A/N the First: Hi, all! This is the final story in my Excuse Me, That's Mr. Princess to You (the first two being Going Courtin' and Bless Your Beautiful Hide). There'll be 6 chapters. As ever, thank you to my beta read mxpw and to everybody who's left reviews! Chapters will be posted pretty quickly, all in all.

Make It Through the Winter
The Cup Dance

But we gotta make it through the winter
Or we won't get lovin' in the spring.
Make It Through the Winter, 7 Brides for 7 Brothers

Bellamy wasn't sure which fact he was having a harder time believing: that he was married to Clarke Griffin, or that she hadn't already speared him through the chest.

Granted, they'd only been married about two hours, so maybe the latter was a bit premature. But the former—well, that was strange. He had a wife. He was somebody's husband. It was all political and just for show, purely what he suspected to be a power-play against Clarke (a foolish move; Clarke responded to shows of force in ways you wouldn't expect, except that it usually involved scorched earth). But even that didn't change the basic facts: they were married. And the strange thing was that Clarke hadn't seemed overly depressed or even oppressed during the ceremony, where they'd had to kneel in snow and freeze their damned asses off.

Instead, she'd laughed at his stupid jokes. Perhaps they'd stepped into a parallel dimension or maybe the Grounders had drugged her. He knew for sure that he wasn't going to tamper with anything that made Clarke—or any of their group—happy. Though, really, he'd always expected that if he ever did get married, the bride would be the one wearing the dress. The kilt they'd given him was just damned inconvenient, what with all of the drafts and leaving his calves exposed.

He didn't understand what the Grounders had against pants. Pants were convenient. Pants were warm.

The feast was going strong in its second hour, with the Grounders practically gorging themselves. "It's the last feast before we tuck in for the rest of winter," Lexa said when she stopped by their table. "The eating will not be this good again for months. I suggest you enjoy it."

"But I thought—it was thawing…" Clarke looked genuinely puzzled, which Bellamy understood. He himself had been expecting that planting would begin soon.

Lexa gave them an almost-fond look. "The first thaw marks the turn of the tide, when winter begins to weaken its hold. But there are still hard months to come. Spring is not always kind."

"I thought it was almost over," Clarke said after the Grounder leader left. The scowl on her face was almost breathtaking to behold for its ferociousness, so Bellamy patted her shoulder consolingly. "Guess I'll need to warn the other medics."

"Time for that later," Bellamy said, pulling a plate of roast goose toward him and dishing a liberal portion onto his plate. "You heard the lady. Food's not going to be this good for a long time. Dig in."

"Always thinking with your stomach," Clarke said, but amusement threaded through her voice. Bellamy did not point out that she ate just as much as any of the boys. Only Jasper could put away more food, though where it all went was a mystery to everybody else. "Octavia and Lincoln look happy."

Bellamy grunted as he chewed meat off of a bone. As their seconds, Octavia and Lincoln were seated at the table nearest them with some of the others from their group. As much as he didn't always like Lincoln, it was nice to see his sister smile like that, so carefree for once. "O got to stand up in front of a crowd and look threatening, and she wasn't even pressured into marriage over land rights. It was a good day for her."

Clarke snorted and helped herself to one of the gelatin cubes from the dish he'd deliberately set as far away from him as possible. Bellamy had no idea how she could eat those, knowing what they were, but she always shrugged it off. "Good day for everybody, I think," she said.

Even us? Bellamy wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth full so he didn't.

A round of wine was brought round to all of the newlywed tables. As much as Bellamy wanted to abstain (his head was still ringing a little from the thistle wine that had gotten them into this mess in the first place), he accepted his cup, frowning. To make matters worse, the Grounders had been overly generous: the goblet had been filled with the barest millimeter of space between the wine and the brim. Lincoln shook his head before Bellamy could even lift it to drink. He paused.

"What is it?" Clarke asked, clearly expecting trouble.

"Not sure. Lincoln says don't drink. Either it's poisoned or—"

A cheer rose up from the room as all of the other newlyweds stood. "Oh, great," Bellamy said under his breath, pushing himself to his feet. He stuffed a bit of a roll in his mouth since, well, food didn't just come from anywhere these days. When the others in the wedding parties headed for the dance floor with their cups of wine held over their heads, he and Clarke did the same. The couple closest to them looked over with wide smiles, like they couldn't wait to see Clarke and Bellamy's reactions to whatever was about to happen. Through some pantomiming, they indicated that Bellamy should hold the wine in his left hand and Clarke in her right, and that they should hold hands. They stood with the others in a loose circle.

"I have a very bad feeling about this," Bellamy said, twining his fingers through Clarke's.

The music started. The clapping from the crowd followed, and the other newlyweds started to walk in the circle, holding their cups aloft.

"I think it's a game," Clarke said. "We're not supposed to spill."

"What happens if we do?"

"Let's not find out."

Around them, Bellamy could feel the excitement from the crowd growing. The walk sped up, all of the Grounders instinctively seeming to know the steps and tempo. Presumably, they'd grown up with games like these. Bellamy, on the other hand, was completely lost. At least Clarke was right there with him, stomping a beat behind the others and gamely trying to catch up when they changed directions.

Bellamy could practically hear Jasper, Monty, Miller, and Raven dying of laughter in the back of the hall, but he did his best to ignore them—until the spinning started. The couples moved around the floor in geometric patterns, weaving in and out, and it was everything Bellamy could do not to crash into anybody else.

The couple across from them spilled first: wine sloshed from the man's goblet onto his fist, and the room let out an uproarious cheer. Chanting broke out, the same two words repeated.

"Well," Clarke said, "now we know the Treigedasleng term for 'chug it.'"

"Always an education." Because the others were lowering their glasses, Bellamy took the opportunity to do the same. In the middle of the circle, the losing couple raised their cups the roof, entwined their arms, and drank from each other's cup. Neither stopped drinking until they'd finished the entire drink, which they showcased by presenting the cups in a flourish and holding them upside down over their heads. The room went absolutely wild. The couple left the circle to good-natured jeers from all of the other participants.

"It's like one of those old parties in the vids," Clarke said, letting out a little laugh. "And whoops, back in the circle again. Here we go."

Indeed, the dance started up exactly the same way it had before. The slow walk became a faster walk, and then the weaving in and out of the other couples. Bellamy's arm began to ache pretty quickly into that round, but if Clarke wasn't going to spill, he wasn't going to spill. In the end, they were fourth. Bellamy's arm burned so badly that he'd gritted his teeth and sweat had sprung up on his forehead and neck, but he kept his hand absolutely steady until Clarke muttered an oath and stepped on the outside of his foot. Wine splashed out of both of their goblets.

This time the roar was the loudest it had been all night.

"Sorry. I was a little tired of the game," Clarke said.

"If you hadn't done that, I was about ready to. My arm is killing me." It took them a second of maneuvering to figure out how the others had interlocked their arms to drink from the goblets, while the audience laughed and shouted suggestions in two different languages. Bellamy had to stoop a little so it wouldn't be awkward.

He took a deep breath and was about to drink it all when he got a good whiff of the wine. He automatically jerked his head back, which made the room positively explode with booing. Clarke, who'd already started drinking and was apparently committed to the chug-it philosophy, widened her eyes at him in question.

"It's strawberry," he said, pulling his head as far away from the goblet as he could. He was lucky it had missed his skin entirely when he had spilled. "I can't drink that."

Clarke's eyebrows descended for a second before she seemed to understand. She pulled the goblet away from him, holding it behind her back. By then, the crowd was shouting insults, though he could see some of his friends in the back looking concerned. The other three couples still on the dance floor were shooting him unimpressed, puzzled looks.

"What is this?" one of the warriors on the edge of the dance floor called. "Sky People think they're too good for our finest wine?"

Bellamy bit his tongue hard.

"Look at that! His woman drinks while he stands there—easy to tell who leads the other by the nose in this marriage!"

As true as that was, Bellamy could outright feel his hackles rise. He started to move around Clarke to go prove his point with his fists, but she grabbed a handful of his shirt right as she finished her drink. "That's right," she said, spinning around to give the man a vicious look. "I can drink for both of us, and Bellamy goes where he wants."

And while Bellamy gaped at her, outright stunned, she lifted the full goblet she still held and began to drink that one, too.

"Whoa! Clarke!" He tried to grab it away from her, but she kept her grip on his shirt, holding him back. He could only watch in absolute amazement as she downed it all, eyes scrunched closed. The crowd's chants grew louder the longer she drank. When she finished it and gulped in air, the applause became deafening. Clarke snatched the empty cup from Bellamy's slack hand and held both aloft. "Whoo!"

She then turned and gave him a "so there" look that was so her that Bellamy couldn't do anything but laugh. Impulsively, he hugged her, hard. "My hero," he said, scooping her up the way he would Octavia. He spun them both around.

"Ohhh, bad idea," Clarke said when he put her down on her feet. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Can we go back to the table now? That was—that was a lot of wine."

Instantly, concern replaced the euphoria. "Can you walk?"

"You're not carrying me out of here," Clarke said, her chin lifting.

"Then bow for the crowd, Champ, and let's go before you pass out and ruin that new street cred of yours."

Clarke raised her fists again to another round of cheering, and led the way off the dance floor. Grounders crowded in, wanting to pat her shoulders and arms as she passed, but Bellamy stepped up so he was right next to her, blocking them from getting to her. Right before they reached their table, he made an executive decision and pulled Clarke the other way, slipping out into the night when nobody was paying attention.

"Oh, that feels good," Clarke said, her head immediately lolling back. This was apparently too much for her coordination, for she would have toppled backward if Bellamy hadn't caught her. She blinked up at him, her brow wrinkling. "Where'd you come from?"

"Wow, now you're the one who's drunk. Um, here, sit down."

"No, I need to—" She pushed him away, moved to the bushes, and stuck her finger down her throat. Bellamy barely had time to grab her hair and pull it away her neck before she was retching and throwing up.

"Wow, we're getting the 'in sickness' part of the vows out of the way first, I see," Bellamy said, not sure what he was supposed to do.

She turned slightly to give him a malevolent look. "I did this for you, you jerk."

"I'm sorry. Bad joke." Warily, he rubbed her back, between her shoulder blades, in a gentle circle. She threw up again, coughing until she dry-heaved. Finally, she wiped her mouth. "Feel better?"

"Ugh." Instead of giving him an answer, she turned and burrowed into him, pushing her face into his chest. He froze, and she made a protesting noise in the back of her throat. He really had to stop doing that, he thought, wrapping his arms around her.

The door to the hall opened and Octavia stepped out. "What was that?" she asked Bellamy right away. "Lincoln says you got lucky the crowd was so impressed by Clarke, otherwise they would have been really insulted by the fact that you didn't drink."

"Then they shouldn't have given me strawberry wine," Bellamy said.

"Oh," Octavia said. Strawberries had been a luxury aboard the Ark, but Agro station had given the guards in his district a nice-sized basket, and he'd taken a few home for his mother and sister. His face had swollen up like a balloon. "When you put it that way."

"Yeah, I didn't think it would be a great thing to die at my own wedding reception."

"How is she?" Octavia asked.

Clarke made a wordless grumble. "I'm fine," she said, but her words were slurred. "Just need a minute. Then we can go back inside."

"Can you get some water, and whatever plain food you can find?" Bellamy asked, ignoring Clarke.

Clarke shook her head, not moving. "Can't stay out here. Your knees will get cold."

"My knees are fine, Champ. O, see if anybody has any of that hangover stuff, and let the others know, quietly, that we might not be back. See if Lincoln can cover for us."

"On it." Octavia lifted her eyebrow at the way they were standing, and Bellamy decided to ignore that. After the almost oppressive heat of the hall, and the noise and the crowd, it was nice to stand outside in the cold and the quiet, even if he was worried about Clarke, who must feel awful if she was willing to lean on him so openly.

"We should go back inside," Clarke said after Octavia had left. "Everything needs to go right—the land—"

"Anybody ever tell you that you have a one-track mind?"

"Well, if you're willing to throw months and months of work away, then fine." Clarke stepped away from him—which made all the cold come rushing back in—and took a seat on a boulder that was mostly clear of snow. She put her face in her hands and moaned.

He sat next to her and arranged the kilt to cover up as much of his knees as possible. "Doubt it'll be that bad," he said. "Besides, if they say anything about it, we could always challenge them to a drinking game. Pretty sure you'd win."

Clarke started to laugh, and then broke off to moan. "Don't mention alcohol of any kind, please," she said, curling in on herself. "It's times like these that I miss pain pills. I'm going to be so hungover tomorrow. Anything else you're allergic to that I need to know about since we're married now?"

"Just strawberries. You can throw yourself on those to protect me all you like, wife."

Clarke moaned again. "That's still so weird. We're married."

"Tell me how you really feel, Princess."

"I liked Champ more. And…I don't know. Doesn't feel real."

"You defended me to a room full of the natives," Bellamy said, shaking his head. "Seemed pretty wifely to me and—oh, don't give me that look, I'm messing with you."

"You should smile more."

Bellamy jerked his head to look at Clarke. "What?"

"You asked me how I really felt. You should smile more. It's nice." Clarke shut her eyes and leaned her head back so that her hair spilled down her back. The moonlight had turned it all silver, giving her an otherworldly appearance that suddenly made Bellamy's mouth feel very dry. "My head is going to hurt so much tomorrow. It hurts now, actually."

"Well," Bellamy said, since he was still caught off-guard by her unsolicited remark, "does it make you feel better knowing you're my hero now?"

"Pfft. You could hold your own if you had to."

"Even so."

Clarke opened her eyes, her brow wrinkling. "I think being married could be okay. I mean, knowing my mom, they'll just keep us in separate quarters and everything, so it'll just be us with a little extra."

"I'm sure that's it," Bellamy said, and he kept quiet as a thought occurred to him: for a moment, while she'd stood valiant and tall and had chugged that wine for him, he'd completely forgotten that the marriage wasn't real, that it was just a ploy for the land.

And it scared him a little just how much he hadn't minded thinking that.

A/N the Second: Poor Clarke. That's gonna hurt, come tomorrow.