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Raven is the ultimate culprit.
Bellamy wouldn’t have pegged her as someone who fervently celebrated Christmas, but there she is one day, tying pine needles and a few berries together to create her own mistletoe. She hangs one in front of her tent, and then a few more around camp. He watches her wait in silence until two unsuspecting people walk under them. Then he witnesses chaos erupt as she hollers across the camp for the two people to kiss or be shamed, and he can’t help but shake his head at how they all cling to this tradition.
But it’s when Jasper and Monty start rigging traps that he sighs in defeat. Makeshift mistletoe start swinging from out of nowhere as people step in the wrong place, shift a little too much to the right, or try to use the damn ladle for their soup. Pine needles smack people in the face and, sure, there are groans, but they’re quickly silenced by someone swooping in for a kiss.
Hell, even Bellamy smirks when he and another are caught, and it doesn’t matter who it is, he’ll wiggle his brows, tease, “May I?” and if they nod, he’ll plant one on the forehead or slap a sopping wet one on the cheek. Maybe he could have lasted this final cold month of the year (or the what they suspected to be the last month), because Raven’s mistletoe wasn’t the real thing. Pine needles can never replace the leaves of Christmas green, and he is grateful for that because then it’s easier ignore the memories of how guards would dangle mistletoe over his mother and demand, demand, d e m a n d all she had in her.
( he is forever plagued by memories of old )
But he’s soon rolling his eyes and giving aggravated huffs as the millionth mistletoe flies from the air and lands above him. Or maybe he’s now on edge with them because he is with Clarke when she walks into these traps as they’re discussing what the camp needs. And he stares at the mistletoe (determined not to look at her), and he hears her sigh as Raven’s snickers and Monty’s muffled laughter echo across the camp. Bellamy does not smirk like usual, Clarke’s lip forms a slight pout as her gaze seems to search for somebody (they both know who), and soon they just walk away to form a hunting party or to attend a recent injury.
“You’d think they’d be worried about dying in the cold from hanging them up,” Clarke grumbles one day.
“They’re having their fun, Princess,” Bellamy replies as he clean his rifle.
“Well, they’ll sure have fun when I’m accidentally poking at their frostbite.”
He snorts, a smirk on his lips, and he practically hears her eyes roll. This is as far as either of them will acknowledge that this bond between them is all the warmth they need from the bitter wind.
***
The antics end soon enough. The cold finally sends the culprits to the drop ship, all huddled in blankets. Bellamy is finally driven to the same place after standing watch, walking in to see Clarke cleaning up her station for the night, trying not to waste too much of Monty’s moonshine on her meager tools.
“Royalty need their beauty sleep,” he quips, but there his voice goes again, dropping in volume to betray his w o r r y.
“I’m almost done,” she murmurs off-handedly, like she’s not really paying attention to him, but with the shift of her head toward him, he knows better.
“They’re not going to shine any brighter, Clarke.”
“I’d rather not have blood poisoning on my watch, Bellamy.”
“We’ve already dealt with blood poisoning, and we came out just fine.”
“That’s not the best case to use.” She finally turns, a scoff on her lips and annoyance in the way her eyes roll. But he stays there, smirking, letting his gun rely on the strap around his shoulder as he lets it fall.
“But we have survived, haven’t we?” he murmurs.
Her face softens as she shrugs, finally setting aside her equipment. “I’d just rather not have any more suffer because of my stupidity.”
“Ah, so you admit you can be stupid.”
And it’s so childish the way she looks shocked and insulted. She even sticks her tongue out and he laughs high and loud, surely waking someone. And he’s right, by how someone on the top floor of the drop ships slams his foot down and groans, “Shut the fuck up.”
But what he doesn’t expect is a damned green plant falling from the ceiling, escaping from its hiding spot, waving to and from by a piece of thread. Clarke looks up, scrunching her nose.
“How many more of those will we find months from now?” she asks, and it’s such a serious question that Bellamy chuckles out of his initial shock.
“I’m sure if we ever leave for the ocean and the Grounders come to salvage something, they’ll only find these,” he says. And then they both fall silent, watching the mistletoe stop swaying. His gaze flicks to her, and he watches as she swallows hard before looking to him.
And they just – stare. Because this is just as awkward when they were first caught under pine-needles-turned-mistletoe, but they don’t have anything to use as a distraction or an excuse to walk away. And Bellamy doesn’t know if he’s grateful there is no excuse.
“Christmas was my dad’s favorite holiday because of these,” Clarke says suddenly, and Bellamy has to cock a brow in question. “Because his antics with them got my mom to smile and laugh. Sometimes – sometimes it was hard for her to do that after she was elected onto Council.”
He grunts because he still remembers what the divide between the privileged and the not felt like on the Ark and he pretends not to see Clarke wince. Silence falls again. This time, Bellamy is the one to break it when he clears his throat.
“I don’t know what we’re doing.” It’s meant to be for that moment, wondering why they were still both standing there, but he says it like he’s trying to grasp the concept of how they work together and why they depend on each other. He says it like he needs to know why he treats her like a princess and why she needs him to be her knight.
She shrugs again, but keeps her gaze on him. “I don’t have the answers,” she admits, but it sounds like the same thing confuses her.
So he just lifts one corner of his mouth. Because he’s oddly comforted by her confusion and the fact that neither of them are alone in this. “May I?” he asks with a hint of a tease, and she rolls her eyes but nods nonetheless.
And he softly kisses her forehead, lingering there even though he knows he shouldn't. Yet as he pulls away, she gently grips his elbow. He thinks she says, “Wait” but isn’t sure because suddenly she’s leaning to him and pressing her lips right at the corner of his fading smirk.
When she pulls away, they’re both red, and he clears his throat again.
“Right,” he mutters.
“Okay,” she exhales slowly.
And so he nods to her and turns to walk away, his lips burning with the memory that they still don’t know what the hell they’re doing (but they’re doing whatever the hell they want with it).