Chapter Text
Despite everything, Clarke still wasn't really sure Bellamy would be the one waiting for her at the altar when she gets to the great hall, and the wave of the relief she feels when she sees him nearly bowls her over. All of the tension that's been plaguing her for--well, honestly, for years suddenly leaves her, which would be nice, except that it's replaced with utter exhaustion. She barely slept last night, and what sleep she got was plagued with nightmares that nothing would go wrong, that she'd marry Finn and have to spend the rest of her life with him. She imagines it's not the kind of thing brides usually fret about before their wedding days, but most brides pick their grooms.
It didn't get better when she finally dragged herself out of bed either, because her mother was still convinced something would go horribly wrong. Of course, Finn's fiancee showed up, so she wasn't wrong. And then there was the argument with her parents, which lasted for hours, before her mother finally threw up her arms and agreed she could just marry Bellamy. But she couldn't believe it, somehow. She was sure her mother would have sneaked Wells in at the last minute. But there he is, next to Kyle, and he's going to marry her.
He does't look much better than she feels, honestly, dazed and a little green, but there. He agreed.
She offers him a smile when she reaches him, and he smiles back, a little wry. He looks like he might fall over, but he lets her take his hands when he's told, and he says all his lines, firm and confident. She's the one who needs coaxing, who needs his reassurance, and he gives it to her, just like always.
And then he kisses her, which is--not exactly the kiss she's been dreaming of since she was thirteen, but she wouldn't want to have that kiss in front of everyone, anyway. And it is nice.
"Please tell me this was your idea," Octavia says, as she bustles Clarke away.
"Who else's idea would it have been?" Clarke asks. She didn't get a chance to talk to either of the Blake siblings beforehand, and she really wishes she had. Especially Bellamy. "Did you talk to him?"
"No. Duke Kyle said something, but he mostly just looked like he was going to fall over."
"I noticed." She worries her lip. "I thought he'd be pleased."
"He is," Octavia says, confident. "He's just too stunned to process it." She grins. "Believe me, he's thrilled."
Clarke was sure he would be, too. She never asked him about it, and it was only a little because she was afraid he might tell her he didn't think of her like that, that she was like another little sister to him. Mostly, either answer would have been awful to hear, in its own way. "I am too," she says, in case Octavia doesn't know. "I picked him."
Octavia hugs her quickly, and then helps her get changed out of her wedding dress into something less constrictive. "I'm very happy for you."
"I'm going to send Prince Finn a lovely wedding present." She pauses. "And his fiancee an even lovelier one."
Bellamy's already at the reception, looking nervous and out of place, but his color is at least a little better. He sits in a throne for the first time and looks wildly uncomfortable, and Clarke wants nothing more than to drag him away and assure him he'll be all right. He'll be a good king, she knows. He's smart and passionate and unflinching, and he can't help protecting people. He's going to be a great king, and he'll probably be a good husband too, if he loves her.
And suddenly, she can't deal with not knowing that anymore. She doesn't care if it's impolite, or if people will talk. She's married, and she wants to talk to her husband, in private, now.
"Thank you all for coming," she says, rising, and giving the crowd her most regal, serene smile. "But I'm afraid we have to retire. It's been a long day."
She's quite sure it's Kyle who lets out the first whoop, and she will have him executed for it someday. Bellamy looks mildly terrified, and her heart sinks. Aren't men supposed to be excited by the prospect of the wedding night? Maybe Octavia was wrong. Maybe he's annoyed. She should have just had him kidnap her, and then she could have figured out how to seduce him after.
"Clarke," he starts, and she's not ready yet.
"When we're--in private."
"Sure."
He sounds so miserable that she has to say, "Thanks." It just makes him look worse.
All of her confidence and vehemence from earlier is gone. Maybe she'd be happier not knowing. They don't have to talk about this now. They can wait. They can never talk about it. They're married; he'll probably grow fond of her. Eventually.
And then he offers to sleep on the sofa. The sofa. He'll do it forever, she's sure. Bellamy Blake, the perfect gentleman who was never allowed to be a gentleman.
"How long are you planning to sleep on the sofa?" she asks, sitting down on her bed.
He runs his hand through his hair. They straightened it a little for the ceremony, but it's curling again, just the way she likes it best. "It's comfortable," he says, awkward.
"Someone might check the sheets." She doubts they will, but--she doesn't want to just tell him she wants to share her bed with him. She's exhausted and upset and all she wants is Bellamy to hold her and tell her he doesn't mind that she chose him. But she doesn't know how to ask, because he might say he can't do it.
"I've got a knife," he offers, almost desperate. "I--"
She flops back with a huff of laughter, trying not to do something stupid, like cry or yell at him. It's been a stressful six months. "You've got a knife, of course. You'd rather stab yourself than have a wedding night."
"Hey," he says, all fraternal worry. Typical Bellamy. "That's not--I just don't want you to--" There's a pause, and then he says, "I'm so fucking sorry, Clarke. I can't--I shouldn't have done this to you."
She sits back up in utter confusion. "Done what?"
"I was supposed to kidnap you, not marry you. I know this wasn't--you didn't want--I should have said no. I shouldn't have made you marry me."
"Oh. Oh." The world realigns itself, and she puts it together all at once. Of course he was nervous. She's never had any say in who she'd marry, and he didn't realize she finally had. And he agreed to do it anyway. Of course he's worried she didn't want this. She nearly laughs, because it's so stupid, the both of them. "Bellamy," she says, trying not to smile, "you aren't the one who should be apologizing. My parents were panicking, trying to figure out someone I could marry. My mother wanted it to be Wells, but, fuck, I tried marrying the person they picked, and I wasn't going to do it again. This was my idea, Bellamy. It was such a disaster, they were desperate, I told them they could let me marry you now, or I'd do it when I turned nineteen and they could have Kyle for a king." She can't look at him, can't be sure she's not wrong. She doesn't want to see his face if he's going to let her down easy. "So, yeah. I'm sorry. I should have asked you, but there wasn't any time and I--I finally got the chance to pick who I wanted to marry."
"And you picked me."
"Yes. Sorry," she adds, just in case. But she barely even has time to worry before he's on top of her, pushing her down onto the bed and kissing her like he's been waiting for it just as long as she has, all force and clumsy passion, and she laughs in relief. He doesn't seem to mind, because he's too busy kissing her everywhere else, smiling like his face might break open. She's never seen him so happy, and for the first time that day, she's sure she knows exactly how he feels.
"I wish someone told me it was your idea," he says, when he finally manages to pull back and look at her. "I thought--fuck."
"What, you thought my mother picked you?" she asks, amused. She can't help adding, "I guess you don't mind." Just because she wants to hear him say it.
He does her one better. "I fucking love you."
She's sure she must have the most ridiculous smile on her face. "Good. I was pretty sure," she says, which is mostly true. The last few hours of nervous confusion aside. She leans up and kisses him too. He's her husband. She can kiss him whenever she likes. "Me too."
He laughs and buries his face against her neck. "So, I don't want to sleep on the sofa," he says, kissing her jaw. "At all. And I don't want to stab either of us."
"I thought the sofa was comfortable," she teases.
"I'd never been on your bed before. It's much more comfortable than mine. Princesses get all the nicest things."
She tangles her hands in his hair and kisses him. "We do," she agrees, and rolls them over. He grins up at her, and he's never going to sleep on the sofa. Not when he looks so good in her bed. "The very nicest things."