Bellarke One Shots Book 2

91) The Lucky Fact of Your Existence

Archive of our own
By: LayALioness
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Bellamy rubs his face to keep from screaming. "O, what the fuck?" His voice is impressively steady, but he knows they can tell he's pissed off.

"It's for your own good," his sister declares, standing between him and the camera crew because—what, does she think he's going to maul them? Sure, he's been shooting the lens a few glares every few minutes, but he does have some standards.

"Tell me exactly why you thought this was a good idea," he demands. "Or who put you up to it—was it Miller? I'm gonna kick his ass." In reality, Bellamy knows Miller probably had nothing to do with the conspiracy. Miller, as a sort of general rule, gives no fucks about Bellamy's personal life. Mostly he just keeps the freezer stocked with Tostitos, and makes out with his boyfriend a lot in his room.

"You're not kicking anyone's ass," Octavia huffs, arms crossed and shoulders tensed. Her hair's still cornrowed from when Indra decided to experiment on her. Half of her head is shaved, with the buzzed hair there dyed blue. It's an interesting look, but he still hasn't really gotten used to it being on his little sister.

"I called Wick," she says, like she actually knows the guy standing in his living room. She doesn't, but she's marathoned the show enough to feel like she does. "For you. You don't even know if she's real, Bell."

"She's real," Bellamy growls, scowling at Wick. He looks the same as he does on television—scruffy beard, sandy hair, constantly in cargo shorts. What a douchebag.

Wick holds his hands up in mild surrender, looking all the world like he doesn't know what he did to be put in this position. "Okay, cool," he shrugs. "If she's real, then you finally get to meet her face-to-face and make out or whatever." He licks his lips, hesitant, and Bellamy lets his glare deepen. "And if she's not real," he continues, "Then you'll know for sure."

Bellamy goes to snap at the lot of them, again, but then stops himself. He does want to see Clarke, and not over skype, or Facetime. He wants to see more than her pictures on Facebook, or Instagram. He wants to watch her create the art she posts on Tumblr. He wants to take dumb pictures together and tag her with things like hangingwiththeprincess. He wants something tangible, someone he can hold and kiss and touch—he wants that so much it fucking hurts. 

He nods, a little jaggedly. "Okay," he sighs. "But only because you're footing the bill for me to visit my girlfriend."

"I do hope she's real, Bell," Octavia says softly, once the crew has packed up and left. They're staying at the Red Roof Inn down the road, and he knows they're probably googling so far into Clarke G.'s past that by this time tomorrow he'll know who her fucking first kiss was in the second grade.

Not that he couldn't ask her, himself, of course, but. How would he even start that conversation? Hey so my sister thinks you're really a forty-year-old man jacking off to the dick pics I sent you, so she called Catfish and we're gonna just show up at your house next week? Somehow, he doesn't think that would go over too well.

Bellamy sighs and leans his head on her shoulder. "I know." They're on the couch watching old Shark Week reruns, because they make him feel better about the universe in general. Everything's okay; somewhere in the ocean, there are sharks eating things.

He made Clarke watch the whole episode of baby sharks being born of the coast of the Bahamas, and he could hear her sniffling over the phone.

"They are medical miracles, Bellamy," she'd said hotly, trying to cover up the fact that she was getting emotional over a bunch of very large fish.