AN: I can't tell if this is an epilogue or an add-on, so I just...it fits into the right head-canon universe, so here it goes.

(I wanted to write something funny and fluffy; please tune back in tomorrow for the prescribed dabbles of bloodshed and torment and leadership)

also, you guys have just been so nice and lovely and fab with the reviews and the kindswords, so since this is the end I wanted to say thanks and I love you

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She stops drinking the moonshine.

It's a little change; barely noticeable, especially since it's the middle of winter already and she's always exhausted as it is – teenagers and the cold have never mixed well, and by this time in her life Clarke's become so proficient at treating frostbite she thinks she could do it in her sleep. She still goes to meetings, still laughs when Jasper passes out earlier than anyone else, curled around Bellamy's feet, still keeps pestering Raven to just bring the kids over, just c'mon please, but she doesn't drink.

The moonshine thing had started years ago, in the later era of Clarke's half and half life of obligation to the grounders, when she was living in what was still technically Bellamy's house but had always sort of been hers. The main area of the building was open to anyone and everyone of their ragtag bunch, and during the warmer months was just a place to hold meetings and air grievances. The group would eventually trickle away to their respective quarters, and Bellamy and Clarke would retire to the private room in the back of the building.

Once winter hit however, less people actually left the house, because it was too cold, or too much work, or really just because it was more fun to spend the chilly nights in a group with a lot of body heat rather than on your lonesome. Monty had brewed a really great batch of moonshine at the time, and everyone began offering up their shares in exchange for the night of room and board.

(which was entirely unnecessary, since as Clarke had explained it wasn't like her and Bellamy were trying to kick them out, but once the younger of the kids fell asleep it became habit to get wasted while discussing construction plans, or why Murphy would look better with shorter hair, so the liquor became tradition)

It's been years now, something which had started kind of silly becoming firmly cemented in their routine, and they only bring it out in the really hard months, when crops have been bad or the seasons turn too much, so Clarke doesn't really worry about it. But even though winter is upon them, and a new clan to the east has come to town and they haven't proven themselves particularly friendly, Clarke declines a drink.

This is her first move, the one that says, this might be real.

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She's up late with one of the older girls, she's always up late these days, since most of the camp is currently occupying her living room, and also because evidently she's earned some sort of credence over the years as a sympathetic shoulder, so she spends a lot of her nights tending to tears and drama. It's a bit of a change from all the winter ailments she's been dealing with lately, but given the nature of, well, things, she probably prefers the gossip.

Like how Ying and Tyler keep on breaking up and getting back together again, which is pissing of Lentil (which is a bit of an unfortunate name, not that Clarke would ever say so), who's pining after Tyler. Or Ying. She can never keep that one straight.

Or that Jeremy plans on ambushing her in the spring to ask to go to the grounders' camp, either because (a) he wants to train with her and Terri, or (b) he's heard that they have better alcohol over there; the consensus on that is still undecided.

She gets a lot of security patrollers too, grown men who tower over her and need at least five minutes of silence before admitting that yes, they pissed off Bellamy, but it was for perfectly good reasons, really, and if she could just hear them out and maybe talk with him, that'd be great, thanks.

(The fact that she hasn't actually talked to Bellamy, one on one, for weeks, doesn't escape her notice, because while she trifles in the sorrow and the pleas of their camp, mister big man himself likes to play matchmaker, or stir shit up in some attempt to resolve a problem, they only really see each other when they're exhausted and about to fall asleep, and it's always like this anyways, this time of year, it's not unusual;

Okay, she knows, she has half a mind of excuses, half of actual explanations, but mostly she thinks she's avoiding him because, like…

what would she even say?)

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Octavia is the first to figure it out, because she has two kids now and knows how to spot bullshit.

They're in the med bay and she hands Clarke a mug of tea, something Terri's concocted to help with headaches (supposedly). Clarke hasn't really trusted Terri's 'quick-cures' since the whole more is not necessarily better issue of last year, which had left half of their camp and most of Anya's village in bed for a week.

It isn't until O says hair of the dog and smiles with a secret that Clarke spits out her mouthful with alarming speed.

"Is there alcohol in this?" And her voice rises in panic, because she's already drank this stuff and it would be just like Terri to put more booze in what was quickly becoming a hangover remedy.

Octavia's grin says it all as she asks, "Would that be a problem?" and Clarke understands that she's not as skilled of a liar as she'd like to be.

(the tea is made of mugwort and dandelion, which is when Clarke realizes that she's lost all her playing cards)

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(It isn't until Jasper's gaze starts to linger, and Terri's visits become less of a monthly thing and more of a weekly one that Clarke accepts that Octavia is a big fat gossip, and shouldn't be trusted with the truth, even one which was sort of forced out of her in the first place.

She refuses to actually say anything, choosing instead to level all offending parties with her most impressive of glares, and spends the next several days suturing with a little bit too much force.)

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What follows is possible the least subtle of displays of aggravated care that Clarke has ever seen.

Monty offers to do her guard duties, which could have been sweet but was only smothering, especially when he says no, for all of winter, Clarke you don't want to be out there in this weather. Octavia all but moves into the lodge, pulling Lincoln, the twins, and half of her belongings with her, and begins to trail behind Clarke like she used to in the first years of medical training, except this time it isn't words of comfort that get whispered in her ear, but pushy reminders.

Things like, "Are you sure you should be handling that? Aren't you worried about contamination risks?" as Clarke catalogues the dusty inventory that they never really get to but always say they will, and "I told them to give you tea, ugh, here just let me fix that for you." as Clarke desperately attempts to hold onto her mug of, admittedly shitty, coffee.

Jasper's the worst of all, because he's always sort of been her and Bellamy's Official Child in the camp, and he keeps on finding excuses to get her alone – like, she doesn't need a guard to go get water, jesus, it's still within the perimeter for fucks sake – and then wants to talk names or plans and like maybe I should move closer to you guys, just to help out, and Clarke doesn't know how to deal with his excitement so she mostly just grumbles and makes him shovel the snow in front of her house.

(she's annoyed, not stupid)

But the crux of the whole thing is when Bellamy pulls her aside and says, "I've had three people today ask me what I would've named Octavia if she were a boy. Do you know what that's about?", and Clarke can't do anything but huff and sip her tea and glower into the distance.

Or at least that's until she sort of raises her eyebrow at Bellamy and asks, "Y'know, for curiosity's sake, what would you have named him?" and he just stares at her with wide eyes, really wide, knowing, eyes, so then she flees the scene.

(yeah, yeah, she knows)

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Later she's talking to Octavia in the med bay, away from prying ears, and Octavia sort of just grins and goes, "Clarke, he named me after the sister of a Roman Emperor, which is already really weird and super obscure. What makes you think you're getting away with something normal?"

"Uhm, I just had to talk a girl named Balsam down from a panic attack, define normal."

They laugh, but it's so fucking true, Bellamy is like, the biggest history nerd ever. Whenever they have to leave camp for another city he always makes a point to raid their libraries, brings back medical books for her and then reveals an entire rucksack full of look Clarke, the complete collection on the rise and fall of Palagonia, isn't that great. Clarke's whole family history is made of simple names: Jake, Abbey, Clarke, a grandmother she sorta remembers named Shirley, but she'd probably compromise; she's definitely developed a fondness for Bell's name, and hell, even Octavia is kind of cute.

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(but she isn't going to go for any Brutus or tragic emperors who died in a flame of glory, that's just morbid)

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And okay. She's not dumb. In fact, she's fairly rational, for someone who got locked up in space and then propelled down to Earth, and had to develop a moral compass during times of warfare. Sure, she's less clinical than she might have been, had she stayed on the Ark, but she's not witless, she knows she'll have to actually tell someone at some point – Bellamy, for instant, might want to know.

It's just…the whole anything-but-covert thing that the camp's got going on currently is equal parts hilarious and stifling, and the part of her that isn't amused by the we all know we just won't say it mentality that's being passed around is kind of put out that her big moment has been taken away.

When Terri swings by camp, again, pulling Clarke up to the top level of the drop ship for some 'girl time' (her words) it's all she can do not to yell at her that gods, she knows, just drop the whole fucking charade already, please. But Clarke's wearing three layers of clothing at this point, partially because she's cold but mostly because she feels like a whale already, so she's embracing the hugeness now rather than later, and suffice it to say she's really too tired to protest, so up they go.

Terri locks the access panel, hands Clarke something hot and delicious, far better than whatever herbal remedy Octavia's put her on, and then proceeds to not say anything for at least ten whole minutes.

(in Terri time this is no less than a miracle)

It kind of freaks her out, so she settles in the blankets they'd brought up and sighs, "Alright, c'mon, let's hear it."

Terri snickers. "You're looking...bundled."

It's true, between the bed and the blanket and the three jackets, she can barely move. "I'm warm."

"You're an idiot." Clarke says nothing, huffs, so Terri goes on (straight to the point as always). "He probably already knows."

(Bellamy's taken to coming up behind her during her shifts, hands on her hips, hands on her stomach, and has infuriatingly already taken away several of the more laborious tasks Clarke used to call hers, so yeah, she thinks he knows already.)

The attention is sometimes nice, especially when he fusses around her in the mornings, getting up and being all no, no, you stay here, I'll get rations, and nah I got Murphy doing the morning route, you rest, which she'll never admit to liking lest she risk incurring even more of his protective streak. Mostly though she's annoyed that her big news was taken away so quickly, annoyed that she has to announce something everyone knows, and maybe, okay, a tiny bit concerned that if Bellamy knows knows, as opposed to suspects, she'll be on bed rest from the get go.

She tells all of this to Terri, because the years have taught her that Terri doesn't take no for an answer, and it's silly to think she will.

"Yeah, okay. But you're not the only one involved here."

Clarke pouts. "You've always been his fan."

"I'm a fan of how happy he makes you," Terri says, in a moment of rare candour, "and I'm pretty sure he'd want to know."

"Know know?"

"Yes Clarke. Know know."

Clarke can't help but giggle. "You say it often enough it sounds kind of silly, doesn't it? Know, know," she laughs, "know, know, know."

Terri mutters something about women and hormones, but she's made her point she thinks, so they invite Murphy and Octavia up and the four of them spend the dwindling evenings on the top level of the drop ship, where there are beds and blankets and most importantly a stash of moonshine that they'd been stock-piling since the first year. Clarke keeps to the thermos of whatever Terri brought over, and they start a game of who-can-find-the-ugliest-thing-in-the-room.

(Terri wins, because she's got a liver of steel, and because she points to Murphy, and neither Octavia nor Clarke can stop laughing after that)

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Right. So she tells Bellamy. But she doesn't go about it in the regular fashion because this whole shit-storm of a situation has been blown completely away from normal, and besides, where would the fun be in that?

Rather, like every other aspect of their lives, she sort of just…jumps into it.

"Are the freckles a male thing, or did Octavia just miss out on that one?"

Bellamy, who's currently got two hands on an axe and nowhere to go, stares at her. "What?"

"The freckles?" Clarke leans back against the bark of a tree, blinks slowly up at Bell's face. "I mean, no one in my family really ever had any."

"Had freckles?"

"Yeah. I mean no. And, about that name…"

"Name?"

She nods. "Yeah. I've decided that if you're really attached to the whole Roman Era thing, we can probably figure out a middle ground, but I'm putting my foot down right now. No plant names."

"Plant, Clarke, what are you on?" He glances down her body quickly, then back up to her face. "You haven't taken any strange food recently, have you?"

"Nope." She snickers. "Unless you count that hash Jasper's been making – "

"Clarke."

"Kidding!" She holds up her hands in the universal gesture, "I'm just joking Bell."

It's a serious enough retort, she thinks, gaze caught on white knuckles on wooden handle, but honestly, she loves Jasper, doesn't mean she'll ever trust what he cooks.

Bellamy's smiling now, slowly, eyes searching her face. "What's this about freckles?"

She shrugs. "What? I like them."

It's a bit difficult to move, there's at least two feet of snow and the small distance from him to her takes a few seconds, but Bellamy trudges over, putting the axe down on a nearby stump as he goes. Clarke's only response to the steady eye contact is a nudge with her hip the moment he gets close enough, which isn't even painful because they're both wearing enough layers to cushion an actual punch.

"Also, no spices." She continues, grinning. "Actually, nothing that can be literally interpreted as an item on Earth, maybe it was poetic on the Ark, but we're here now, so I think it's lost its value – "

Her words are cut off by Bellamy's lips, by Bellamy's hand in her hair, and the way he presses closer even as he pulls her to him, and then it's his breath hot on her cheek when he leans back and says, "Okay, no plant names."

She tugs him back down. "No object names."

They're noses are touching, breath intermingling, the whole shebang, and so Clarke doesn't so much see him smile as she feels it. They're quiet for a minute, just taking in the reality reflected in each other, and Bellamy's the first to say, "You're pregnant."

Clarke chuckles, triumphant.

"Yeah, no shit."

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So, yeah, Bellamy knows knows, and he absolutely becomes the over protective, hovering, father-to-be that she always suspected he would.

He tries to be stealthy about it, which is cute, so she deals with her surreptitious-helpers-but-really-couldn't-be-anything-but armed escorts that she finds following her around every day, or the fact that her meals are now hand-delivered to her. Like literally, someone walks up to her and just gives her food. She thinks that it should tug at that little insecure part of her that worries about the camp and the word princess and all that entitlement, but really, everyone she knows is somehow involved in the game, and they won't stop smiling, so it's probably fine.

Besides, it's a sneaky way to get everyone to come along with her to visit Anya's village, because apparently it's ridiculous to think she could go with anything less than ten guards (civilian ones, Bellamy swears).

(Bellamy lies, she thinks, but lets him get away with it)

Jasper actually does move closer, sometime in the spring, but it's partially to do with his new position as Best Bud Ever to Bellamy, so whatever. And Clarke finally convinces Octavia to go back to her house, pronto, because Lincoln needs to see his people, and it isn't like they can't visit; a suggestion Octavia takes very seriously, and she drops by at least twice a week, twins in tow, and turns into as much of a nag as Bellamy ever was.

("I would think," Clarke says, being forced to sit down again, "that with a brother like yours, the last thing you'd be is smothering."

Octavia smirks. "You thought wrong.")

Sometimes all the attention is a little strong, it's all good stuff, a good year, actually, but she feels like a lethargic balloon by mid-summer, and all the staring is stressful. She spends most of her days in the med bay, reading over procedures and dealing with broken legs and stab wounds and everything else that comes alongside construction work, and at night Bellamy reads them stories of wars vanquished, of civilizations rising and falling, and all along the way humanity fights to survive.

("This is us fighting Clarke. This is how we live.")

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(the baby comes late in June, a little girl with big blue eyes, and enough freckles to map a constellation,

they name her Charlotte)