#[ /is briefly reminded how fucking dark Jackson can get in the verses where he's an info broker and willing to get his hands dirty/ ]

[altrxisme]

//

[bellarkefanfiction]

you give me a reason, something to believe in

*click through to read on ao3

written by: Mel | @mellamymake

prompt: ‘If you wouldn't mind could you do a canon verse fic where Abby and Kane are getting married and Clarke is the maid of honor and Bellamy is the best man? And could you possibly add the reception too?’ for anonymous

word count: 3416

Abby cocks her head, lips pressing in a tense line. "Please say something."

Clarke opens her mouth — but nothing comes out. It's not a problem to be solved. It's not an obstacle to be overcome. It's not a new foe to be defeated.

It's just… news.

Or, the one where Marcus and Abby decide to get married, and being the maid of honour isn't quite as much trouble as Clarke's expecting.

Of all the things Clarke's been adding to her ever-growing to-do list, the one item she never expected would come up is a wedding.

Every priority she's ever had since her first step on the ground has been overtaken by survival. Surviving the harsher elements of Earth's volatile weather. Surviving as a fledgling community of inexperienced, ill-equipped juvenile delinquents. Surviving war with the grounders. Surviving Mount Weather. Surviving the nuclear apocalypse — again. The very thought of survival has consumed her, commanding her utter and absolute attention right from the very first breath she'd drawn of organic, naturally produced air.

Now, after almost a full year on the ground, she's not sure she can quite remember how people even get married anymore. The mere concept alone seems almost foreign.

Which is why when her mother breaks the news to her, her brain abruptly stutters to a grinding halt, and she finds herself at a complete loss for words for the first time in what feels like forever.

Abby cocks her head, lips pressing in a tense line. "Please say something."

She opens her mouth — but nothing comes out.

It's not a problem to be solved. It's not an obstacle to be overcome. It's not a new foe to be defeated.

It's just… news.

"I—" she starts to say, and then stops. Her head suddenly feels compressed, like a hand is pushing down on the top of her head. She blinks, shaking her head in an attempt to jerk the invisible pressure off.

"Oh," she says at last. She pauses, floundering for something, anything to say. "Are you sure?"

Abby looks slightly affronted by that, nostrils flaring in that way they used to whenever Clarke forgot to clean her room, or when Clarke got her first hickey and forgot to cover it up properly before going to breakfast the next morning.

"Yes, I'm sure," her mother says, her tone more tight than dry. "Marcus is a good man, Clarke."

Clarke snaps her mouth closed, shaking her head again. "No, Mom, that's not—" She holds her hands out in front of her, patting placatingly at the air. "I know. You two are— I know." She tilts her head, wincing slightly. "What I meant was, are you sure you want to do this right now?"

Abby exhales slowly, her chin dipping in a nod. "I know it's terrible timing. Really, it's probably the last thing anyone wants to be bothered with right now. But with the way things are going..." She looks up, her eyes searching Clarke's. "We just don't want to miss this, and then find out later that it was the only chance we'd ever get. Do you understand that?"

Images of dark curls and freckled skin flit through Clarke's mind, disappearing as soon as they appear.

She takes a deep breath, pulling up a small smile for her mother. "I understand. I'll help."

In the end, there's not really that much to do for the ceremony.

Jackson enlists all the children's help with gathering and weaving flowers together to drape across every drape-able surface. Raven rolls her eyes snippily when she hears the word "wedding", but she loans out her souped-up speakers without hesitation. Food is tricky, considering they're supposed to be rationing for Praimfaya, but the hunting team manages to scare up a fresh boar for the occasion. Before anyone can even ask them, Monty and Jasper are already dragging out large jerrycans of moonshine from whatever hole they've been hiding the stuff in.

(At first, Clarke wants to say something to warn them against going overboard with the stuff — everyone still has to work tomorrow — but she watches them doing their ridiculous signature pseudo high-five, and, honestly, she just doesn't have the heart.)

"How's this look?" Bellamy asks when Clarke walks over, a hand cupped over his eyes as he surveys the thin arch he's just put up with Harper and Miller's help. It's a flimsy wooden thing, barely eight feet tall, held together by nothing more than a few well-placed nails, and plastered over with flowers to within an inch of its life.

"A lot better than it should, considering it's about to be taken apart again in a few hours' time," Clarke says, keeping her tone dry despite the warmth blooming in her chest at the sight. Funny how the mere sight of pretty things can make you forget about stuff like about the impending end of the world.

Pushing past the thought, she glances up at Bellamy. "What about you? Are you ready?"

Bellamy looks at her in surprise. "Uh, yeah? This is all that's left, isn't it?"

"Oh." She blinks, properly registering his genuine obliviousness. "Sorry, I— I thought Kane talked to you about this."

Bellamy shrugs, resting his hands on his hips. "About the wedding? Yeah, he asked if I'd help." He gestures towards the flower arch. "I just did, didn't I?"

Clarke turns to face him properly, now slightly bemused. "Bellamy. You do know you're the best man, right?"

Bellamy whips his head round to stare at her, eyes rounded. "I— what?"

She can't ever remember smiling this hard. When's the last time she'd full-on grinned like this? "He said he told you!"

"He didn't tell me that!" Bellamy insists, brows sharply furrowed and cheeks rapidly reddening. "He just said a whole bunch of stuff about— about how much we've been through together, and something about how he was proud of me or some shit, and—"

Clarke squints up at him, still grinning. "Yeah, I think that was his version of telling you."

"Fuck." Bellamy shakes his head, his freckles somehow even more prominent through his blush. "Why doesn't he ever just come out and say shit?"

She laughs softly, patting him on the arm. "Like father, like son. Kidding!" she adds quickly when Bellamy shoots her a despairing look, even as he leans slightly into her touch. "I'm kidding."

Frankly speaking, there's really nothing for Bellamy to worry about. The entirety of his best man duties start and end with simply standing up at the arch by Kane's side, with his hands clasped neatly and the rings safely in his pocket.

They don't even have to dress up or anything. No one does, considering the wedding is squeezed into the half hour between afternoon duties and dinner hour. (Clarke briefly considers sparing twenty minutes to go scavenge for a dress somewhere in one of the storage rooms, but she decides that the time would probably be better spent packing rations for their trip to ALIE's lab the next day. Besides, no one's going to care all that much about the way the maid of honour looks. She's not the one getting married.)

Kane keeps his jacket, but underneath that he's got a cleaner, less threadbare shirt on. It's a little closer to grey than white, but it's more than enough for the occasion. Abby's got a worn dress on, much more of a faded snowy blue than pristine white. Looking at it, Clarke can't quite remember whom it's even supposed to belong to. It's too loose around the shoulders and the waist, but Clarke's pretty sure Kane doesn't even notice, his face soft as he smiles down at her mother.

There are no chairs, so everyone has to just sort of stand around, but that's not much of a problem considering Jaha keeps the ceremony short — a bonus which Clarke is deeply grateful for. In the span of just ten minutes, he's pronouncing them husband and wife, Kane is leaning in to press his lips to Abby's, and with a round of applause, it's done. Her mother's become a wife again.

There's literally nothing planned for the reception beyond a warm fire, some food and more moonshine than anyone really needs, so Clarke doesn't expect it to last more than half an hour or so. Everyone's tired out from a full day's work, and tomorrow will be no different. They probably want to return to their quarters as soon as possible, to make the most of what little rest they can get.

Even so, a solid hour after the sun's gone down, she's surprised to find a solid number of people still out in the yard, huddled in pockets around the fire, pouring themselves fourth and fifth refills of moonshine, dancing and laughing to the music playing from Raven's speakers. It's not by any obligation, either, considering Abby and Kane have long disappeared, retreating to their room hand in hand.

No, it's not that. People are staying because they genuinely want to; to spend time with their friends and family without having to worry about schedules and tasks and the invisible clock that's constantly ticking over their heads.

Even if it's only for one night, everyone wants to just be.

She smiles when she feels Bellamy come up beside her, his presence identifiable even without her turning to look.

"Do I have to remind you to have fun at every party we have?" he says, turning to stand shoulder to shoulder with her as they survey the ongoing celebration.

"We've only ever had two," she points out mildly, turning to arch an eyebrow at him. "That doesn't really count as every party."

"It does when I have to do it both times," he returns easily, glancing over to where the music has shifted to something softer, more melodic. People are pairing off, friends and lovers alike wrapping their arms around each other as they sway to the lilting melody. There are even a few groups of three and even four, arms hooked around necks and waists as little clusters rock back and forth, the strains of giggling punctuated by tipsy hiccups.

It's nice, she thinks idly. It's a certain sort of relaxed she hasn't seen in far too long. Certainly not one she's felt recently.

"Shit, okay," Bellamy mutters, pulling himself up like he's preparing to lead a recon mission. "We should probably do this, right?"

She sips on her moonshine, too absorbed with watching the others to really pay attention. "Do what?"

Bellamy shrugs, plucking the cup out of her hand to set it aside. "Dance."

Clarke blinks at him, hand still hovering in midair.

Truth be told, she's still not quite sure if this day is actually happening. First a wedding, and now, Bellamy Blake's just said the word 'dance' to her. 'Dance'.

"I didn't think you danced," she says when she recovers from the momentary shock, one brow arching almost playfully.

"I don't," he says dryly, even as he extends a hand to her, palm turned upwards.

She rolls her eyes, but it's a purely knee-jerk response. Lifting her hand, she slips it into his, hoping that he can't feel the way her blood seems to be thrumming extra vigorously through her fingers.

"This is not one of the things I thought we'd be doing before the end of the world," she tells him as they walk over to the makeshift dancefloor. ('Dancefloor' is a generous term, really. It's more like a 'dance area'. Also, maybe they should have waited till they were in the dance area to hold hands. Now they're just… walking while holding hands.)

"Really?" Bellamy's voice is light and teasing, but his fingers tighten ever so slightly over hers. "It was definitely on my checklist. Fill the food stores. Strip down unused machinery for raw materials. Dance at Kane and your mom's wedding."

"Jesus," Clarke mutters, a sudden thought occurring to her. "Does that— oh God, he's my stepdad now, isn't he? That's gonna get awkward."

Bellamy glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "Why? Not like you guys don't already get along."

"For you, I mean," Clarke says, giving his hand a light squeeze as they enter the dance area. "You know how kids sometimes feel neglected when their parents remarry—"

"Fuck you," Bellamy says amiably, turning to face her. His grip shifts accordingly, bringing both their hands up by their sides. "I'm trying to dance here."

She sniggers softly, but she brings her free hand up to rest on his arm, just below his shoulder. "'Trying' being the operative word."

Instead of slinging another easy comeback, he clears his throat and glances down. Carefully, he puts his hand on her waist. It's perfectly proper, his palm curving along the bottom of her ribcage.

Even so, there's something so goddamn delicate about the simple action that it makes her want to blush like a fucking teenager.

(God. She is a teenager. It's getting easier and easier to forget that.)

By the time she blinks herself out of her thoughts, they're moving. Swaying, one foot to another, revolving in a slow circle.

"Wow," she says, glancing down at their feet. "You actually can dance."

His hand is really warm on her waist — really warm, even through the combined barriers of her shirt and jacket. "Blame Octavia," he mutters, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "She used to stand on my feet for hours whenever our mom would let her put a record on. Drove me crazy."

Clarke looks up at him, at the soft creases between his brows as he relays the memory, and fuck, she can practically feel her heart melting to mush. Not just a light softening, either — no, it's melting down to actual warm, thick, slightly fluffy, easily stirrable mush. Jesus Christ. She's faced down grounder warriors and war-chiefs twice her size, and she can't keep it together over a stupid fucking story of her co-leader being a good brother.

She waits for more, but Bellamy's lips press together, forming a thin line as a familiar tic jumps in his jaw.

She takes a half-step closer on impulse, her hand rubbing comfortingly over his arm. "She'll come back, Bellamy. She won't stay away forever."

The breath he draws is deep enough that she can feel the swell of it, his shoulder rising and falling under her palm. For a moment, he looks as if he's about to say something — but then he gives a slight shake of his head, his hand shifting on her waist to adjust to their increased proximity, his fingers edging over the bottom hem of her jacket.

"Not doing too bad yourself," he says, his tone light as he casts a pointed look at their moving feet. "Rhythm's not terrible. Not great… but not terrible."

She rolls her eyes, gently prodding him in the dip where his arm and torso meet before replacing her hand on his shoulder, a little lower down than before. "Thanks for the compliment, Gene Kelly." She catches herself half a second later, dragging her gaze up to his. "That's— uh, it's from this old movie back on the Ark."

To her surprise, he nods easily. "Singin' in the Rain."

Her brows shoot up. "You know it?"

He seems to consider the question. "I know of it. Only ever saw bits and pieces of it a few times." He shrugs at her confused frown. "Movie nights in the mess hall."

Clarke's cheeks heat up, suddenly recalling how only Alpha Station quarters were afforded their own individual projector systems. "Oh. Right."

If Bellamy's noticed her momentary fumble, he does a good job of ignoring it. Instead, he tips his head back, squinting up at the starry night sky. "Doubt anyone would want to sing and dance if it rains now."

Her throat clenches, fingers tightening their hold on his hand reflexively. "Cheerful reminder."

To her surprise, his mouth curves in a small smile, his head tipping back down to face her properly. "The black rain's gonna be here any day now, Clarke. We might as well talk about it."

"Or make bad jokes about it," she mutters, inching even closer as if she can somehow shelter herself just by virtue of being practically cradled against his chest.

He huffs a small laugh, his right palm starting to rub steady half-circles into her back. "We've done everything we can, taken all the precautions. We'll be fine, Clarke. Worry about getting yourself to ALIE's lab safely."

She shudders, savouring the comfort of his hand on her spine, warm and soothing. I wish I didn't have to leave, she thinks of saying.

"Do you think they're wasting their time?" is what she says instead.

She looks up when she feels his shoulder stiffen under her palm, meeting his uncomprehending frown. "Kane," she clarifies, suddenly aware of how close they are. Even with just the dim firelight behind them, she can almost see where the warm brown of his irises meets the jet black of his pupils. "And my mom," she manages to finish, her throat suddenly much drier than before. "I mean, this whole wedding thing."

Fuck. What is she even trying to say?

She swallows, blinking hard. "I know people think it's stupid."

Bellamy looks down at her, his face serious. "We only have so much time left. I don't think it's stupid to want to make the most of it."

She can feel her heart, actually feel it thudding in her chest as their gazes lock. She's always had the sensation of being able to see right into Bellamy, past his guards and his walls, into the very core of his being. Of being able to see the man hidden away behind the armour of bravado. A man who, it always seemed to her, to be made entirely of love, every fibre of him pulsing and beating with the sheer force of it.

But this is different. This… somehow, this feels like everything's been switched around between the two of them. She has the oddest feeling that in this moment, he's the one seeing into her.

A loud chorus of whoops explodes from the small crowd gathered around the fire, cleaving into the silence between them with a violent jolt. Abruptly coming back to her senses, she forces her body into motion, blinking rapidly as she takes a deliberate step back.

Bellamy, attuned as always, instantly lets his right hand drop from her waist, his left releasing her hand with a smooth haste that speaks more of habitual instinct than a genuine desire to break contact.

She tries not to miss the warmth of his touch. 'Tries' being the operative word, she tells herself dejectedly.

Clearing her throat, she looks up at him.

"Thank you," she says.

When he looks at her, his expression is unreadable.

No, it's not, she realises dully. There's a difference between something being unreadable and her not allowing herself to read it.

"For the dance," she adds. Suddenly, she feels the need to clarify what she means.

She squares her shoulders, ignoring the small whisper in the back of her head telling her that Bellamy's not the one who's unsure what she means.

There's a brief pause, a moment of silence where she thinks Bellamy might say something.

And then he nods, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in the imitation of an easy smile.

"Anytime," he says. His voice is surprisingly tender. Full of soft understanding, affection, and something that sounds a lot like—

"Need any help?" she blurts out. She makes a belated gesture towards the flower arch still sitting in the middle of camp. "Taking it down, I mean."

He turns to look at it, squinting across camp. There are a bunch of kids lounging around it, some picking off petals and letting them drift to the ground, some sitting under it with their heads on each other's shoulders and their feet in each other's laps, everyone wearing the same smile of peaceful contentment.

"Nah," he says, tilting his head as he surveys the scene. "Think I'm gonna give it a little more time."

Just then, it dawns on her with startling clarity. Shell-shocked, she stares at his profile, the warm firelight washing across that face she's grown to know even better than her own, the red-orange rays flickering in and out of the tangled mess of dark curls atop his head.

A wet heat pricks at her eyes, but she pushes it back down. There's time, she tells herself fiercely. If there's just one thing that's been keeping her on her feet these days, just one thing beckoning her to rise from her bed every morning, calling her to keep pushing forward, step by agonising step, it's this. There's time.

Not much, to be certain — but whatever's left of it belongs to them.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, okay."