a/n So here's a prompt from the wonderful Zou for Bellarke smut with Morse code as a running theme. Obviously. But I'm afraid I got a bit sidetracked and there's also Oppenheimer as a running theme. Thanks as always to Stomrkpr for betaing this. Happy reading!
Content note: lots of addiction metaphors, nuclear bomb references, and depiction of low mood/suicidal ideation in line with what you'd expect from canon.
It all starts with Oppenheimer.
Not the sex – they've already slept together a couple of times, although Bellamy can't help but feel Clarke likes to pretend they haven't. But when he looks back on it, in the months and years to come, this will be the moment that he will count as the start of something resembling a relationship.
"I am become death, destroyer of words. That's Oppenheimer, the guy who built the first -"
"I know who Oppenheimer is." He cuts her off, impatient.
She turns to look at him with a new respect in her eyes. He's not sure whether he's more flattered by her regard or insulted that she apparently didn't consider him worthy of respect, until now.
"You're too smart to be a janitor."
He snorts. She's a naive Princess. And who says janitors can't be smart, anyway?
"I'm too poor to be a doctor." He bites back, sharp.
She nods, takes his point. For all her faults, she's not slow to admit when she's in the wrong. He's self-aware enough to realise that's something he could do better at, sometimes.
"Would you have wanted to be? Were you into your science, back on the Ark?" She asks quietly, and he figures they are still talking about medicine.
"Not so much. More of a history and literature guy."
"Oppenheimer." She says knowingly.
He laughs. He never expected to laugh about Oppenheimer with the Princess, on a morning that saw a bomb cloud bloom in the sky. But then again, he never expected to have a friendly conversation with her, either. They do civil, and desperate, and even sexy. But this is the first time they have really tried friendly in this uncomplicated way.
He decides he wants them to stick at it.
"But you were into biology, I'm guessing? With your medical apprenticeship?"
"I always wanted to be a doctor. But I guess for me science was a tool for that. My favourite subject as a kid was actually Earth Skills."
He gives a hollow laugh. "Bet you're regretting that now. Why Earth Skills? Everyone hated that, as far as I can remember."
She narrows her eyes, gaze fixed on something he cannot see. The horizon, maybe, or perhaps something that's not there at all.
"I don't know. I guess I liked to dream. I wanted to know what it was like down here. I used to draw Earth, too."
That hurts. It really hurts. Whether he and Clarke are truly friends or not, it sucks to think of her having youthful dreams of this place that have been shattered by the brutal reality. He just can't imagine Clarke as a dreamer – she's the most pragmatic person he's ever met. So he hates to think of what life must have thrown at her to bring about this change in her outlook.
He goes on his way not much later. That comment of Clarke's has sort of put a downer on things. And he doesn't see much of her for the next few hours, as they both try to catch up on the tasks missed through illness.
But when there's a quiet moment in the early afternoon, and he catches her glancing his way from across the camp, he tries something. Just on a whim, really. Just to see whether the connection he thought he felt between them that morning was real and lasting, or whether she's already forgotten their conversation so soon.
M-Y-P-L-A-C-E
He taps the letters out on his arm in Morse code, a little reference to their chat about Earth Skills. He doesn't bother attempting punctuation – she can see it as a question, or as an offer, or as a demand.
That's if she sees it at all. She probably won't. This is a silly idea. God – what kind of weirdo tries to invite a girl to hook up at two in the afternoon with a message in Morse code? She's going to think he's completely lost his mind, blabbering about Oppenheimer this morning and now -
Now she's heading over here. She's making a beeline straight for him, standing in front of him with her arms crossed over her stunning chest and fire in her eyes.
"I thought you said your place?" She asks briskly. "Why are we still standing here?"
He smirks to cover his surprise. "Someone's eager."
She flushes, but doesn't give ground. "You're the one who invited me. Now are we doing this or what?"
They are doing it. Of course they are. He could swear sex with this woman is addictive. The time he can cope between fixes seems to be growing shorter and shorter, the more he gives into temptation. It was a week between their first two hookups, then three days.
But now? Well, she gave him a quick blow job only yesterday, before she came down sick.
That didn't count, he tries to tell himself, as they stumble into his tent. He's always got more out of giving than receiving, but he doesn't quite know how to tell her that, when they're still more acquaintances with benefits than truly friends. It's even harder than talking about Oppenheimer and daydreams, somehow.
"You want me to suck you off again?" She asks, matter of fact, as if offering to help with some task around camp.
He hesitates. He gathers his courage. He thinks of Oppenheimer, of that coded reference to Earth Skills, of the hope that there's something resembling a real connection starting to grow between them.
And then he tells her the truth.
"I actually prefer giving." He says with a too-careful shrug, eyes fixed on the toes of his boots.
"Oh. Oh, OK." She seems confused, but not unwilling. "Sure. That's – we can..."
He laughs then. He has to. She's only human too, it turns out, as vulnerable to bedroom awkwardness as the next person. He forgets sometimes that she's just a mortal young woman, what with the way she runs this place so decisively. Sometimes she looks more like some towering hero out of one of those myths he used to so love as a kid.
His laughter lifts the mood. She smiles at him, self-conscious, blushing prettily. It's the first time they're really acknowledged what they're doing here, and he likes it.
"Come here." He offers softly.
She does. She steps into his space, into his arms. She walks right into his kiss and he holds her there, tasting her lips and tongue, running his hands appreciatively over her curves. He likes touching her, likes the reminder that she's flesh and blood like anyone else. He thinks that's maybe the reason he's so addicted to screwing her – he's in awe of her, and yet when she comes on his cock, whining in pleasure that he's given her, he feels a little bit awesome, too.
They don't kiss for long. This is Earth – there's no time for lingering foreplay. He knows he needs to grasp this good moment while he can. So he makes short work of stripping her naked, urging her back onto his makeshift bed. He takes his own clothes off, too, despite the autumn chill in the air. When he goes down on her he wants to be able to feel her naked thighs clamped tight about his bare shoulders.
"You OK?" He checks in, before he gets to work.
"Yeah. You sure you want to...?" She nods at his position, propped up on his elbows between her legs.
More than anything.
"I enjoy it." He says lightly, because he's pretty sure they're not ready for total honesty, just yet.
He gets to work. He thrives on this – not just the straight-up arousal of tasting Clarke on his tongue and feeling her shiver against his lips. There's more to it than that. It's the way that he can't hear the demons who haunt his nightmares, when he's listening to Clarke cry out in pleasure. He can't hate himself for failing to take care of his mother and sister, when Clarke is telling him he's doing a perfect job taking care of her.
He can't hate himself, when she's calling his name as if she loves him.
She doesn't. He knows that. One conversation about their interests and a moment of honesty about their sex life does not constitute undying love. But it's heading in the right direction, he catches himself thinking when she tangles her fingers in his hair to pull him firmer against her.
In fact, the most pathetic thing of all? This is probably the closest thing to romantic love he's ever really known.
She comes with her legs locked around his neck and her hips thrusting up to meet his mouth. It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced – which is saying something, given this is not exactly his first rodeo.
He gives her a moment to settle, to ride out the aftershocks. And then he pulls away and scoots up the bed, leaning on one elbow to look down at her blissed-out face.
"You good?" He's never addressed this fierce woman in a tender whisper before, but it would feel wrong to speak any louder or harsher in this moment.
She sighs, blinks up at him. "So good. You were right – you're good at giving."
He grins a little, well-pleased. He didn't say he was good at it, he said he enjoys it. But he's not about to turn down a neatly placed compliment.
"You going to give me your cock now?" She asks, half sweet, half sharp. "I know you prefer giving and all but you can't let me go home without taking care of this." She reaches down to tease him, but she needn't bother. He's already rock hard from what they just shared.
He agrees, probably a little too visibly enthusiastic about the idea. He's got it bad for this infuriating Princess. He eases inside of her, gives her a moment to wriggle and get comfortable.
He screws her slowly. Too slowly for Earth, probably. Any minute he fears that someone will burst into the tent and tell them that half the camp is on fire or a grounder scouting party has been spotted in the woods. But if this is going to be the only good part of his day, he wants to make it last. He wants to draw out the moment, relish the time they have together.
And maybe it's a little bit about performance, too. He wants to give Clarke another orgasm before she goes home. Is that really so very selfish?
He does it. He coaxes her and coaxes her, lips on her neck, hands on her breasts. And then she's shaking around him, coming hard on his cock.
He lets go, then. He takes pleasure for himself for the first time in this whole afternoon of selfishly selfless lovemaking. He thrusts against her, hard and fast, for just a handful of seconds until he's seeing stars.
When he comes back to Earth, he notices something. He notices Clarke tapping out a rhythm on his arm, a rhythm that feels suspiciously like a snarky T-H-A-N-K-S. Or is it really snarky? He's not so sure, any more.
"You're welcome." He says brightly. "Any time."
He rolls off her, sees her grinning up at him. "Wasn't sure you'd notice. Not bad, for a guy who hated Earth Skills."
He's pretty sure he notices everything she does, but he senses they're probably not in a good place to admit that, right now.
"I wasn't sure you'd notice it earlier." He shrugs. "Thought it would be a laugh and maybe I'd get laid."
She sees right through him. Obviously she does. She fixes him with a too-intense stare and a softer than usual smile.
"Of course. Every partnership trying to steer a hundred teenagers through surviving against impossible odds needs an in-joke, right?"
He smiles, sheepish. He wouldn't mind having more in-jokes with Clarke. He wouldn't mind having more sex with her, either.
He just wouldn't mind having more of Clarke in his life full stop.
She sits up, starts reaching for her clothes. He throws her a shirt, tugs his own underwear back on. They get dressed in silence, the comfortable companionship in the bedroom already starting to flee. He supposes it'll be replaced by that more combative dynamic they have around camp within seconds.
But then Clarke speaks.
"Thanks, Bellamy. I needed that. And I think you did too?"
He nods. A little honesty is allowed, he tells himself.
"Well you know how to summon me next time you need it." She teases, brow quirked.
He smirks slightly. "You too, Princess. I live to serve."
So that's it. That's how it all starts.
…...
He's annoyed with her the following morning. That's not news, of course – he's often annoyed with her. She's an annoying person.
Also beautiful, and kind, and passionate, and fun, and -
Yeah. He should probably stop there.
The point is, he's annoyed with her. She's decided she's going hunting with Finn which is, frankly, stupid. Again with her being really very naive for such an intelligent woman. Finn is obviously just trying to win back her affection. And besides which, it's silly for their only doctor, who happens to share leadership of the camp, to go wandering around in the woods with only Spacewalker for protection. That's just a recipe for disaster. He's only being smart, really, by pointing out that this is not in the interests of the greater good. And she likes it when he's smart, likes him to use his head.
It leads to moments like that chat they had about Oppenheimer.
He catches her eye when she's heading out of camp. And rather than making a big public scene of his annoyance, announcing their disagreement to all the kids, he starts the conversation rather more subtly.
H-E-R-E, he taps out on his arm.
She frowns at him, eyes narrowed. But all the same, he watches her excuse herself to Finn and stride over to him.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"You can't go hunting with Spacewalker."
She snorts. "I don't take orders from you. Try again."
"You shouldn't go hunting with Spacewalker. He's not great protection, is he? And if something happens to our co-leader and only doctor out there, we're all screwed."
"I didn't know you cared." She bites out.
Damn it. He's messed up, here. He's not going to get Clarke's legs clamped around his head again any time soon if he can't show her he values her as a person, not just for her useful skills.
"I mean – I want you to be safe." He concludes, inadequately.
She softens a little, then. Just the smallest droop of her shoulders, the slightest warmth returning to her eyes.
"So what are you suggesting instead?" She prompts.
"Bigger groups, so everyone has more protection. Finn can go out with Stirling, Monroe and Harper."
"And me? What do I do? Do I just sit at camp all day caged in because I happen to have done half a medical apprenticeship?" She asks, angry.
"No. You can come out with me. I'll make sure nothing happens to you."
It's a poor improvement, and they both know it. He's one guy, just as Finn was one guy. Sure, he's a much better shot, but he doesn't really offer the greatest protection. And besides which, it's tactically foolish to have both their leaders wandering around the woods together.
But she lets it go. She gives him a knowing look, but she also gives him a brisk nod.
"Sure. That works. Let me tell Finn there's been a change of plans."
He tries to concentrate on useful things, while she's doing that. He focuses on grabbing his weapons, filling his canteen with water from the barrel. But unwanted thoughts keep crowding in – smugness that she chose him over Finn, eagerness to shove her up against a tree and make her see stars.
Good god. This attraction is going to destroy him, at this rate.
The pair of them make it about ten minutes out of camp before he caves. He goes to help her over a fallen log, although he knows full well she needs no help. And then he never lets go of her hand, but rather sets a hand on her waist, too, and pulls her back flush against his chest.
"Hunting trip, huh?" She asks, teasing.
"Don't start. You know this is what Finn was hoping for, as well."
She snorts. That's interesting, he thinks. It's almost like she's suggesting the dynamic she has with Finn is not exactly the same as this.
Whatever. No sense dwelling on it. That way lies madness.
He starts kissing her neck, instead. She has a beautiful neck – just the right amount of softness balanced with strength. Just like Clarke herself, really. He shifts the arm around her waist a little, brings it up to just beneath her breasts so he can palm at them through her clothes. And then he unbuckles her belt, opens her fly, dips inside her underwear.
"This OK?" He whispers the question into ear.
She shivers slightly. "Yeah. I was hoping there was a reason you wanted to come out with me."
He laughs, kisses her neck again. And again and again and again as he teases her with his fingers.
He doesn't like this quite as much as using his mouth for her, he decides. It's just not the same as having her legs wrapped around him, tasting her pleasure as she bucks her hips against his face. But it's pretty great all the same, as she's sighing his name and gripping at his forearms as if she never wants to let him go.
There are worse ways to spend a morning on Earth.
And when she comes, she sags against him, relaxed and completely boneless, trusting him to hold her upright.
He was right to think this addiction to Clarke is dangerous, he muses as he holds her tight. But in this moment, he just doesn't care. He'd give anything to be able to take care of her like this all the time, to be able to hear her sigh his name every day for the rest of their lives – however long the Earth allows those lives to be.
…...
The remaining days at the dropship camp are pretty similar. Morse code messages, his name on Clarke's lips, her taste on his tongue. He glows with pride every time he makes her fall apart – he just can't help it.
There's one change, though. An important one, that Bellamy is more excited about than he probably should be.
Clarke never tries to go hunting with Finn again.
…...
Something shifts, when she escapes from Mount Weather. When they're reunited again, having both believed each other to be missing-presumed-dead. He wonders whether it's his fault, whether he's been wearing his heart too plainly on his sleeve since he got back and made it clear he's at least a little obsessed with her.
No. It can't be that. Because it's Clarke who mostly takes the lead in renegotiating the terms of their arrangement.
"I don't want you disappearing between my legs." She complains, on the first night they're reunited. "I want to be able to hold you and do something nice for you, too."
"You are doing something nice for me. You're letting me make you come." He says, trying for the kind of cocky grin he used to wear when he first landed on this damn planet.
She rolls her eyes. "I mean it. I want to – to join in." She concludes, looking rather nervous.
So that's how they end up trying something new – Bellamy on his back, Clarke crouching over him, her mouth on his cock while she's half-sitting on his face. And he has to admit, it's pretty great. He still gets that buzz from making Clarke happy, although of course she can't call his name while she's sucking him off. But he can still hear her groaning, and even feel it where her throat closes around him.
So, yeah. That's another good idea of Clarke's. She's got something of a talent for coming up with good ideas, in his experience.
It's when she starts twitching frantically against him that he gets really excited. He's always judged his sexual competence by words and groans and so on before now. This is the first time he's ever really got that buzz of making someone happy just through sheer body language, through the way she's obviously trembling with arousal.
He comes first. He can't help it. She rubs against his face, grinding against him, and he just spills straight into her mouth. He doesn't even warn her, which he feels pretty bad about. He likes to give his partner the choice of whether to swallow.
He's embarrassed when he's done. He wonders if he's screwed up. He promised Clarke a good time, and now he's just gone and come first, and without -
"So good." She sits up, abandons his cock, keeps riding his face. "So hot, Bellamy – your come in my mouth."
Wow. She's usually more coherent than that. But he supposes these are unusual circumstances.
He tries not to worry about it. He tries to concentrate on bringing her pleasure, on reading her reactions, on listening to the praise pouring from her lips as she climbs ever closer to the edge. He stays put while she comes, keeps still while she relaxes and eases off his face.
But then he has nothing left to concentrate on, and the panic sets in.
"Sorry." He mutters. "I guess you were – ah – pretty distracting."
"What?" She sounds puzzled. She's also cuddling him. Not just lying sprawled in a heap because they're done – actually deliberately cuddling him, her arm tucked around as much of him as she can reach, her head on his chest.
"I'm sorry for coming so soon." He grinds the words out, even more embarrassed for having to actually say it outright.
"Oh. Don't worry about it. Really – I was kind of flattered you did, to be honest. It made me feel like I was doing something right."
"You were definitely doing something right." He agrees. "That was really hot."
"Great. Let's try it again sometime. And feel free to come whenever you want to."
That's a dangerous offer, he thinks with a grin. If he was being difficult, he could use that as an invitation to ask her for sex morning noon and night – because he's always interested in coming, really, as long as Clarke's going to be involved too.
But yeah, maybe she's onto something. Maybe it doesn't matter how long he lasts, as long as he takes care of her on his way down.
…...
They fall back into old habits.
M-Y-P-L-A-C-E, Clarke taps on his tray at dinner.
T-O-N-I-G-H-T, he beats on her arm as he passes her in the hallway.
I-W-A-N-T-Y-O-U, she tells him, left hand spelling out the message on her hip as they stand in some meeting about strategy.
It's not a very good meeting about strategy, in her defence. These adults know nothing. That's why Bellamy and Clarke need to be so ready to bear the weight of the world on their shoulders.
No one seems to notice their relationship. Sure, a few people notice that they're hooking up – on one memorable occasion, Doctor Griffin herself takes him aside and tells him that he'd better not hurt Clarke. But that's proof above all that she doesn't notice the relationship, he thinks. If she'd noticed anything of the coded messages and soft looks and caring touches between them, she'd know that there is no way Bellamy could ever hurt Clarke.
So yes, no one notices the way they take care of each other. No one notices their clear if unconventional communication strategy. And absolutely no one seems to guess that they spend at least as much time cuddling as having sex, these days.
In short, no one notices that they are truly together. But maybe that's just as well. He supposes he might sound a little daft, telling the world their relationship started over Oppenheimer and Earth Skills.
…...
Clarke doesn't want him to go into Mount Weather. I can't lose you too, she said.
But he knows better than that, now. He's listened to Lexa's conversation about bearing the weight of leadership. He's heard her equate love with weakness, and he can see her point. Didn't love make him follow his sister headfirst into danger? Isn't the love he shares with Clarke holding him back from saving his people, now?
He needs to go. He needs to head into that mountain and save their friends. If he sits around here just because Clarke can't bear to lose him, then it will be their love that destroys their people. And he knows that, if that happens, it will destroy them, too. He knows that they will both blame themselves if their selfish love and desire to hold onto each other leaves those kids they have cared for dead.
So he packs his bag. He whispers his plan to Lincoln, who is only too happy to help him find the way. And then he wonders what the hell to do about Clarke.
He can't just leave her. That would be cruel, and he fears it might break her. But he can't say a proper goodbye, because she'll try to stop him leaving.
He just doesn't want her to feel abandoned. He doesn't want to destroy the first purely positive relationship he's ever had in his life. He doesn't want her to think he's giving up on her.
He grabs a piece of fallen wood off the ground. Just an ordinary stick, shorter than his forearm. And he takes the knife at his belt and carves out a message in Morse code.
S-O-R-R-Y, he carves out. There. Earth Skills, in more ways than one.
It doesn't feel like it's enough, though. It feels at least a little pathetic, to leave her here with one word carved into a stick to remember him by.
He tries again, adds a few more words.
W-E-C-A-N-T-B-E-W-E-A-K.
That's better. It offers her an explanation, at least. And he wonders about trying something else, too – asking her to stay strong, or keep dreaming, or to trust that he'll keep breathing.
But there's not a lot of room left on the stick. And he doesn't have the emotional energy to draw out this goodbye any longer.
He hands the precious message to his sister. He tells her to wait an hour, and then tell Clarke where he and Lincoln have gone, and give her the stick.
She thinks he's lost his mind, of course. But she agrees to it readily enough, and so Bellamy turns and walks into the trees.
…...
Clarke destroys the mountain, and in doing so, she destroys herself. Bellamy watches it happen, knows that she's close to destroying them, too.
Close, but not quite. Their connection is tougher than that. They got together watching a mushroom cloud rise and trying to keep a bunch of children alive. It'll take more than a lever and an irradiated mountain to break them – he is determined of it.
She stands at the gates of Camp Jaha and tells him she needs to leave. And he lets her go, because if there's one thing he's learnt these last couple of weeks, it's that sometimes you have to leave, whether it's pleasant or not.
He only taps one word onto her hand as he holds it tight.
P-L-E-A-S-E, he begs her.
He's not sure what he's asking for. He's determined not to ask her to stay – that would be hypocritical. Maybe he's asking her to look after herself, to come back to him when she's whole again. Maybe he's asking her to remember the good things, trying to remind her what they have – a connection and communication deeper than words.
"May we meet again." She offers, tearful but determined.
P-L-E-A-S-E
"We will meet again." She amends, and he sighs in relief. She knows what he's asking for, even when he doesn't know it himself.
"We will." He agrees, still tapping. "I'll be waiting for you, OK? Just as soon as you're ready, I'll be here."
She nods. She reaches up to kiss him, one firm press of her lips against his.
And then she pulls her hand from his grasp and walks into the trees.
…...
She doesn't come back. She stays away, and it hurts him more than anything has ever hurt him in his life before. And that's saying something, because he's not had an easy twenty-four years.
But Clarke knows how to destroy him better than anyone ever has.
He's just so disappointed in her. He told her he would wait, that he'd be there for her. Does she not trust him to take care of her? Or worst still, does she think he is worth so little that she can just leave him here, dangling, without even giving him the courtesy of an explanation?
He left her that damn stick when he went into the mountain. It was a crap message, but it was at least a message.
All the same, he has that lingering love for her. That dangerous addiction. So when he hears that she's been nicknamed the Commander of Death these days, he instinctively wants to tell the world that's wrong. That she's life. That she's vitality and hope, but hidden by a cloud of tough choices.
Only then she chooses to stay in Polis.
She stays in Polis, and he shoots a sleeping army. And that's when he decides it's her fault, that she drove him to this, that she said they'd meet again but she let him down.
That's when he decides she's death walking.
…...
It's good to see her. That's what hurts the most.
She strides into that cave, and his cheeks are bleeding and his heart is sore and yet he's happy, in this moment, because she's here.
S-O-R-R-Y, she taps against her hip.
He waits. He waits and waits for the rest of the message. Because when he left her, he left her a better message than S-O-R-R-Y. He left her an implication of love, too.
But the rest of the message never comes. And as he starts driving towards Niylah's, and as Clarke sits herself next to him in the front of that rover as if that's her natural place in the world, he's still waiting.
…...
It's on the beach that he breaks.
Octavia still hates him. Jasper still hates everyone. And Clarke is acting like he's crazy for still half-hating her, like everything ought to just suddenly go back to normal between them, now.
And he can't do it. He cannot sit here and listen to his sister go on about how he killed Lincoln, while Clarke watches him with soft eyes as if she still cares.
He storms off along the shore, beating a demand to Clarke into his hip as he goes. F-O-L-L-O-W, he orders her, without looking back to see if she does.
He's off the beach and into the trees by the time she catches up with him.
"Bellamy. Wait up."
He does. He turns and looks at her, unimpressed. Is this it? Is this what that beautiful relationship he thought they were starting, last autumn, has come to? To brisk instructions and stiff silences? What happened to understanding, and to fluent communication?
He thinks he's about to burst. He's about to lash out, hurt and angry. He's going to do something terrible, like when he shot all those grounders. He's going to -
Clarke's arms close around him. Just that – just a hug. But it works, damn it. The warmth of her embrace soothes something he's been trying to pretend wasn't sore. For a long time she simply stands there, and holds him, and breathes slowly.
He hugs her back, allows himself to take a moment. He can hear the waves crash on the beach, can feel Clarke's hair against his cheeks. That grounds him. It reminds him that all is not lost, yet.
"I'm sorry. I should have remembered we're stronger together." She murmurs into his neck.
He stiffens. "It's not all about you, Clarke. It's -"
"I know. I know this is bigger than us. I know your sister hurt you. But I'm saying it's better when we face the big things together. I'm sorry I forgot that, after Mount Weather."
"You didn't forget." He defends her instinctively. "You were hurting."
"And I ended up hurting you."
He hums a little, holds her a bit longer. Allows himself to note that he just defended her to herself, and wonders what that means.
Who is he kidding? He knows what it means. It means he still loves her. That it's going to take more than them running away from each other a couple of times to destroy the connection between them.
He summons his courage. There's no shame in admitting that this woman is both his strength and his weakness.
"We'll be OK." He tells her.
She sighs in relief, squeezes him ever harder. "I hope so. I hope I haven't ruined us. I want to show you I can do better."
He laughs, despite the sombre mood of the moment. Typical Clarke – blaming herself for everything, no matter what. Taking the weight of the world on her shoulders.
He's never been much good at talking her out of doing that. So he does what he always used to do instead. He presses his lips against hers, tries to kiss her troubles away.
She seems surprised. She stiffens a little at the contact. But then she relaxes, sinking into him, kissing him back as if the fate of the human race depends on it. Maybe it does, he wonders. They do work better together.
He stops fretting so much and enjoys the moment. He's missed this. He knits one hand into her hair as he kisses her deeply, takes the other to her breast. And then he takes it lower, skimming over her hip bone, heading for her waistband.
"No." She stops him, hand over his.
He freezes, panicked. No? Is she trying to tell him they don't do this, any more? Is she trying to say that this is over between them, and that she was talking about doing better as platonic friends?
She explains herself in a flood of words. "I want to be the one giving, tonight, Bellamy. I want to start making up for all those months I missed. Let me take care of you."
He snorts, unimpressed. She's going to make up for abandoning him with a quick blow job in a chilly forest? Like that'll work. Like it will even begin to put right everything that has gone wrong between them.
"Please, Bellamy. Please let me take care of you."
He supposes there's no harm in letting her do it. He can get her off after, can remind her that he's good for her, that she needs him in her life. Can remind her never to even think of leaving him again.
He nods. And he leans forwards, expecting another kiss before she kneels before him.
But that's not what she has planned. She pulls away from the embrace, shucks her coat from her shoulders. She lays it out on the forest floor, then turns back towards him. This isn't what he was expecting, and he's not sure how he feels about it.
Then Clarke gets her hands on him, and he decides he feels very good about it indeed.
She starts with her hands on his waist, with slipping her fingers up his shirt. She touches him softly for a while, kisses him gently, keeps stroking her hands over his skin. And then she's taking off his jacket, lying it on the floor next to her own.
She slips off his shirt, next. But she doesn't just take it off in that brisk, businesslike way he usually associates with Clarke. Rather she eases it slowly over his head, placing a kiss on his neck as she goes.
Then it gets weirder. Or perhaps not weird so much as unexpected. She spends several long minutes on just kissing his torso, stroking his chest, pressing her lips to his shoulders. He can honestly say no one has ever tried this with him in his life before. And it's certainly not what he expects from sex on Earth – it's far too lingering to be sensible in a crisis.
It sure is beautiful, though.
He can feel himself relaxing beneath Clarke's hands and lips, can feel himself growing warm all over at her touch. He's missed her. He's missed everything about her – the scent of her, the shape of her small hands, the way she cares so much but he seems to be the only person privileged to see that she has a bigger heart than she tends to admit.
"Beautiful." He breathes the word out on a sigh. He's not sure whether he's talking about her, or what she's doing to him, but either way it works.
She stops kissing him for a moment, just hugs him from behind. He can feel her cheek resting warm and soft against his back.
"You doing OK?" She murmurs.
"Yeah." For the first time since she left him, it's the truth.
She moves on, then, to slipping his trousers and boxers carefully down his legs, tugging his boots off gently as she goes. She's crouching at his feet, now, and he supposes he knows where this is going. He supposes she's going to kneel there and suck him off, and then they'll go get on with saving the world.
But yet again, he has underestimated Clarke's plan.
"Lie down for me." She requests, gesturing at the coats she laid out earlier.
Ah. Now that makes sense. He lies back on the makeshift bed without argument. If what she's just treated him to is anything to go by, he's going to enjoy this.
That's an understatement, it turns out. What follows is possibly the best half-hour of his life. Clarke undresses too, and lies next to him, naked and warm and soft. He reaches for her, not sure where to start. It's been too long. He's missed all of her, wants to touch all of her all at once.
She helps him out. She kisses him slowly, deeply, presses her breasts into his chest while she does so. He takes her hint and reaches for them, kneading them lightly, enjoying her gasp as he runs a thumb over her nipple. But then he catches sight of her shoulder in the darkness, an ugly wound tearing across the skin there.
Not that he finds it ugly, of course. It's part of Clarke, so inherently beautiful to him. He just thinks it looks unpleasant, that there's a nasty story there.
"How are those Earth Skills holding up?" He asks her softly, running a finger over the scar.
She smiles sadly at him. "That was a panther. Not my proudest moment. There's not much about those months I am proud of."
He nods, lets her have that one. And then he gets back to kissing her.
They kiss for a long time. He's left wondering why they've never tried this before – back in Camp Jaha, before he left for Mount Weather, he's sure they could have found an hour for a bit of naked cuddling and kissing. By the time he feels Clarke's fingers start to toy with his cock, he's very hard and very aroused but somehow also more relaxed than he's been in years.
Or possibly more relaxed than he's ever been in his life, now he comes to think of it.
"Feels good." He murmurs against her lips.
"It'll get better." She promises, tone teasing.
She's as good as her word. She scoots down to settle between his legs, her butt sticking up in the air. It makes a pretty picture. And then she takes him into her mouth and he gasps in shocked pleasure.
He'd forgotten how good she was at this. It feels even better than he remembers, though, somehow. The calm, relaxed atmosphere, the bubble of peace in a crazy world are really helping him enjoy the moment. But more than that, he thinks she's actually handling his cock a little differently. She seems to be moving slower, longer. Using her lips and tongue more rather than only trying to take him deep down her throat.
He allows himself to reach for her, to brush her hair back from her face as she works. He might not like this hairstyle much – it reminds him that she stayed without him in Polis. But he likes the way she looks up and meets his eyes, soft and grateful, so he keeps doing it.
Even when she starts moving faster, when he feels his pleasure building, she keeps it relaxed, somehow. There's nothing frantic about this, and he doesn't feel like he's desperately chasing an orgasm. He's just enjoying some quality time with his lover, and he happens to be pretty close to coming.
"I'm close." He warns her in a soft whisper. "If you want to -"
She leaves his cock for a moment, works him with a hand while she peers up to speak to him. "You're OK. I want to do this. I want you to come for me. Show me how much you've missed me."
He tries to laugh, but he can't. She's treading too close to the truth – he's missed her so damn much, and he's going to show her that.
She speeds up a little more. But she's still stroking his hip with gentle fingers, still peering up at him every few strokes with that soft look in her eyes. He reaches back to her hair, rubs lightly at her scalp even as he urges her to take him a little deeper.
That's how he comes. He falls apart with his hand on her hair and her name on his lips. And when he's done he just sort of lies there for a bit, stunned, wondering what just happened. Wondering how he ever survived twenty-four years of life without being loved like that.
She cuddles up next to him, bare skin against bare skin. He fishes for words, tries to decide how the hell to convey the way he feels right now.
"We're OK." He tells her, in the end. He seems to remember her promised her they would be, back at the beginning of this conversation-turned-assignation. And he remembers, too, that he thought she was mad for thinking everything could be fixed with a blow job.
But what she's just given him was a hell of a lot more than a blow job, and they both know it.
"No we're not." She insists, shaking her head against his chest. "You can't say that just because I gave you a decent orgasm. I still need to -"
"I can say that." He tells her, firm. He won't be ignored on this. "You gave me more than a decent orgasm and you know it. I get it. You care about me. You want us to look after each other. So we're good."
She nods, then. She simply lies there and nods, agreeing with everything he just said. Of course she does – they've always had a special talent for communication.
…...
It gets easier when the world is ending. It's absurd, but that's the truth. It was leadership in a crisis that brought them together in the first place, so they rise to this challenge, now. They learn to look after each other once again, but this time with a little more give-and-take than they started with.
Bellamy even learns to ask for things for himself, rather than insisting on giving. He thinks he still prefers to give, on balance. But he has to admit that it's nice to see the obvious joy Clarke takes in making him happy. So it is that this evening, as they eat supper, he tells her they have plans.
T-O-N-I-G-H-T
He beats out the message on her tray, sits back to watch her reaction. It's the silliest thing, because they have plans pretty much every night these days. But he likes the way she gets just a little flushed, just a little excited as he sends the message, even as they sit here and eat surrounded by their friends.
She smiles slightly, gives him the smallest nod. He reaches out a leg under the table, nestles her calf up against hers. He doesn't see why he shouldn't make a start on teasing her now.
Meanwhile, of course, conversation continues around them.
Miller is trying to make his point heard. "I've been saying we should watch more horror movies but -"
"No one wants to, Miller. Accept it. We're watching an action movie tonight, and that's that." Raven informs him.
"Or we could watch a romance." Monty offers, eyes flicking to Harper, who seems to think that in itself is a romantic suggestion.
"We're watching action. Something with cars." Raven declares.
Bellamy grins. Of course his friends are watching something with cars – Raven is obsessed with old Earth technology.
"What are you smirking at, Bellamy?" Raven asks sharply. "You're going to be there, right?"
"Nope. I have plans." He says a little too proudly.
Raven frowns. "But everyone will be there."
"I won't be there." Clarke volunteers. "I have plans too."
There's a moment's pause. Miller smiles a knowing smile. Harper and Monty look happy, Raven looks slightly concussed. And then Bellamy decides it's time to break the tension, proclaim his good news, and take something good for himself all at once.
He simply reaches across the table to hold Clarke's hand.
She beams at him. "Feeling clingy?" She teases lightly.
He laughs, keeps hold of her hand. He even allows himself to relax somewhat and start rubbing a thumb over her palm.
The conversation moves on around them, before long. His friends discuss movies and food as if the world is not about to go up in flames. He likes evening like this, where they just get to be normal young people despite the abnormal circumstances.
He leads Clarke back to his room, not particularly disappointed at missing out on Raven's choice of action movie. They fool around for a while, then get more serious, screwing with the easy rhythm that comes naturally to them, by now. And then they curl up and doze off together, limbs entwined on his bed.
But there's something more he wants to try, before he falls entirely asleep. Something he feels a little more confident about, since that small public display of their relationship at the supper table.
Where his hand rests on Clarke's shoulder, he beats out a message. A simple one that's probably long overdue.
I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U, he tells her.
She doesn't reply. She's already asleep. But he likes to think the message sinks in all the same.
…...
There's less optimism, as the death wave draws closer. People don't chat about movies at the supper table, these days. Clarke doesn't chat about much at all. She just holds him ever tighter, grows ever more silent. It scares him, really.
Until one night she does speak up, and he's even more terrified. They're just lying in bed together, curled up ready to sleep, when she comes out and says it.
"I am become death, destroyer of worlds."
"Clarke?" He asks, sharp, alarmed.
"It's me. It's my fault. I did this – I destroyed everything by shutting down the City of Light. I made this happen." She babbles, tearful.
"You're not death." He tells her firmly. "You're life, to me. I used to go around telling people that, when I heard they were calling you Wanheda." He spits the name out, angry.
"Really? You did that? Even though – even though you were mad at me, then? Even though I'd left you?"
"I was mad at you, but it didn't stop me caring about you." He says, and it's only a small white lie. It's what she needs to hear right now, he figures.
"Thank you." She says, quiet.
They lie together in silence for a few moments. He can hear her words repeating over and over in his mind. I am become death, destroyer of worlds. What a thing for an eighteen year old woman to be thinking, he muses sadly. What a horrific way for her to sing herself to sleep at night.
He wants her to have other words echoing in her dreams tonight, he resolves. He wants her to drift off to sleep with something brighter on her mind.
"I love you." He tells her, plain and simple. In actual words out loud, not pressed into her skin.
"I love you too. I wish that could save us."
"You've already saved me, so many times in so many ways. More than you can imagine." He argues, and it's the truth.
She's smiling a little, now. It's fragile, but it's there. He can see it as she peers up to look him in the eyes.
"You, too. I love you so much." She's never sounded more sure of anything in her life, he thinks.
She certainly sounds more certain of it than she did of that damn Oppenheimer quote, and that's a relief.
…...
He loses her.
He leaves her, and it nearly destroys him.
He looks down at the burning Earth, sees her going up in flames. Feels the pain of it burning as if it was his own skin being scorched.
There's just one silver lining to this sickening radioactive cloud. At least she knew she was loved. At least he told her that, frequently and often in those final days. At least there is a sort of closure that comes with knowing they made the best of their love while it lasted.
But that's a pretty crap silver lining, he decides, as he watches the world engulfed in flames.
…...
Things are different, when they return to the ground. He's with Echo these days, who doesn't give him life in the way Clarke used to do. But she at least helps him feel like he's still alive – there's a difference there, a subtle but important one.
Murphy and Emori are broken up, their love torn apart by the pressures of life in space. Only Monty and Harper are still going strong, determined to disprove that old lie about love being weakness.
Is it a lie? He's no longer sure. Not since he lost Clarke and it nearly broke him, reduced him to a sobbing mess.
Anyway, he's more or less holding it together, these days. He's healed, or half way there. He's ready to face anything the Earth can throw at him.
Or at least, he thinks he is, until he learns that Clarke is still alive.
It's not that he doesn't believe it, when the girl dashes out of the trees yelling his name, or when he sees Clarke tangled in a broken heap at the foot of those cold steps, or when he flies with her to Polis to release his sister. It's more than he's doing all those things on autopilot, dealing with one task after another, without time to sit around and process his feelings.
So it's only as they share rations in the desert that it truly sinks in.
T-O-N-I-G-H-T, she beats against her thigh.
It hits him all at once, in a hot flush of joy and shame, tangled hopelessly together. She's here. She's alive. And she still remembers what they used to share, still wants him in her bed and in her arms.
And that's where the shame comes in. He can't do that – he has Echo. And even if, in the depths of his heart, he knows he still loves Clarke more, it's not as simple as that. At the very least he would need to talk to Echo first, explain what's going on, offer his apologies. And more than anything else, he's ashamed of himself for moving on so quickly, hooking up with Echo when he thought Clarke was dead.
So, coward that he is, he ignores Clarke completely. He pretends he doesn't see her message, eyes fixed carefully on the fire as he eats his ration bar.
In the days to come, he will grow to understand that this is his big mistake. This is where he breaks them, destroys the connection between them once and for all – or so he will briefly come to fear. This is the start of her clinging to Madi and abandoning him, refusing to weaken out of lost love for him.
But he doesn't know that, now. In this moment he just chews slowly and hates himself in peace.
…...
She leaves him. Again.
She drives away from Polis, and leaves him to the fighting pit and to his sister's nonexistent mercy.
He's so sick and tired of loving this woman, he thinks sadly, as he waits for the fight to start. It's exhausting. And it reminds him of something he said to Clarke herself long ago about his sister – it's pathetic, the way he keeps coming back for more.
She said he was special, the day he shared that opinion with her. Huh. If this is the way she treats people she thinks are special, he's glad he's never been her enemy. It's a tough gig, when the love of your life is the Commander of Death.
…...
She puts it right, more or less. She shows herself to be at her core still the woman he first fell in love with. And as she stands at the door of the Eligius ship he can feel her eyes on the back of his neck, watching him, protecting him like she's always done in her desperate, twisted way.
He's sick of this. He's sick of the emotional whiplash. He's sick of the way she feels one moment like a distant stranger, another moment like the woman who took such good care of him in that cold forest by the sea all those years ago.
But even more than that, he's sick of staring at her across the empty space in between them and feeling like he can't touch her, any more.
That's why he speaks to Echo, the moment they are safely on the Eligius ship.
"I'm sorry." He begins, inadequate. "I know I said nothing would -"
"You love her." Echo bites out, carefully controlled. "You have loved her for longer than you and I have known each other. You mourned her for longer than we were together. Losing her almost broke you, and I get it – you can't lose her again."
"You – you knew?"
"Of course I knew. I'm a spy." She spits out, proud. "And you should have seen the look on her face when I told her you were still alive, back in Shallow Valley."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Go speak to her, Bellamy. Go live the life you both want to live."
It's not as simple as that, he fears. It's not as easy as walking straight up to Clarke and kissing her soundly on the lips. Things are rather more complicated than they used to be, when they would hook up in that straightforward way, back in the very earliest days at the dropship.
Back before Oppenheimer, he thinks, smiling a little in nostalgia.
First of all, he decides, he needs to show her how sorry he is. He needs to show her that she was right, in the desert, to remind him what they were to each other, to remind him of the connection and communication they used to share.
So that's why it is that he catches her eye across a crowded corridor and beats a message into his hip.
B-R-I-D-G-E, he spells out. He hopes she knows what he means, after all this time.
He sees her give the slightest nod, then she turns back to her conversation with her mother. Encouraged, he slips out of there and heads towards the bridge. Their friends are just beginning to gather there, ready to discuss the fate of the human race – again.
She walks in a couple of minutes later. He watches her scan the room briefly, sees her eyes settle on him. And then she strides straight over to him, unabashed, no sign of hesitation or reluctance at all.
That's his Clarke.
"You wanted to see me?" She prompts him, arms crossed across her chest.
He gulps. This reminds him so much of their first planned meeting it hurts. It stabs at something deep in his chest, makes him desperate to reach out and fold her in his arms.
"I thought you should be here. We're going to be discussing our next steps. It wouldn't feel right to decide the fate of the human race without you."
Her face falls. He steels his courage, steps a little closer. He can feel her warmth, now, can feel the hairs on his forearms prickling as they brush ever so slightly against her.
And then he says what he knows he must say.
"I wanted to see you, too." He admits. "I wanted to say – I don't know." He laughs nervously. "I missed you? Can we start there? Can we start with me saying I'm so happy you're alive that I just want to forget all about... what happened back there?"
She shakes her head, fierce. "No. We can't just pretend it didn't happen. I'm sorry, Bellamy. I'm so sorry."
He gets brave. He reaches out to set a hand on her shoulder, strokes a thumb over her collarbone through her shirt.
"I forgive you." He tell her, because he always will.
She's still shaking her head. "I destroyed it, Bellamy. Shallow Valley. Earth, once and for all. It was me – destroyer of worlds."
He can't tell her it's not true. He can't say that because really, if she'd acted differently, probably they would still be on Earth. And he's never been in the habit of lying to spare Clarke's feelings, so he doesn't intend to start now.
No – he's always been more in the habit of helping her bear her guilty conscience.
"I forgive you for that, too." He tells her firmly. "I forgive you for all of it. And it wasn't just you, Clarke. It takes more than one woman to have a war. It was more my sister's choice than yours. I understand."
He does. He will always understand her, he thinks, however difficult things might be between them.
There's a pause. He's still stroking her collarbone, but he wants more. He can still feel the tug of that addiction. And he knows there are other things he ought to figure out first – he ought to catch up on those missed years, tell her about Echo, ask her about Madi.
But he does none of those things. He just whispers one desperate plea.
"Can we hug?"
He's never had to ask her before. Hugs have always just happened between them, smooth and seamless, without words. But this week has proved if nothing else that their communication is a little rusty after all this time apart, so he feels the need to pose the question.
Clarke doesn't bat an eyelid. She just smiles softly, and steps right into his arms. He holds her tight, rocks slightly on the spot, buries his face into her hair.
They stand like that for a long time, until Raven coughs loudly and calls the start of the meeting. And as they pull apart, Bellamy realises he never got round to explaining his breakup with Echo, or begging Clarke for another chance, or telling her he loves her.
Never mind, he tries to tell himself. There will be other chances.
…...
There are no other chances.
She dies. She dies alone, again, her body snatched by a psychopath.
Losing her hurts even more, this time round. It hurts even more because if he'd just tapped an I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U into her shoulder when they shared forgiveness and hugs, he's pretty sure she'd still be breathing right now.
In short, it is all his fault.
But he can't let that destroy him, this time round. He has to do what she would have wanted, has to live out her memory. He has to do better, take care of their people, protect her daughter.
It will be the hardest thing he's ever done, but he'll do it for her.
…...
He almost laughs in sheer relief when he sees that monster Josephine beat the message out against her side.
A-L-I-V-E, it spells.
That's her. He'd know her message anywhere. That's Clarke. Destroyer of worlds, saviour of the human race.
Love of his life, even in death.
He'll rip this moon to shreds if that's what it takes to get her back, he resolves at once. They called her the Commander of Death, but he'll show them what it really means to be a destroyer of worlds. Good riddance to the deal, and to doing what Clarke would want. He spent six years trying to do what he thought Clarke would want and got nothing to show for it except a gaping hollow where his heart used to beat. So screw it – he's going to go all in to save her now, going to -
No. He mustn't. He takes careful breaths, tries to still his racing heart. He can't let his joy and desperation show on his face. He needs to use his head – not just because Clarke would want that, but because it might be the only way to save her. Or rather, perhaps he needs to find a healthy middle ground – driven by his heart, but guided by his head.
He starts by replying to her message. He's learnt the hard way that bad things happen when he ignores her.
G-OT-Y-O-U, he tells her. He hopes that sounds reassuring. He hopes it sounds protective and dependable.
He pauses a moment. He nods along to something Russell is saying, tries to keep up the act. He wonders how to go about doing this – he will need a doctor, presumably, and someone who knows about mind drives. He needs to act, needs to go and put a plan together.
But there's something else he needs to tell Clarke, first.
I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U, he beats against his thigh.
To his relief, she starts tapping out a message in reply.
I-L-O-V-E-Y-
She breaks off, there. The confession falters, unfinished, presumably interrupted.
He needs to get going. He's running out of time.
…...
The plan does not go as smoothly as other plans he has known. And nor does it end with a satisfying fiery explosion, like his improvised plan in Mount Weather. No – this plan ends with him pumping desperately at Clarke's chest, trying not to remember her arms crossed over her breasts all those years ago. It ends with him breathing life into her mouth, trying not to remember the words I am become death on her lips.
Miraculously, she lives.
T-H-A-N-K-S, she taps into his shoulder as she holds him in the tightest of hugs.
He laughs against her neck, relieved. "You still don't make it easy for me, keeping you alive."
She lets out a weak giggle, but he can hear she's exhausted. He can't blame her – she's been through a hell of a lot, in recent days and weeks and years.
"Get some sleep." He urges her, pulling gently away from the hug. "I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere."
"But what about Sanctum? We have to -"
"Soon." He tells her, firm and quelling. "But rest first."
She nods, resigned. She lies down in the bed, eyes drifting closed. And it's not deliberate that he reaches out to take her hand, but it just seems to happen, somehow. Looks like he's still hooked on the feel of her skin against his.
"I love you." She whispers softly.
He jumps, startled. She's never said it first. Not in all the months they were together, not in all the years they've been in love. And he always knew that was nothing personal against him – it's not that she didn't love him, it's just that she's never been that comfortable with the words. Never believed she was allowed to love, never dreamed of having a happy and stable relationship. And he knows she used to fear that she would lose the people she loved.
Maybe she's learning how to dream again. He'd like that for her, if this horrific experience left her a little more selfish, a little more confident in snatching her own happiness.
"I love you too." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She doesn't so much as blink. She's already sound asleep.
…...
He wishes it could be easy, after that. He wishes they could kiss and make up and miraculously do better like Monty wanted for them.
It's not easy. It's so damn difficult. Clarke loses her mother, and Bellamy thinks that he has long since lost his little sister, even though she's still alive. Jordan is missing his parents and missed out on a childhood, and it drives him to do some daft things. Echo is somewhat bitter and hurt, but loyal to a fault. Raven is grieving Shaw, and blaming Clarke for it although there's no good reason to do so.
Most of all, there are the people. So many of them Bellamy doesn't even know half their names, with so many issues and losses and grievances he doesn't know where to start.
There are good things, though. Minimal casualties, compared with some of their earlier fights. They've managed to take out the Primes without actually destroying this moon, and he's glad of it.
He drags Clarke home when the fighting is over. Home is possibly a strong word for it – he drags her to a pair of rooms above a small store, shows Madi into one of the rooms, claims the other for himself and Clarke.
"I take it Echo's not in the picture any more?" Clarke asks, with a tired sort of cynical humour.
He gives a hollow laugh. In all this drama, he never did say that outright. He marvels again that Clarke was brave enough to whisper that love confession, back when he saved her, despite the fact he hadn't even clarified the situation. "No. We broke up when I noticed I was still in love with you."
"Took you long enough." She jokes weakly.
He helps her out by laughing at that. He can see she needs him to. She's trying to pretend her mother isn't dead, and he gets that. He gets that denial is the first stage of grief, and that's fine. He can support her through that.
He presumes she will want to sleep. That's why he brought her straight to this bedroom, without hanging around for food or politics first. She must be exhausted after her ordeal with Josephine, and besides which they've had a stressful time since he came back to Earth. That century in cryosleep doesn't seem to have left him any less exhausted, he notes.
But the moment he tugs his shirt off over his head, thinking to head towards the bed, she is startling him with her hand on his waist and her mouth against his.
"Clarke?" He pulls away, surprised.
"Sorry. I just – sorry."
"I don't know why you're apologising." He offers conversationally. "I was just surprised. I thought you'd want to sleep. But we can do something else if you want." He gives the suggestion a teasing lilt.
There's a pause. Clarke still has her hands at his waist, her face mere inches from his.
And then she taps out a message against his side, because of course she does.
O-U-R-P-L-A-C-E, she suggests, her eyes asking the question even as her fingers spell the words.
He grins. "I like that idea."
He surges forward to kiss her, this time. He's missed kissing her, missed the taste of her on his tongue and the feel of her soft curves pressed up against him. And he can't quite decide whether to take his time and savour the moment or whether he wants everything, all at once, so he splits the difference and starts sliding his hands up her shirt as he kisses her deeply.
They don't talk much, as the kisses grow more heated, as they shed the rest of their clothes. There simply isn't any need to – they're quite good at communicating without the need for spoken words. They don't even need to bother with Morse code on this occasion – just the occasional deliberate touch, or the shifts in their breathing and moaning, are enough to get the message across.
There's no need for words, either, when Clarke nudges him towards the bed and onto his back, then settles over him. He knows this well. They used to do this a lot, back in Arkadia. Her lips are on his cock and she's sitting on his face, or perhaps hovering just a little over it, leaving him to close the distance between them.
He cranes his neck to meet her, not in a rush, but with a certain urgency. He wants to get the balance right, here – enough eagerness to be fitting for a reunion after so many years apart, but also that gentle tenderness he knows they can do so well, too.
Based on the breathy sighs Clarke is gasping around his cock, he'd say he's got it spot on.
They stay there a short while, taking care of each other, drawing out each other's arousal. Bellamy is absolutely thriving on the sounds Clarke is making, on the feel of her twitching against him, on the taste of her slicking over his tongue and half of his face.
But he doesn't want to come like this, today. He eases his mouth away, whispers a suggestion.
"Can we change it up? I want to be holding you and kissing you when we come."
She agrees readily enough, giving a pleased little humming sound. She scoots up the bed, lies next to him, urges him to roll over on top of her. For a small woman with small hands, she really does know how to show him what she wants in the bedroom, he thinks with a smile. She never has stopped being that decisive Princess he first knew on Earth – she's just become a bit less naive. And a lot more tired, now he comes to think about it. But that's OK. It's understandable, and he'll help her relax, now.
He eases inside of her, knowing right away that this won't last long. That's the problem with confident communication and effective foreplay, he muses without regret. They're just too damn good at bringing each other pleasure. That must be why he's so addicted to her. But it's a good addiction – he can see that now. It's not destructive so much as supportive and joyful and life-giving.
She's close, too. She's bucking her hips up to meet him, wrapping her legs around him to tug him closer.
And then she's taking him by surprise.
"I love you." She pants into his ear. "I love you. I lo-"
She falls apart, then, her words of love giving way to a long drawn-out moan. And he's powerless to do anything but follow, groaning something that ought to be a confession but probably comes out pretty incoherent.
He simply gives way when he's done, lying on top of her, completely spent. That's OK, he figures. She always did like feeling his weight warm on top of her – she's told him so, more than once.
"You good?" He asks, face buried in the pillow. It doesn't matter if it comes out muffled, he decides. She always understands him anyway.
"Mhmm." She hums, combing through his hair with gentle fingers.
He shifts off her eventually. He decides that's probably for the best – he wants her whole and healthy for the rest of their lives together. So he pulls her in for a cuddle, urges her to snuggle close against his chest. He's missed holding her even more than he's missed making love with her, he's pretty sure.
He decides it's probably time to tell her some of that.
"I missed this. More than anything."
"Me too." He hears her suck in a careful breath. "Do you think we'll be able to keep this, now? Do you think we could go to sleep every night like this, wake up together every morning?"
"Yeah. I really believe that, Clarke. We're doing better, OK?"
"We're doing better." She replies carefully. "No more death and destruction."
He hums in agreement. He presses a kiss to her hairline. And then he says what he's been waiting to say for almost seven years and several lifetimes, now.
"And maybe more dreaming. I'd love for your to be able to learn to dream again."
She sighs against him. "I started doing that, those six years you were gone. Daring to dream of a life on Earth with you and Madi."
"We can have that." He promises her. "We can have exactly the same thing, just starting over on Sanctum instead. I swear it, Clarke. We're going to have that life here."
It may have started with Oppenheimer. It may have started with death, and the destruction of worlds. But it doesn't end that way, for Bellamy and Clarke.
It ends with a long and happy life.
a/n Thanks for reading!