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They’ve known each other for three years.
Coincidentally, they’ve also been married for three years.
A generation and a half after the creation of the Ark, the Council had found themselves worried about the genetic diversity of the future of humanity. Their solution had been a program wherein genetic material was analyzed and matched to a member of the opposite sex based on a series of scientific factors that went way over Bellamy’s head.
He thinks the whole thing is a load of bullshit, just another way for the privileged to rule the poor.
So imagine his surprise when he was matched with Clarke Griffin, Ark royalty and all around beloved princess of the masses. If the look on her face was anything to go by, she was pretty surprised too.
It’s been three years and their life isn’t so bad. She’s training to be the new head of medical after her mom retires, and the Guard places him there to make sure everything goes smoothly during the day. He’s only had to intervene a few times, but it’s never stopped him from seeing red every time a patient gets too close, when a guy (who is clearly faking sick) looks down her shirt while she’s running tests. He hadn’t wanted to marry her in the first place, but now that she’s his? Maybe possessiveness flares hot and heavy in his stomach from time to time.
She’s his wife - he thinks he’s earned the right.
They have their own quarters now and they’re nicer than Bellamy’s had ever been growing up. He thinks she’s probably had to downgrade since marrying him, but she’s never complained about it once.
Things had been rocky at first; they’d been too scared to touch each other, barely had anything to talk about, but that’s changed. They talk about anything, take turns making dinner, sleep in the same bed. It’s not what he pictured his life being when he was growing up but, then again, he’d also pictured himself as a Greek god.
--
She gets sick and he knows he’s screwed.
It’s nothing major, probably just the flu. He’s freaking out though, insists on making her chicken noodle soup and dabs at her sweaty forehead with a cold rag every few minutes. He hadn’t even known that he cared so much, but seeing her in bed, face paler than usual and skin clammy, coughing and sneezing and groaning - he feels helpless and he hates it. It’s almost as bad as when Octavia got sick as a kid, when they couldn’t get her medicine and he had no idea how to make it better.
She gets better after a couple of days and he’s never been more relieved.
--
It hits him when he least expects it.
He’s sitting at the table, sipping at a cup of coffee, and she’s making them breakfast, her hair falling out of the bun at the nape of her neck. It’s their day off and they’ve got nothing to do, which is a luxury in and of itself. He makes a shitty joke and winces, but she looks over her shoulder at him and laughs fondly, shaking her head.
His heart stutters in his chest.
It really shouldn’t come as such a surprise that he loves his wife.
Setting down the cup of coffee, he gets up, runs a hand through his messy hair - she keeps telling him to get it cut - and presses his chest to her back, his hands finding her hips. They’ve kissed and touched and cuddled before, but this feels different. His lips press softly to her pulse, blazing a trail to her shoulder blade. “Clarke.”
“Hmm?” She presses back into him, breakfast forgotten on the stove. He flexes his fingers on her hips and she leans her head back, little blonde wisps of her hair tickling his cheek.
“Go on a date with me?” He hasn’t been on a date since he was in school, but it feels like the right thing to do. His mom had always told him that when he loved a girl, he had to prove it, had to treat her right, had to make her believe it.
They’ve been married for three years, but he figures now is as good a time as ever to start proving it.