Not my story
"Bellamy," Clarke yells up the stairs, Anna resting on her hip and sucking away at her thumb. "Get your as- butt down here," she yells again, rocking sweet Anna on her hip. She's staring up at Clarke with her best puppy eyes and, the worst part, is that she doesn't even realize it.
"Coming," Bellamy yells and, sighing, Clarke goes back to the kitchen. She has Tommy's lunch in a lunch box; today is his favorite ham and havarti, because Bellamy believes that his kids should never, ever eat American cheese or anything processed. When he first said that at the grocery store, throwing the most expensive granola and yoghurt into the shopping cart, Clarke had pointedly stared at the bologna he had tossed in earlier. Bellamy had not retracted the statement.
Tommy is sitting at the kitchen table, legs dangling and kicking them around. He's sipping noisily at his cereal, Fruit Loops, because Clarke had dragged Bellamy down to at least let the cereal be normal kid cereal. She understood how he wanted their kids to be healthy, but sometimes Bellamy takes it too far. She's already eaten her breakfast, way earlier this morning, when one-year old Anna started crying from her crib at 6 am, which is early even for a baby. Watching him carefully, she pulls out tupperware's from the fridge to get a lunch for Bellamy.
She hears Bellamy running down the stairs and the thud of setting his briefcase down and then he's rushing into the kitchen, grabbing the sandwich bread bag up. "Good morning," he says cheerily. Anna makes a garbled response around her thumb and Tommy slurps even louder.
"Tommy," Clarke says with a warning tone. "What have we said about slurping?"
He squirms in his seat, tufts of blond hair waving because he didn't brush his hair this morning. "Don't do it," he grumbles, putting his spoon back in his bowl and stirring it morosely.
"That's right," Bellamy says, putting two slices of bread into the toaster. He presses a kiss to the top of Clarke's head and then snuggles into Anna's neck. She giggles loudly and waves her arms around.
"If Tommy's going to be on time to school, you need to leave in five minutes," Clarke says warningly, flashing him one of those Looks that Bellamy always groans at. On cue, he does, wrinkling his nose and grabbing his favorite blueberry jam from the fridge- organic, of course. Clarke wanted to get good, old Welch's grape, but Bellamy had refused.
"It'll be fine, right Tommy?"
"Yeah," Tommy chirps, sliding off his chair and carrying his bowl of sweet, powdered milk over. "We always make it."
Bellamy takes the bowl from his hands, right before he almost slopped milk onto the counter. "See? We'll make it."
Clarke sighs and Bellamy, smiling softly, presses another kiss to her cheek, hand gentle on one hip. She turns into the kiss and presses a response to his lips. "Morning," she whispers, smiling up at him and he kisses her again, almost like they don't have kids, one at her hip and the other stuffing his lunchbox into his Power Rangers backpack.
"Daddy," Tommy screeches. "Your toast is burning."
"Whoops," Bellamy murmurs, pulling away and tapping Clarke lightly on her nose. "Look what you did."
"It's your own fault," she murmurs to herself, while snapping one last lid on a tupperware. "Here's a lunch for you," she says, leaving it on the counter and rummaging around for a post-it and a paper bag. Behind her, Tommy is peppering Bellamy questions about elephants, his latest favorite thing.
On the post-it, she writes a quick love you! and on the back scribbles don't forget you're in charge of dinner tonight. She sticks it to the top of the tupperware, containing leftovers of last night's lasagne she had made. With a second thought, she adds another note: roast chicken from the grocery store isn't going to cut it again. also no more of those over-buttered, over-cooked beans.
"Bye," Bellamy surprises her, another arm around her waist and they spend the brief time that's left pressing against each other.
"Your lunch," she tells Bellamy, handing him the paper bag. He takes it and snuggles into Anna, blowing into her neck.
"Love you," he calls as he leaves the kitchen, Tommy trailing after him. "What shoes are you going to wear today?" She hears him ask their seven year old son and the matter-of-fact, duh, response of, "The velcro ones, come on dad, you know they're my favorite."
Then she turns her focus on Anna, who has been sitting so patiently on her hip. "Now, Anna-bear, ready for some studio time?" She asks, maneuvering from her hip to hold her up in the air, bouncing her slightly. Anna coos loudly, kicking her legs a little. "You're only one and you're so much like your daddy already," she murmurs.
There's a shouted "I heard that," before she hears the garage door opening and shutting again; the sound of the garage door opening soon follows with the rev of his car's engine.
"Daddy's just jealous of all the fun we'll be having today," she tells Anna, setting her on the ground and watches her toddle around on her little feet, before she slowly starts to make her way to her art studio in the basement.
