Archive of Our Own

“Lemme ask you something.”

“Absolutely not.”

Raven crosses her arms. Bellamy doesn’t bother looking up to double check. He knows. Can hear the exact way her shoulders roll, a finely-tuned movement that radiates peak judgment without actually voicing it and if the growing pain between his eyebrows turns into an actual headache he’s going to be very annoyed.

He’s already lost track of the number of times he’s tried to write the same paragraph.

“You’re not going to let me ask you a question?”

“I might ignore it, honestly,” Bellamy admits, keeping his eyes trained on his laptop as he slides his empty glass towards her presumably still-crossed arms.

“What are you doing?”

Nothing. He doesn’t answer. He glares at the red squiggly line because he’s also lost track of often he’s tried to get Google docs to recognize latin sayings, but that’s apparently something the AI can’t understand or refuses to understand and the headache has moved to the base of his neck now.

He’s exhausted.

Blaming Google for all of it makes perfect sense at the moment.

“Oh my God,” Raven grumbles, shoving none-too-lightly at his arm. “God, what are you made of? Marble? Move over.”

“I am—”

“—Yeah, yeah, doing something really important, I bet. I’ve got even more important things to talk to you about.”

Several things crack when Bellamy rolls his head towards his shoulder. “You’ve got approximately twenty-six seconds.”

“Arbitrary number.”

“Cutting into your time, Rae.”

She sneers at him. Clicks her teeth together more than once. And he’s not actually counting, but he could if he wanted to and Raven is notoriously bad at refilling his drink. At this bar. That she co-owns. The same one Bellamy is seriously considering forwarding his mail to.

“Here,” she grumbles, and it takes another seven seconds to realize what it is she’s trying to do. Pull something out of her back pocket.

And elbow Bellamy in the spleen.

“God, what the fuck,” he cries. Heads snap his direction, most of them familiar because he really is spending most of his free time in this bar and this booth specifically and both Raven and Murphy have cultivated some kind of regular customer base.

The guy who sits at the end of the counter until six forty-two every night chuckles into his glass.

“Rae, Rae, Raven,” Bellamy chants, voice rising on every plea to obviously deaf ears. Or stubborn ears. Impossibly pig-headed ears. “Shit, God—” He catches her around the wrist, glaring what he can only hope are quite literal daggers, but the smile tugging at the ends of her lips makes him think he’s missed the mark just a bit and—

She’s holding her phone.

“Pretending to ask permission about asking you a question was a courtesy.”

“And I objected to that, so you had to rupture my liver?”

She sticks her tongue out. “Why would I do that when I know, in excruciating detail, just how much you need your liver to filter all the alcohol you buy from me?”

“Us,” Murphy amends from behind the counter. He flips a towel over his shoulder. Both Bellamy and Raven roll their eyes in tandem. “And, uh—you know, speaking of buying, you gonna do any of that at any point tonight, Bell? Ruining our business plan and—”

“—He’s trying to save for an engagement ring,” Raven whispers like it’s not the most well-known secret in Arkadia.

Bellamy’s current eye roll rate is not helping his headache. Which might be an impending and inevitable migraine at this point.

“I am drinking water,” he says, holding Raven’s wrists in one hand so he can nudge the glass closer to the edge of the table. It’s a very dangerous game. “You do not charge me for that.”

Raven glances at Murphy, and Bellamy can’t see her face — also dangerous. “You think that’s an observation or a command?”

“Sounded suspiciously like a command,” Murphy grins. “Weird, huh?”

“Like he owns the place.”

“Thinks he does, at least.”

Bellamy’s throat does not appreciate the force of his groan. “You’re both idiots, and I am your best customer even when I drink water so I can—”

“—Get my doctorate and prove how much smarter I am than all of you,” Murphy and Raven shout, but then there’s another voice and a noticeable squeak of hinges and maybe Bellamy will just buy them WD-40 to make up for all the water he’s consuming.

Fat lot of good it did him. His eyes still feel like they’re going to fall out of his head.

Monty manages to keep his arm slung over Harper’s shoulders as they weave their way through the half-filled tables, slumping over the space on the counter that’s also basically theirs. “Did we do it yet?” he asks, sounding almost out of breath.

“You suck at this,” Murphy growls.

“I’m going to take that as a no.”

Hissing in a breath, Harper barely meets Bellamy’s narrow stare before her head whips back around. It makes her hair move too. He’s never going to finish this essay.

“Raven…” Bellamy starts, but he can’t even get to what he is seventy-two percent confident will be a very scathing insult before the door swings open again.

Might come close to flying off those exceptionally squeaky hinges, honestly.

“We do it yet?” Jasper shouts, kicking the door behind him. A dozen people groan. Customers, included. Raven’s head slams into the top of Bellamy’s shoulder.

“Guess not,” Monty shrugs. “You guys should use your time more wisely, we said we were going to do it before we got here and then we’d be able to—”

“—To do what?” Bellamy demands. Somehow his voice rises on that question as well, wholly unplanned and a little cringey when it also threatens to crack on the last syllable.

Raven’s eyes close so tightly they manage to make her nose scrunch.

Harper sighs. And apparently takes pity on the lot of them, twisting behind the bar despite Murphy’s increasingly loud protests so she can grab the soda gun and—“You have grenadine here, yes?”

More customers groan.

Bellamy laughs. Some of the tension that’s taken up residence in between his shoulder blades loosens, and he’s not sure when he decides to move, only that he brings Raven, and her phone, with him and it’s a very old tradition. Alcoholic Shirley Temples because, once upon a time, when they were young and even more stupid than they are now, Clarke had thought that Shirley Temples were the pinnacle of class.

With parents who Jasper still regularly referred to as the upper crust elite, Clarke spent most of her childhood at parties where the only non-alcoholic drink was a Shirley Temple, smiling for photos that ended up in The Arkadia Mirror’s version of Page Six, and while Arkadia was not New York, it was the kind of place that revered the Griffins and their money and what they both could do for the town.

Quite a lot. At least four buildings downtown were named after members of the Griffin family.

And it was good. It was. The Griffins gave their money freely and for good causes, and Clarke was probably some rich-kid anomaly who didn’t want to depend on her family’s wealth, refused to rest on her mom’s medical laurels and her residency kept her away from the bar far too often now, but she was doing what she loved and what she was good at and—

“Here,” Harper says, sliding a glass that’s filled with liquid almost too red to be real at Bellamy. He blinks. More than once.

“Caught you by surprise, huh?” Monty asks knowingly.

Bellamy narrows his eyes. And takes a drink. Harper put way too much grenadine in. There’s a science to this — he assumes, at least. Clarke’s usually the one who makes them.

It drives Murphy nuts.

“Why are we drinking over-sweet Shirley Temples?”

Harper deflates. “Ah, c’mon! You guys are always critiquing how I do this and I really don’t think that’s fair at all.”

“It’s because he’s so preoccupied with thoughts of his wife,” Raven drawls, and she doesn’t slam her phone onto the counter. Because it’s a phone. And if the overall stickiness of the counter is any sort of sign, the imitation wood has not been wiped down in at least two hours.

There’s a general hum of agreement, and Bellamy’s growing suspicion that he’s being set up for something seems to latch onto every one of his vertebrae.

“Clarke’s not going to be here though, right?” Jasper asks. “Because that’ll blow our whole—”

Bellamy curses.

Six forty-two guy snorts that time.

“What do you guys think you know?”

Tapping a finger to the top of Raven’s phone, Murphy’s smile is unnaturally wide. “Did you think we wouldn’t figure it out?”

“Menacing.”

“The internet, Bell,” Raven says. “Honestly?”

Ice appears rather suddenly in his veins. It is painful to the point of being uncomfortable — although that might also have something to do with the speed of his jaw drop and how many other things crack in the process.

God, maybe he’s old.

That doesn’t bode well for any part of this plan.

“What do you think you know?”

Raven scoffs. Loudly. “Please. Think is insulting. I know for a fact that you are the M28 in this relationship subReddit post.”

He freezes. Well, relatively. Eyes widening in something that’s equal part surprise and shame, Bellamy can’t close his mouth or regulate his breathing. Air soars into his lungs only to be huffed out in the most dramatic way possible, five matching stares of absolute pity boring into every available inch of his skull.

The migraine would have been more comfortable.

“Might not be me,” he mumbles, but the lie threatens to burn his tongue. Temperature metaphors appear to be the only thing he’s able to do right now.

“No?” Raven challenges. “Ok, ok, aside from you being a twenty-eight-year-old male, the female in question is listed as twenty-six. You—you didn’t even want to change your ages?”

He doesn’t answer.

Can’t, really.

Harper drops three more cherries in his drink.

“Anyway,” Raven continues, “if you’re going to refuse to accept responsibility for posting about your relationship on the internet, then—”

“—Oh, oh, oh,” Jasper interrupts quickly, “ does this mean we get to read the post? I’ve got most of it memorized, so that’s no problem.”

If Bellamy melted into the floor, it would be a mercy. A small one, but idiots can’t be choosers. Or, however it goes.

And that’s another temperature metaphor.

Maybe he should start saying them out loud. He still can’t bring himself to talk.

And Jasper’s already reciting Bellamy’s internet post back at him.

“Professional student who brings in very little,” he says with a click of his tongue. “Bell, that’s really self-deprecating, and I don’t think it’s healthy that you feel that way. Clarke clearly thinks you’re real cute—” A towel smacks him on the side of the face. “Fucking hell, Murphy. God, we do not have to resort to violence, I am just trying to explain to our resident heartthrob that—”

“—Oh, should I be offended by that?” Monty mutters, pulling Harper closer so she can kiss his cheek. “Also, do you guys not have separate accounts? Like, isn’t that relationship 101?”

Bellamy’s breathing through his mouth now.

“We’re deviating,” Murphy points out, drawing an agreeing type of sound from Raven.

“Loathe as I am to admit—” There’s a cry of good word from the peanut gallery, which isn’t entirely unexpected since apparently none of them can have a coherent conversation, but Bellamy’s having a difficult time supporting his weight on his now very wobbly knees, and he’s going to have to buy Harper a gift.

Of minimal extravagance.

For being the only one to take pity on him.

“I think it’s kind of nice,” she says. “Look, let’s not beat any bushes, here. Bell is not pulling in the money that Clarke is or what she’s used to and if he wants to get her a trampoline, then he should be able to get her a trampoline.”

Six forty-two guys eyebrows pull very low.

That’s fair.

Strictly speaking, the whole thing is patently and absolutely absurd.

But Clarke’s been working crazy hours, and Bellamy’s got a vendetta against Google docs, and one of the first reasons he stopped using princess as an insult when they were in high school was because she told him, in slightly slurred words that were absolutely caused by an alcoholic Shirley Temple, that her greatest desire was to have a house with a backyard and—

A trampoline.

Thinking of Clarke Griffin, rich kid, very good doctor, even better friend, and the love of Bellamy Blake’s goddamn life, bouncing on a trampoline is a visual that has gotten him through at least three quarters of his PhD. So now, he’s going to do something about it.

He just...needs some money.

And a way to get it without getting another job. Or alerting his wife.

“How’d you figure it out?” Bellamy asks Raven, some of the edge leaving her expression. She eats a cherry before she answers.

“Shouldn’t have told Gina how much you enjoyed that subReddit. Also, why are you on Reddit? Does that make you a bro?”

“Or a big supporter of Serena Williams’ husband?” Monty chips in.

Bellamy sighs. “Neither, I hope. We only support Serena straight up.”

“God, are you drunk? You just used the phrase straight up in conversation. Like, an actual conversation. Right now, as a human.”

“This might not be a conversation,” Murphy objects. “You can’t give away your secrets to your ex-girlfriends, man. That’s all there is to it.”

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug is about all Bellamy’s muscles appear capable of. “Most of my ex-girlfriends don’t start dating my wife’s friends.”

“Oh, that stings, actually,” Raven says, enough sarcasm that it could alter the atmosphere. “Am I not your friend, Bell?”

“Not now.”

“Rude. Plus, don’t act like you and Gina aren’t still sending each other relationship subReddit posts. Half the reason this happened is because you sent her the one about the guy pretending to be that crazy character from Brooklyn 99 so his wife would love him again. That one was nuts.”

The overall circumference of Monty’s eyes feels a bit like a win.

“What kind of internet are you guys living in?” Jasper demands.

“An entertaining one,” Raven says. “Your fault, Bell. Those texts are basically your only means of communication with Gina these days.”

“Not true,” he objects, “occasionally we talk about your shitty customer service too.”

That gets him a laugh and another knowing look from Raven. “I knew because Clarke told me that she wanted a trampoline after she broke up with Finn.”

“Wait, what?” Harper exclaims, and that’s a fair question. Bellamy wonders if he’ll need physical therapy for the state of his jaw.

It hurts like hell.

“As with most good stories,” Raven explains, “it involves heartbreak, idiot boys, alcohol, and expressing our deepest desires that would happen in a perfect world.”

“And for Griff that included a trampoline?” Murphy quips.

“I am only relaying what I was told.”

“Several years later.”

“Yeah, well, I never thought this would come up in conversation until Bell started posting on the internet and my girlfriend’s a genius detective, so.”

“So,” Bellamy echoes. Pulling Raven’s phone closer, his own post stares up at him. Rife with more judgment and potentially poor decisions and he can’t believe how much trampolines cost.

“Why a trampoline?” Harper asks.

He runs a hand over his face, a very quick and even more obvious mistake. Moisture from the side of his glass clings to his fingers and then either one of his cheeks, and maybe he’ll just eat all the cherries in that bar.

“It felt like a normal kid thing,” he says. “Middle America, suburban kids who don’t—”

“—Drink Shirley Temples on the reg?” Murphy suggests.

Bellamy nods. “They have trampolines. They jump up and down for hours and hopefully don’t break any bones, and their mothers are not Doctor Abby Griffin who is convinced they will do just that.”

“Break bones?”

“Yuh huh.”

“So, really,” Jasper drawls, “this is Abby’s fault.”

Another nod from Bellamy. Who does not dislike his mother-in-law. At least much. She’s got opinions, and most of them were not very kind to him when he and Clarke started dating, but that’s probably because Clarke’s been through some shit and he would also like to avoid broken bones of any kind.

“She’s just been working so hard.”

Monty lifts his eyebrows. “Who? Abby?”

“Don’t be a dick.” Huffing out more air is not doing much to help Bellamy avoid the inherent drama of this conversation, but he hasn’t gotten many good suggestions about raising and hiding the four-hundred dollars he’d need to buy a fucking trampoline.

Really, the whole thing is so ridiculous, he genuinely cannot believe it is his life.

He’s happy it is.

“You said in the post you didn’t want to bring her to a trampoline park, though,” Harper says. “Why not? That’s—I mean, that could be kind of fun and romantic.”

“Owning the trampoline was part of the dream, though,” Murphy disagrees before Bellamy can. “Middle America kids don’t go to trampoline parks.”

“What are we quantifying as Middle America?” Jasper asks. “Like...Ohio, specifically?”

Monty shakes his head. “Nah, that’s still some eastern time zone, isn't it?”

“And that’s the distinction?”

“I mean, I said it—”

“—So it is law,” Raven intones. “Can we get back to the problem, please? And also, for the record or whatever Bell, I really enjoyed the randomly large text for emphasis on your post. She wants and deserves a trampoline, there is an inherent romanticism to it.”

Heat rises in his cheeks, wholly unbidden and out of control. “You’re not helping.”

“Yet.”

“Excuse me?”

“Seriously, are you on an insulting train right now?”

“If I move, I may fall over.”

“Should talk to your doctor about that,” Monty laughs, but Bellamy hadn’t noticed the small pile of papers on the stool next to him and he should have realized. They’ve come prepared. “Ok, so the gist of this is that you need to quickly get four-hundred dollars—”

“—How do you know what trampolines cost?”

Jasper gags. “Insulting! Seriously!”

“We looked it up,” Harper says, like that’s not ridiculously nice and a massive overstep in all of their collective relationships. Although, he did post about his marriage on the internet. So, grand scheme or whatever. “And we’ve got several good and very undercover ideas on how we can make this happen.”

Bellamy doesn’t jump when Monty slams the papers onto the counter.

The bottom one sticks.

The front door slams, drawing Bellamy’s attention from the water he’s trying to force into a boil. With his mind. It’s not cooperating.

“Hey,” Clarke says brightly, already out of her shoes and the arms that circle his waist as soon as she moves into the kitchen reek of their own brand of exhaustion. And something like lemon-scented disinfectant. “You didn’t have to make food. We could have ordered something.”

“This is nice, though.”

She hums, nosing at the line of his spine. It leaves goosebumps exploding under his shirt and his head tipping back and—

A pen clatters to the floor.

“Forget that was there?”

“Stop reading my mind, freak,” Bellamy mumbles, but all he gets is a laugh pressed into his shoulder blade and Clarke has to push up on her toes to kiss the back of his neck.

He still hasn’t bought a trampoline.

Or figured out how to get forty bucks, let alone four-hundred. Between squiggly lines and stories from the hospital, a few blissful hours of uninterrupted time in bed on Saturday morning, and the increasingly obnoxious opinions of their friends, Bellamy hasn’t done much of anything about his now-almost desperate desire to fulfill his wife’s greatest dream.

Part of him wonders if he should talk to Abby about it. Or maybe Marcus. Clarke’s step-dad is a little less...intimidating, and he’s always liked Bellamy, so that’s at least something he can build on, but it would also require him to have some free time and—

“Your sister called me today.”

Bellamy stills. He wasn’t moving much to begin with. “What about?”

“Did you hear what they’re doing this weekend?”

Blood tinged with ice cannot possibly be healthy. And yet it keeps happening to Bellamy with almost starting regularity. He does his best to keep from shivering, but that’s kind of difficult with Clarke’s arm wrapped so tightly around him and he’s not really upset about that.

Tugging on the ends of Octavia’s hair like he’s eight again, however, sounds pretty appealing at the moment.

“What’s going on with you?”

He nearly knocks the pot over when he spins. “What do you mean?”

“Nuh uh,” Clarke shakes her head. “Can’t answer a question with a question, that’s conversational cheat codes.”

“You’re confusing references, babe.”

“And you’re doing a real piss-poor—” Bellamy’s laugh bubbles out of him, which is what the water should be doing for the pasta he bought that afternoon, and he’s clearly lost control of the situation entirely. That probably happened when he started posting on subReddits. He can’t believe Octavia hasn’t called to make fun of him. The silence is almost deafening. “Ok, seriously,” Clarke grumbles, “you don’t get to make fun of my vernacular—”

“—Well, how can I when you’re using words like that?”

She sneers. And gives him ample time to kiss her.

Suggesting that she melts is probably unfair, if only because Bellamy really does seem to be on this temperature metaphor kick. Plus, he knows she’s tired and he’s tired, and he’s at least knowledgeable enough in his own kissing prowess to realize any semblance of normal between them is more than enough to make either one of them swoon.

Clarke tilts her head, stays balanced on her toes. Her arms move, though. Sling themselves over his neck while her fingers push into the too-long tuft of hair at the back of his neck.

He might be the one swooning, honestly.

Brushing her tongue across the seam of his lips draws a wholly unfair sound out of Bellamy, something almost like a rumble and possibly some sort of growl and he awards himself several thousand relationship points as soon as she yelps. When he rocks his hips up.

“Something about cheating again.”

Most of the words get lost between their mouths, neither of them all that inclined to move. Lemon stings Bellamy’s nose, and he couldn't care less. Wants to ignore that and anything else, but especially his sister and what he can only imagine is the world’s most elaborate plan.

And for at least thirty-two seconds of very near bliss, Clarke agrees.

Her fingers card through his hair and she threatens to bruise his lips, stumbling back against the nearest wall because, Bellamy assumes, it can’t be very easy to keep steady. He takes some pride in that, too.

A few thousand more points.

But then her phone buzzes.

Loud and incessant, the sound ricochets off all the walls. Even the one they’re practically writhing against and he should have at least moved them to the couch. Or turned the oven off.

Burning down their house won’t do much to help ensure there’s a trampoline in the backyard.

“That’s probably your sister,” Clarke mutters breathlessly.

“She can wait.”

“She’ll want to know what we think.”

“About getting you naked?”

She blushes, ducking her head against his chest like that’s an unreasonable sentence to say. He wants to buy her forty-seven trampolines. If not more. A kingdom of trampolines.

There’s a princess joke in there.

Bellamy doesn’t make it. He kisses the top of Clarke’s head instead.

“Maybe after we dance.”

Pulling away from her is the last thing Bellamy wants to do, but confusion ripples down his arms and into the fingers gripping her waist and he can’t do much except stare at her when she scrunches her nose like that.

Clarke is well aware of this. She’s probably got more relationship points than he does.

“From what O said, apparently there’s been several requests made of Murphy and Raven to use the bar for—”

“—Dancing?”

“A dance-a-thon,” Clarke corrects. “For charity and personal gain.”

“I’m not sure those two things really go together.”

“Have you ever spoken to Murphy before?” He widens his eyes, the only answer that makes sense in a moment that is the complete opposite, and Clarke taps the side of his jaw when a muscle there jumps. “Anyway, I guess my mom has been badgering him about it forever. Some fundraiser for the hospital, and people sign up and pay a registration fee and donate to good causes for sick people.”

“Your benevolence knows no bounds, Doctor.”

“The point is that they’re going to split the money they raise. Sixty percent to the hospital and the previously discussed sick people, who really do deserve it. And then forty percent to whoever can last the longest on the dance floor. There’s also apparently a trophy.”

“Of course there is.”

“Do I hear a note of disapproval?”

“Nah,” he says, and it’s not the lie Clarke clearly thinks it is. “O told you about this?”

“Said Murphy and Raven were a little annoyed Mom wants to do it on a Saturday, but that Emori reminded them it’ll be good pub and—”

“—No press is bad press?”

“That’s a weird cliché, don’t you think?”

Bellamy nods, kissing the bridge of her nose that time. “Might be. Are you off on Saturday?”

Hope rises in the back of his throat. Threatens the state of his tongue and the back of his teeth, half a plan starting to form, and Bellamy’s not the best dancer in the world, but he’s nothing if not stubborn and—

“Have to be available in case of emergency,” Clarke says. Sighs, really.

Hope disappears.

“But,” she adds quickly, “that doesn’t mean I can’t go. We can’t go. I mean—”

“—Do you want to go dancing, Princess?”

Gritting her teeth is not nearly as intimidating as Bellamy figures it’s supposed to be, especially when that post-makeout glint lingers in Clarke’s gaze. “It’s themed.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Mmhm, I guess that’s my mom too. All late sixties and early seventies, and I would bet you a gazillion dollars that it’s because she wants it to be like that Gilmore Girls episode.”

“Where they broke up?”

“Yeah, but Jess was better.

He can’t argue that. What he can argue is that—“That was supposed to be like a USO show. Does your mom not actually remember the episode?”

“Clearly not as well as you do.”

“It’s a good one,” Bellamy shrugs, Clarke’s phone threatening to vibrate off the table a few feet away from them. “Screw Dean.”

“That’s the spirit, for sure. Well, you can tell my mom all your very reasonable Gilmore Girl opinions when you see her on Saturday. Dressed like we’re going to a sock hop, or something.”

“Still the wrong decade.”

Her nose gets...scrunchier. “Defend history to me some more. We’re going to win that trophy and I’m going to run around with it like Kirk, but I will pick a better song than Eye of the Tiger.”

“You’re a competitive weirdo with musical opinions bordering on blasphemous.”

“Tell me you’re not into it.”

“I already talked about getting you naked.” Giggling Clarke might be his favorite Clarke. Seriously, maybe a hundred trampolines. That wouldn’t be over the top at all. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to go, though?” Bellamy continues, double-checking because this could work and he really needs this to work. “If you want to just—”

“—And listen to Monty tell me what a better dancer he is when he wins? Absolutely not. No, no, no, we are gunning for that title, Bell, and that money and we are going to get both and then I will never shut up about it.”

“You going to break heel your at some point?”

She blinks.

He grins.

“Lorelai broke her heel and Luke had to fix it. Palpable tension.”

“We’re already married.”

“Can we not be palpable?”

Something new gleams in her eyes — a spark that could very likely start a fire capable of boiling anything. Including, but not limited to Bellamy’s entire body. His mouth nearly crashes against hers, laughter ringing in the minimal air between them, and then Bellamy’s arms are moving and Clarke’s hands turn greedy and it is several miracles, medical or otherwise, that they don’t break any bones on their way into their bedroom.

He has to run back to the kitchen to turn the oven off.

“Well,” Octavia shouts when Bellamy walks into the bar the next day, “am I the smartest person in the world, or what?”

“Or what,” he says. Slumping into his booth, he lets his bag fall to the ground with a thump and he really needs a new laptop too. He’s strongly considering the possibility of his hard drive conspiring with the Google AI to drive him insane.

It’s working.

Typing anything takes far longer than it should.

“Bastard.” Bellamy doesn’t do much more than lift his eyebrows, Octavia immediately sighing and her drink is half gone already. “Where’s Clarke?”

“Working. As per usual.”

“But she’s going to be here on Saturday?”

“Was this your idea, O?”

“Do not give her any credit for this,” Raven groans, and she must be crouching behind the bar because Bellamy can’t see her.

Either that or insanity is far more subtle in its arrival than he originally expected.

“Abby showed up with a plan and a lot of pitiful buzzwords,” Raven adds, “talking about how we were some pillar of the community—” Bellamy isn’t sure what sound he makes. Guffaws, possibly. “—Shut up. The point is, you weren’t willing to do Cameo stuff, and we were running out of ideas.”

Octavia cackles. That sound is more obvious. “Who would pay for Bell to do Cameo videos for them? He is not famous.”

“That was our biggest problem. We were going to go on looks alone.”

“Jeez. Did anyone make fun of hm for the bracketed serious in the title of his post? Because I feel like you guys should have led with that.”

“There was just so much, y’know?”

“This is why I said no to the videos,” Bellamy mutters. “And, yeah, Clarke probably won't get called during this supposed charity event, so she’s going to be here for as long as she can, and we’re going to win and—”

“—You know she’s going to know you got the money, then, right?” Harper asks, appearing out of seemingly nowhere to ruin absolutely everything. Bellamy’s shoulders drop.

“She’s only saying that because she wants to win,” Octavia objects.

“And because Clarke keeps referring to Monty as Kirk in their text messages, which makes me Lulu in this scenario and I’m not into it.”

Murphy drops a stack of napkins on the counter. “Are we speaking in code?”

“No,” Bellamy mumbles, but the shadow of an idea has crept into the back of his mind and Clarke had been really focused on the money. That doesn’t make sense.

None of this makes much sense, though. So maybe it’s just all par for the course.

He really needs this to work.

Sending videos on Cameo would be embarrassing.

“So,” Murphy says, drawing out the word, “we’re good for Saturday. Dancing, drinking, avoiding weird intra-competitions that will ruin Bell’s hopes and dreams?”

Harper scowls. “I make no promises.”

“Tell Monty, he better look good in that costume,” Bellamy shouts, like this is a legitimate argument or he’s not weirdly attracted to his wife’s pop-culture trash talk. “Because all he’s going to get is a picture of us celebrating mine and Clarke’s win.”

He nods once. With authority.

At least an allusion to.

Octavia snickers. “Yeah, that did it, Bell. We’re all shaking in fear.”

This is going to work.

Music blares from speakers Bellamy knows Murphy only rented because Abby told him he had to. People crowd into every available inch of the bar, most of them looking almost respectable. If not for the costumes they’re all also wearing.

He’s really only worried about one costume, though.

Clarke’s pants are so tight Bellamy is legitimately worried he’s going to go cross-eyed before the night is over, and he’s confident he’ll think about the exact way she shimmied into them at least two times a day for the rest of his life.

Trying to find their friends is nearly impossible when people are already clamoring for Clarke, and Bellamy can hear Abby’s voice, even above the din of what sounds like a cover of Build Me Up Buttercup.

“Abort, abort, abort,” Clarke mutters, and her hand’s already tangled in his, but Bellamy doesn’t argue when she tugs him in the opposite direction of her mom.

“How can you move that quickly in those pants?”

She lets out a strangled laugh, tucked into a corner that, if there weren’t four-hundred dollars on the line, Bellamy would be more than willing to spend the night in. Her exhale tickles his chest when she drops her head, though, and that’s enough to pique his interest and his concern and he’s just about to ask her what is wrong when—

“Insert joke about dancing shoes here,” Jasper yells, clapping Bellamy on the shoulder. “Something about boogying, right?”

“If you have to double check, the joke isn’t that funny,” Clarke says.

“You think I’m hysterical, Griff. I know it. Nice pants.”

“Thanks, Bell’s super into them.”

He gags. “That’s disgusting.”

“Where’s Maya?”

“Had to work,” Jasper sighs, bringing a hand to his heart. Bellamy rolls his eyes. Starting early tonight, it seems. “You know those political types, Griff. Working their staff to the bone for reelection campaigns.”

“Hey, we said we weren’t going to talk about work or what a dick Wallace is for making Maya miss this,” Raven yells. She’s got her own ridiculous pair of pants on, suspiciously similar to Clarke’s — who is very interested in the ground when Bellamy taps his thumb against her wrist. “Yes, Bell,” Raven adds, “Clarke and I picked out outfits together, but she’s got a way better ass than I do, so the whole look is working better for her.”

Bellamy hums in agreement, fully expecting Ravens snarl. “You said it, not me.”

“And it will take an act of God to get me out of these pants,” Clarke adds even as Bellamy smirks. “Jeez.”

“We talking about Gods over here?” Monty calls, more than one glass in either one hand. He passes out drinks, Clarke shaking her head because she might have to leave, but this is going to work and it has to work and—“Because you should all be aware that you’re currently in the presence of a dancing god. Bow before my talent.”

There’s a chorus of groans and creative curses, but Monty preens as if they’re all accolades and Bellamy’s going to start keeping track of how often Harper sighs.

“When does this actually start?” Bellamy asks. Someone taps on a mic. There’s a mic.

Clarke’s twists in his arms. “Speaking of acts of God.”

Kissing behind her ear is the only reasonable response to that.

It takes Abby far too long to explain the far too many rules to a dance-a-thon that is supposedly for charity. Mentions of no stopping are repeated a dozen times, as are designated break times, and a strict no tolerance policy for sabotaging other couples.

Clarke glares pointedly at Monty.

“And of course there’ll be some fun surprises along the way,” Abby says, like that doesn’t strike fear directly into the center of Bellamy’s soul. The eyes of everyone in their entire group grow comically wide. ‘But that’s for later tonight. First, if everyone could make sure they’ve registered properly,” she gestures towards the number pinned to the front of her dress. Both Clarke and Octavia curse. Bellamy has no idea when Octavia got there. “And,” Abby presses, “that you’ve paid the registration fee. Of course, the last couple standing wins forty percent of what we raise tonight. In order to do that, couples have got to keep moving at all times and cannot be separated for more than sixty seconds, except during the designated breaks. We keep dancing until there’s only one pair left. And we start, of course, a classic.”

Time pauses. Silence of the anticipatory variety descends on the crowd, all of them waiting for—

“Oh fuck,” Murphy groans as the first few notes of what is undoubtedly The Hustle sweep over all of them. He’s also wearing bell bottoms.

If nothing else, Bellamy will be glad this happened for that one, singular moment.

“This isn’t even a couples dance,” Monty complains as Emori twists around him to hand out numbers none of them had bothered getting. She nods when Bellamy mouths thank you at her.

“Only if you’re not trying hard enough, Green,” he says, and it almost feels like something snaps into place. Competitive and determined and—

“Giant weirdo,” Clarke laughs. She’s still holding his hand. And the pants really are something. So, it doesn’t take much to spin her into his chest, doing his best to brand the specific sound of that specific laugh into every inch of his memory.

“You remember the moves, Princess?”

She presses up to kiss him. She’s wearing flats. Because they’re in this for the long haul. And this isn’t Gilmore Girls. “Let’s go, babe,” Clarke nods, already shimmying her shoulders as she moves towards the dance floor.

When Clarke and Octavia were in sixth grade, Bellamy remembers both of them complaining about how they had to do popular group dances in music glass.

Line dancing. The Electric Slide. The goddamn Hustle.

To this day, he cannot understand why it happened, or what it added to their overall education, but in this moment, he’s very thankful for Mrs. Morgan and her lesson plans. If only because Clarke keeps muttering the instructions to The Hustle under her breath.

It’s the single most endearing thing she’s ever done.

And she cried when they saw Spider-Man in theaters.

Like, the Tobey Maguire one. She cried when Uncle Ben died. No one else in the world has ever done that.

“Forward, forward, back, back,” Clarke chants, and her shoulders haven’t stopped yet. “Side, together, side, together, jump—”

“—Hop,” Bellamy finishes. She does just that, curling herself into his space with a smile that he’s sure could solve a variety of crises across the world, and there’s just enough lip gloss on her mouth that Clarke pulls away from him with a noticeable pop. “You’re a dancing fiend, Princess.”

“Muscle memory, or something.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what it is.”

“I tell you you look stupid good yet?”

Bellamy shakes his head, not all that pleased about having to move Clarke back to his side, but The Hustle demands certain things and he’s got to appease The Hustle right now. At least for a few more minutes.

He doesn’t remember this song being so long.

“Not in so many words, no.”

“You look stupid good,” Clarke says, tugging on the edge of a vest they’d found in a thrift shop in Polis. He’s never going to wear it again.

“Ridiculous patterns really do it for you, huh?”

“You do it for me, if you want to get technical.”

Stomach flipping is something he’s almost grown accustomed to when he’s around Clarke, even after years and ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends and that’s probably a sign of a successful marriage. One that will also soon include a trampoline. Dancing gods willing.

“Yeah,” Bellamy nods, pulling Clarke closer when the music changes, “let’s get technical.”

He’s dimly aware of his sister’s disgusted noise behind him, but he’s also pretty positive Raven is trying to take pictures of this and neither one of those things matter when Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons start playing.

“Does this count as sounds of the seventies?” Harper asks, head bobbing anyway. “Jersey Boys would have me believe that Frankie Valli’s popularity was strongest in the sixties.”

Emori clicks her tongue, not bothering to pull her head off Murphy’s shoulder. “Can popularity have strength?”

“If we don’t have to do The Hustle again,” Octavia says, “then I honestly do not care what the esteemed Doctor Griffin plays.”

“Nah, she’s making Jackson DJ.” Clarke nods towards the makeshift table and obviously rented equipment, neither Murphy nor Raven looking particularly impressed by the set-up. “Although, it doesn’t look like he’s spending the night alone.”

Octavia uses Jasper's shoulder as leverage, ignoring his protests until he decides to help and it’s actually impressive how they keep moving when her feet aren’t on the ground. “Oh shit,” she breathes, “he’s totally flirting with Miller.”

“No,” Clarke and Harper gasp.

Octavia’s nod reminds Bellamy of a bobble head.

He doesn’t say that. Maintaining use of his knees is crucial to dancing, after all.

“There is staring of the longing-type variety.”

“Maybe Miller can suggest better music then,” Harper mutters, but there’s still a hint of something in her voice and she can’t seem to stop smiling either.

Frankie Valli does that, it seems.

Bellamy shrugs. “Ya gotta let the music move ya, McIntyre.”

“God, you’re a romantic idiot.”

“Love conquers all.”

“Oh, that’s a good one actually.”

Flashing her a grin, he spins Clarke out again only and he cannot be expected to think of anything except the exact way her eyebrows pull low while she shimmies against him.

Shimmies, honestly.

This whole night might destroy his perception of reality.

“If Jackson doesn’t play Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You, I might riot,” Clarke warns. “And I don’t think O remembered all the steps in The Hustle.”

“Traitor,” Octavia shouts, another shift of limbs that causes Jasper to grit his teeth. “Just because you’re some dancing freak—”

“—Is that an insult in this scenario?”

“Your ass really does look great in those pants.”

Clarke beams. “I know, right? Seriously considered blowing you guys off tonight, but,” she tilts her head, eyes flitting towards a slightly confused Bellamy, “we want the money and the bragging rights that come with such an auspicious win.”

Curiosity curls around the base of his spine once more — and he’s not sure anyone else notices the shift in Clarke’s voice. Not only competitive, which she absolutely is, maybe even more than Bellamy, but what actually sounds like worry in the words.

That is—

Weird. Strange. He can’t come up with other words while she’s wearing those pants. Goddamn leather, seriously.

The music shifts again, distracting Bellamy from the look on Clarke’s face. Brows still pulled low and a slight shake to her bottom lip, but then those lips shift back into a smile that’s honest and might even be his and Monty stars singing as soon as the opening chords of Rich Girl plays.

Irony really is the dumbest thing in the world.

“Cause you know it doesn't matter anyway,” he yells, entirely out of tune. Murphy kicks his ankles. He doesn’t stop. Gets louder, maybe. And Harper’s laugh is enough to counteract the whole thing. “You can rely on the old man’s money, you can rely on the old man’s money.”

All of them scream “it’s a bitch, girl,” and Abby pales.

“That’s half the victory right there,” Clarke murmurs, swaying against Bellamy. He kisses her.

Obviously.

The theme is definitely sixties music.

Doctor Abby Griffin knows nothing about decades, apparently. Saturday Night by the Bay City Rollers plays loud enough that it feels like it’s echoing between Bellamy’s ears, the final moments of their second designated break of the night passing quicker than he’s entirely prepared for.

Muscles he didn’t know he had ache, and it’s not even midnight yet.

“You ok?”

Bellamy startles at the question, Clarke looking at him expectantly. She hasn’t said anything about being tired yet, but he can’t shake the thought that something is off and it’s also possible he’s just drunk.

The shot they all did to start the designated break is still burning the back of his throat.

“Fine, why wouldn’t I be?”

Clarke makes a noncommittal noise. “You’re doing the face.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What?” she sputters, blinking more than she has all night. Like she's been caught. In whatever is still attached to the base of Bellamy’s spine. It’s admittedly a disgusting metaphor.

“Clarke…”

“Nothing, nothing, that’s—”

“—Not an answer, Princess.”

“I have no reason to make faces. At all. Plus the break’s got to be almost—” She cuts herself off when her phone rings, what actually feels like dread draping itself over Bellamy’s shoulders. Whatever it is, it’s heavy. And lasts the entire duration of the call.

At least there’s a reason for this face.

And Get Right Back to Where We Started From is a far too upbeat song for this moment. Clarke looks distraught, lips parted when she turns back to Bellamy and Abby’s calling them back to the dance floor.

“It’s ok,” he promises, not meaning a single letter.

“It fucking sucks.”

“Well, yeah that too, but you’ve got to go save lives. That’s pretty hot.”

“I’m going to have to cut myself out of these pants.”

Bellamy’s laugh lacks any real humor, kissing Clarke’s forehead so he doesn’t do something stupid like drag her back to that corner. “Please don’t do that, I’m really invested in the structural integrity of these pants.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says. An easier promise to make. “Go, I’ll—” Get drunk, probably. Rip-roaring and possibly embarrassingly drunk. He doesn’t tell Clarke that. “Talk to Miller.”

“You’ll ruin his date.”

“He should have planned better, then.”

Clarke sighs. “I’ll see you at home?”

“Absolutely. Let me know when you get to the hospital, ok?”

He figures her kiss is the answer, watching her jog between couples that are starting to dance again and that door really needs new hinges.

Getting drunk it is, then.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Harper and Monty dance their way towards Bellamy, leaning against the bar with a half-finished drink that tastes like shit. “Oh my God,” Monty adds, “did you make that yourself?”

“Tough times,” Bellamy slurs.

“Where’s Clarke?”

“Got paged.”

“Is it the right decade for that?”

“None of this is the right decade,” Bellamy says, losing control of his voice’s volume and his arm probably shouldn’t feel that heavy when he waves it. He nearly backhands Harper. “Ah, shit McIntyre, are you—”

“—You are trashed,” she interrupts. “Why does your alcohol tolerance suck so much?”

“Spending too much time reading.”

“That’s definitely what it is. God, this is depressing. Clarke’s really gone?”

He nods slowly, neck refusing to do anything else. Everything’s starting to look a little hazy. He wouldn’t put a fog machine past Abby, though. Just for ambiance. Atmosphere.

“Oh shit,” Emori breathes, rocking back and forth. The movement makes Bellamy dizzy the longer he stares at her. “You can’t sit here, Bell.”

“Why not?”

“There’s like...six-hundred dollars on the line.”

Sobering entirely is impossible given the amount of rum he poured in this glass, but Bellamy’s vision almost sharpens on those words. “Seriously?”

“Here,” Emori presses, holding her hand out. It takes Bellamy four tries to grab it. “C’mon, we can—John doesn’t actually want to dance anymore.”

“I do not,” Murphy yells, “that’s absolutely true.”

Nodding once, like that’s all it takes to save the night, Emori nearly yanks Bellamy’s arm out of his socket. “Let’s go, Blake.”

He doesn’t entirely understand what’s happening. Words appear on his tongue that make sense in his head, but he can’t actually articulate them and he can hear Emori talking. Mumbling encouragements and just keep shuffling your feet and he can’t do much else.

“Breathe too,” Emori adds. “We can still win.”

Collective pronouns catch him off guard, but Emori just smiles at him like he’s two decades younger and—

“Should have just come to us first, Bell,” Raven says, while she and Gina do some kind of dance that involves a lot of bobbing on the balls of their feet. “We’re going to get you this money.”

He believes them.

For the next hour. Music shifts without him entirely noticing — only certain there’s way too much Hall & Oates on whatever playlist Jackson is using, and that Sweet Caroline really does have some creepy undertones, but the crash draws Bellamy out of his alcohol-stupor and he focuses on keeping himself upright.

“Ah fuck,” Emori sighs, and they both freeze when they see some doctor Bellamy met four holiday parties ago stumbling behind the bar.

Abby gasps.

It’s a genuine shame Clarke missed this.

“Could use some help over here,” Murphy shouts, trying to push the doctor back towards the floor and away from the bottles he’s already knocked over. Liquid threatens to spread onto the floor, Emori’s eyes darting from the scene back to Bellamy and he hears himself telling her to go before he realizes what that will mean.

Octavia lunges towards him, but Harper’s even faster and Monty looks far less disappointed than all their trash talk would have suggested.

Bellamy catches Harper. Quite literally. In his arms.

She laughs.

“Keep moving, keep moving,” she instructs, and he can’t bring himself to argue. Elton John is a strangely appropriate soundtrack to this. Bellamy actually thinks he sees Murphy shove the doctor back in beat.

“Better than Gilmore Girls?”

Harper’s feet speed up. “Don’t jinx it.”

Naturally, that’s exactly what he does. Like an idiot. A drunken idiot.

The doctor is long gone, and Clarke’s got here text appears behind Bellamy’s exhausted eyes every time he blinks, and he’s positive he imagines the snap of Harper’s heel. She curses a variety of gods. It’s honestly impressive.

There’s only one couple left.

It might be close to two in the morning.

“No, no, no,” she mutters, but she’s already wobbly on her feet. Elton John’s entire discography must have played by now.
Really there is no theme to any of this.

“Sixty seconds,” Bellamy says. “We’ve got sixty seconds and we just need—”

“—Murphy,” Harper screams, jerking Octavia awake. She’d fallen asleep several Elton John albums and two Partridge Family songs ago. “Murphy, I need glue! Now!”

Abby startles, arm falling off the side of the DJ table it was resting on, and Bellamy’s never felt more ridiculous than he does right now. Swaying by himself while a couple he’s never met looks primed to take his six-hundred dollars.

Jackson is counting down.

“Shut up,” Bellamy cries, but his muscles feel like they’re actually contracting under his skin and they’re already in the forties and he needs someone. Anyone. “O! Octavia, you’ve got to come over here. Right now.”

She’s still half asleep. The groan is a tell-tale sign, remnants of teenage years past. Desperation claws at Bellamy’s brain, because he’s come this far and he needs this money. He’s seriously considering knocking two strangers to the ground when he feels a hand on his elbow and—

“You owe me for this,” Jasper snarls. “I was perfectly content sleeping on O’s exceptionally bony knee, and now I’ve got to play Prince Charming to your damsel in distress.”

Being speechless is something Bellamy’s come to understand in the last few days, although he can’t quite stop his laugh. That might just be the last shot he had.

Any shots were probably a mistake.

“My hero,” he mumbles, and half the remaining conscious crowd applauds as Jasper legitimately twirls him. With a surprising amount of grace.

Bellamy has no idea how long they last.

Only that they last longer than the nameless couple he has no intention of ever interacting with again. They win.

Him and Jasper.

Who immediately thrusts Bellamy’s hand in the air as soon as Jackson mumbles out the words.

The trophy feels heavier than it probably is.

No one tells Clarke.

It’s a lie of omission that Bellamy reasons they’ll fix eventually because—

“What about this one?” Raven asks, three days later in the Target aisle that is apparently solely focused on backyard accoutrements.

“It’s the only one here, Rae.”

“Why are you ruining this?”

“You want to help me lift it?” Bellamy counters. Raven flips him off. And helps. So does everyone else, because buying a trampoline is one thing, but putting it together is something else entirely and it takes up most of the space in their backyard.

“Goddamn gorgeous,” Monty proclaims once Bellamy strings the last net, and he can’t bring himself to disagree.

They wait for Clarke. Sit on the couch. Walk around the living room in aimless circles. None of them dare get on the trampoline, something about deep-rooted dreams that require the dreamer in question to jump first.

And Bellamy’s impatience is just about to get the best of him, hands stuffed in his pockets, when he hears the car and the car door and Clarke’s eyes go impossibly thin as soon as she notices all of them.

“Is this an intervention?”

Bellamy shakes his head, turning the music down because this feels like a moment that deserves well-articulated sentiment. Especially when that music isn’t from the appropriate decades. Wedding Bell Blues was definitely released in the 60s.

“No, no, not an intervention. A surprise.”

Something happens. Nerves ripple across Clarke’s face, pulling her up short at the same time confusion returns in full force to every part of Bellamy’s brain. He glances at Raven.

Who shrugs.

“You’re going to like this Clarke, we promise,” Octavia says, doing her best to divert any possible catastrophe. “It’s good, and uh—just remember that sometimes lying is romantic.”

“What?”

Bellamy grimaces. “I—well, we didn’t lose the dance competition. Your mom didn’t tell you that?”

“No,” Clarke whispers, and something is wrong. He plows on all the same. Life-long dreams provide a very narrow mindset.

“I’ll have to thank her for that, actually. We, uh—I didn’t even think about talking to her, we we were all kind of exhausted and—”

“—Bellamy was too busy swooning over my sweet, sweet dance moves,” Jasper adds.

Clarke’s eyebrows fly into her hairline. “You and Bell won?”

“There was a crazed doctor,” Harper explains, “my heel broke. It was a whole thing. Amy Sherman-Palladino wishes she could write something like this.”

“After the revival, for sure.”

“I live for your scathing revival opinions, you know that.”

“Ok, so...why didn’t anyone tell me that Bell and Jasper won?”

Squeezing one eye shut is not the most mature thing Bellamy has ever done, but compared to everything else, it’s almost understandable. He will rationalize it that way, at least. “That’s the surprise. We needed the money. Or, I needed the money.”

“For what?”

“The surprise, Griff,” Monty cries, rushing towards the back door. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. I can’t wait anymore.”

Clarke doesn’t look entirely convinced that this isn’t an intervention, or a dream, but she laces her fingers through Bellamy’s when he offers his hand and that’s got to count for something. As do the numbers he starts reciting in his head, trying to regulate his breathing and maintain consciousness and—

She gasps.

Ten-thousand points. Five-million points. All the relationship points.

“Ta da,” Murphy drawls, squeezing around Clarke and Bellamy where they’ve stopped in the doorway. Her jaw has dropped as well, eyes gone a little glossy. Tears spill onto Clarke’s cheeks, tugging her lips behind her teeth and Bellamy hopes the slow shake of her head is in objection to something other than his romantic tendencies.

“You like it?” he asks, softer than he wants and a bit more needy than he is.

She stops moving her head.

Spins towards him without any grace at all, stepping on his foot in the process and the pulse that beats under Bellamy’s fingers is erratic at best. He tightens his grip around her wrist. Like that will be comforting, somehow.

“What’s the matter? Is it—I mean, you wanted a trampoline, right? For as long as I’ve known you. This is...it’s a good trampoline. Rae and I read reviews.”

“We did,” Raven confirms, already sitting on the edge. “Plus, it was the only one Target had in our price range, but presumably you’ll bounce as well on this one as any other, so—”

“—I can’t get on that,” Clarke interrupts.

Bellamy didn’t hear her. That’s the only explanation. She said something else, and he’s still tired and misunderstood and now he’s the one shaking his head.

“Wait, what? I—I wasn’t trying to hide the money. That was...ok, that might have been a dick move, but it’s not like I’ve got a ton of disposable income and the Cameo idea was shit.”

“Hey,” Harper shouts. Emori shushes her.

Bellamy almost feels like he’s been jumping for hours. Thoughts bounce off the inside of his skull, all of them reminding him of what an idiotic plan this was and he should have asked her, or told her the truth, but he also kind of thought this was romantic in a better than Amy Sherman-Palladino kind of way and—

“I’m pregnant,” Clarke says.

Someone curses. It might be Bellamy. It’s definitely Bellamy.

“No shit.”

Tears continue to fall on Clarke’s cheeks, but he can also hear her laugh and it’s way closer to a giggle and also entirely his and he’s moving rather quickly after that.

Tilting his head is the easy part. Kissing her is second nature. The fire that erupts in his stomach is entirely different, though. Happiness that might actually be joy erupts in every inch of him, what might be his own tears and his own laugh, pressed directly into Clarke’s mouth, and Bellamy can’t move his hands fast enough.

He wants to touch every inch of her. Wants to stare at her for at least several hours and the duration of Frankie Valli’s discography and someone is playing Frankie Valli on their phone.

Raven’s too busy taking pictures, so it’s not her.

Might be Murphy, actually.

Bellamy doesn’t care. He’s far too preoccupied with kissing his wife and getting his fingers under her shirt and that draws a few complaints from the peanut gallery and he doesn’t care about that either.

“Probably why my mom didn’t say anything about the dance-a-thon,” Clarke murmurs, without pulling away from him. He’ll definitely think about that all night. “She got me in quicker with the OB-GYN and then I was kind of freaking out and—God, that’s why I wanted the money. Kids are ridiculously expensive.”

He’s absolutely crying.

So is Jasper. And Octavia. Murphy’s definitely the one playing music.

“Yeah,” Bellamy nods, “they are, but—”

“—We’re already way ahead on the parent game with the trampoline in the backyard.”

“You can set bones in your sleep.”

“That’s one of my strong suits, for sure.” Whatever sound he makes is part thrilled and part terrified and even more content in an overwhelming, life-affirming kind of way. “It’s a really good trampoline, though,” Clarke adds. “Ten out of ten, would swoon over this again.”

Doing anything but kissing her senseless is ridiculous. And Bellamy’s had enough ridiculous to last him...at least until their kid comes.

Their kid. They’re going to have a kid.

“So, uh,” Monty mutters, drifting towards the entrance of the trampoline, “can we bounce yet?”

Clarke nods. “Yeah, you can absolutely bounce.”

They stay for hours. Bouncing and laughing and drinking more than they should, but Clarke reasons it’s better to get it out of their house and Bellamy can’t argue with her. About anything.

So, he doesn’t do much more than lift his eyebrows expectantly when she drops next to him on the trampoline. Not quite the bouncing she deserves, but—

“I love you,” he says, way too loud and even more honest and she blushes. Giggles too. Makes him wonder if he can marry her all over again.

They never did that on Gilmore Girls.

Or any of the relationship subReddit.

“I love you too,” Clarke smiles, “and you should probably add an update to your post.” His breath catches. Even louder. She laughs. As loud as possible. “Babe, you are not subtle. And you send me those posts all the time. Plus, I know you and Gina still show each other your favorites. She told everyone about the guy pretending to be the Brooklyn 99 character to catfish his wife. Yours was right underneath it.”

“You didn’t say anything, though! You were surprised about the trampoline!”

She shrugs, the ends of her hair tickling his arm. “I was, because I didn’t know you won. Although I really was gunning for that money to start a college fund.”

“Please, kid’s going to get a full academic scholarship.”

“Aiming high, aren’t we?”

“Absolutely.”

Nothing except the music plays for a moment, and Bellamy hopes he didn’t mess anything up. Clarke’s fingers are warm when they curl around his. “Absolutely,” she echoes. “Makes sense on a trampoline, doesn’t it?”

“Would you call that a cliché or a metaphor?”

“I don’t care, so long as I’ve won.”

He chuckles, flipping his head to nose at her cheek. No more tears. Just the edge of her smile and the kind of happiness that feels like the start of everything else.

They fall asleep out there.

It’s the best he’s slept in days.