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Bellamy Blake is pacing.
He knows it's pointless, that if Octavia were here she'd be fussing at him, but. He's freaking out. He has to tell Clarke today that he's running for city council.
He had intended to tell her two nights before, but when he'd gotten home Clarke had been standing in the kitchen, blonde curls shining under the stove light and beaming with a plate of cookies, carefully cut out to spell their names, in her hands.
He had tried explaining to Raven why he failed--"She made me name cookies, Reyes! Name cookies. I couldn't do it. So instead we had sex and when I found the leftovers in the morning we made out some more."--but she had just looked unimpressed and shook her head.
He had tried to tell Clarke before that, too. The thing is, he knows better than anyone in Ark how she feels about politics.
It complicated her life when she was young, made her feel like less than who she was, who she is as a person.
It had changed her relationship with her mom into half-forced phone calls and terse words that sometimes ended in shoulders so tight she could barely move them. Politics had forced her to suffer her father's death in the public eye, unable to mourn in private, unable to shut herself off from the world for days at a time like Bellamy did to help him heal the loss of his mother.
It had meant she had to lose her dad alone.
He didn't want her to ever feel alone again.
But when Jackson and Sinclair had approached him at the Harvest Festival, impressed with what he and his team had pulled off, and told him they thought he could make an excellent city council candidate, something in him had kicked on. He had spent the last four months stewing on it.
He didn’t mention it to Clarke, not wanting her to stress over the possibility if she didn’t have to. And now they him wanted to announce his candidacy; wanted to capitalize on the goodwill Bellamy brought the town at Li'l Lexa's memorial service and shift their timeline up.
He was scared shitless. But he had to tell Clarke.
Bellamy had thought about running for office before, but in the abstract, distant way he thought about being married or having children. When those political advisers had told him they thought Cage Wallace's seat was vulnerable and wanted him to run for it, the opportunity suddenly slammed into tangibility. They wanted him to affect positive change for the community. And while he wasn't entirely convinced most days that he was the right choice, he was sure as hell better than Cage.
Being married doesn't seem like such an amorphous idea these days, either.
Clarke is practically living with him, most of her time and possessions found mixed in with his, though she technically has her own apartment in town. It feels simple, mostly. Inevitable. Right. Bellamy is happy; God, he is happy.
He doesn't want to screw that up.
He doesn't think this will, not really, but he's still wary. He knows Clarke left politics behind for a reason, that she hated what it did to her life and the people in it, and he doesn't want to be the one to force her back into a world that she doesn't want. He'd rather do it alone than make her miserable.
He'd really rather not do anything alone again. But he also knows he can't not do this. He has to try.
So the coffee table’s laden with GG’s pancakes, extra whipped cream and bacon, fresh hot chocolate simmering softly on the stove, because he wants to make this as easy as possible. He’s not above plying his girlfriend with sugar.
Clarke’s key sounds in the lock and Bellamy stops, staring at the door from where he’s rooted to the floor. She breezes in, bright and certain like she always is, and it feels like home. His pulse calms slightly, his palms start to dry. He can do this.
Right?
“Oh, dinner! Thank God; I did not feel like figuring something out.” She slips past him into the bedroom, kissing his cheek before coming back to nestle onto the couch, already changed into sweatpants and carrying something small in her hand. Bellamy shakes himself, moves mechanically to sit next to her.
His palms may have started sweating again.
“Um, yeah,” he says, hand moving involuntarily to rub at the back of his neck. He stops the movement once he realizes, spreads his hands against the rough denim on his thighs and forces himself to meet Clarke’s gaze. He can still feel his heartbeat in his ears. “I wanted to talk to you about something first, actually.”
It’s probably cruel to hold out bacon as a reward for getting through this conversation, but it’s mostly to force himself.
“Bellamy.” Clarke looks amused, lips pressed together in the way that means she’s on the verge of laughter. He feels a shot of guilt twisting deep through his gut, because she won’t be laughing at this. “I know what you’re going to say.”
He huffs a bit. “No, you really don’t. I— ”
“Bellamy!” she repeats, more insistent. The small object she had been holding is pressed into his hands and he almost snaps, something hot flashing briefly up his throat, because he just wants to get this out.
“Clarke, just let me—”
“Bell,” her voice is softer now, and he pauses, still caught by the nickname leaving her lips, “open it. Please.”
He looks down and finds a faux wood box about the size of his palm with tiny hinges hidden into one side. He glances at Clarke and she’s smiling, gentle and sure and encouraging, and his fingers pry open the lid.
Inside, nestled on a shiny navy fabric, rests a campaign button, stamped proudly with Blake 2016. The part of himself that’s not breaking open, that’s not pouring out in wonder and frozen by the sheer magnitude of this woman sitting next to him, wonders idly if Clarke designed the logo herself.
He looks up at her in awe. “How did you know?”
Clarke shrugs, and laughs a little.
“You’ve been talking about Roman political strategy in your sleep. Which you do anyway, but your Cicero recitations have gotten really intense.”
“God, I love you,” he says, everything white bright and radiant when he closes his eyes and grabs her in a kiss, full and aching, before his brain has time to catch up.
When it does, he feels himself flush and pulls away slightly, nuzzling Clarke’s cheek with his nose before hiding his face in her neck.
He loves her, he know he does, and he’s pretty sure the way he feels means there’s no one that’s ever going to come after her. He doesn’t want to have anyone besides her.
He hasn’t told her that yet, though, and even though he’s pretty sure she feels the same way, or at least pretty sure she’s getting there, it still feels new and scary and like his heart is palpitating in plain view. But Clarke’s the only person he’d choose to be vulnerable in front of, so he sits there and wills his pulse not to race.
Bellamy feels her hands tug on his curls, pulling his head up to look at her, and she’s grinning. Beaming, even; the kind of smile that makes him feel like the two of them are circling the sun at a dangerously close proximity.
He’s so fucking in love with this woman that he’s not sure how he contained it this long.
"Yeah, I’m pretty awesome," Clarke laughs. She bumps her nose against his and her smile turns softer. "And I love you too, you know?"
He grins and kisses her again.
“I was so worried you’d hate me for this,” he admits, sheepish. Her breath is still close enough that he can feel it brush his face. “I know how much you disliked your mom’s politics.”
“Yeah, but this is you. And I’m an adult now. You’re going to be great.”
She pauses, tilts her head, lips pursed slightly.
“Well, you’ll be great once we get you better at interviews.”
Something hopeful moves in his chest and he raises an eyebrow. “Will we?”
"You didn't think I'd let you do this alone, did you?” She nods, determined and decisive. “I’m going to be your campaign coordinator. We already know you and I can plan a hell of an event. We're doing this together.”
Her eyes are sparkling and he’s sure his are shining just as bright. She loves him.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, pulling her into his side. “We’re doing this together.”
-----
Three weeks later, they’re backstage at his first campaign event. Octavia had somehow finagled her way into being Clarke’s assistant and the two women had put together the entire evening, down to the cupcakes bearing miniature Blake 2016 buttons. The community center by the fairgrounds now bears bunting tucked into each corner; small lights and Ark memorabilia on the center of every table; and a giant, magnificent sign bearing his campaign logo, hand-painted by Clarke, proudly hanging behind the podium. Since he announced his city council candidacy at a press conference two weeks ago, Clarke has been a powerhouse, driving out plan after plan for this and countless other rallies and fundraisers she’s brainstormed. Every part of the room bears her touch.
Every part of him does, too.
The politics side has been easy. Ark has its problems and inequalities, and he’d like to help them if he can. It’s a genuine platform. And the alternative is Cage, which is enough to keep Bellamy motivated through the press interviews. The guy created his own catch phrase, for fuck’s sake. Bellamy might be a dick sometimes, but at least he’s a dick who cares. And doesn’t shout “You’ve been Caged!” after screwing with someone’s plans.
So, Clarke has coached him, and last week he got through an interview without stuttering on TV. It was a real King’s Speech moment for him.
Bellamy feels a wave of overwhelming gratitude that he’s doing this with Clarke, sure that he may never have ended up here if she hadn’t rolled into town to shut his department down all those months ago.
He’s really fucking glad she did.
When Octavia starts the introductory speech she insisted on, the sounds of people mingling dying down, the anxiety over what he’s doing suddenly rolls in full force. His hands threaten to tremble and it feels like all his nerve endings are firing at once and he’s once again triple checking everything in his mind even though he knows it’s fine, knows he’s prepared.
Then Clarke turns to stand in front of him, straightens his collar, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips before smiling. His tension recedes all at once.
“You ready?” she asks, hands resting on his chest, their weight reassuring and familiar over his heart.
Bellamy takes a deep breath, grins, and kisses her again, sweet and a little bit slower than he probably has time for.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”