bellamy's chest ache. An old wound.
The little girl smiles fondly. "But Uncle Jordan got to come. He taught me how to plant those tomatoes." Suddenly she pitches her voice low. "I don't really like tomatoes," she whispers. "But don't tell Uncle Jordan I said that."
Clarke pretends to seal her lips. "Then what happened?"
Aquila scratches her head. "Um. Well, then they had to make a new home. Where there were no more problems. And everyone was nice to each other." She beams at both of her parents, the force of her grin poking two dimples into her cheeks. "The end!"
Bellamy matches her brilliant smile, eyes settling on Clarke once more. So many words are spoken in the silence, he's found. Wishes. Regrets. They fit so easily in the eyes. He knows Clarke can see them in his, as clearly as he can see them in her own.
One day his daughter will ask bigger questions about the stars, the real reason why they left them. Why they had to go back. She'll ask about Monty, and Harper. About the men in the mountain. The wave of fire that swept the world away. She'll ask them who the good guys were. The cost it took to be them. The cost it took not to be.
And Bellamy will tell her. Bellamy and Clarke will tell their daughter everything.
But not tonight. Not yet.
For now it is just a story, one of hope and only happy endings.