3.1 | six ways to sunday ✓

05

TWENTY-FOUR YEARS AGO
1997

THERE'S BABY FOOD IN HIS HAIR. Underneath the collar of his shirt, Julian frantically mumbles under his breath as he runs around the kitchen with only a pair of boxers, lean legs falling over each other like a clumsy fawn. He doesn't even know what time she woke up—probably at the crack of fucking dawn—and with general curses, Julian picks up the crying baby girl in his arms and tries to soothe her unsuccessfully. Exhaustion wears out his collarbones and the dark circles underneath his eyes as pure sunlight seeps in through the kitchen windows. He's tired. He's been tired.

Sitting in her high-chair adjacent to the dining room table, June squeals and jerks her limbs around subconsciously, overly-large eyes widening as she takes in the bottle he attempts to sneak into her mouth. And she's beautiful—carelessly so, but beautifully nonetheless, and Julian feels his stomach twist inside.

(June notices. She also spits it out. On his shirt.)

On mornings like this, Julian feels the adrenaline seep through his body like a perfumed teabag; he's been running on four hours of sleep per night, and his angel form became so weak he was forced to shift back into a human. Needless to say, Julian Moon has never taken care of a baby before: everything he's learned has been from the foster mom upstairs, the internet, and odd paternal instincts that's developed with time. Baby-proofing the house had been an all day affair along with buying bottles of formula and food amidst this chaos—

June begins to cry in his arms, and Julian sways to invisible music, feeling his heartbeat quicken with anticipation as his baby sniffles softly in defeat. She's dressed in purple socks and a tacky one-piece that makes her look as if she's a human highlighter, but the angel can't find himself to genuinely care as he makes comforting sounds into her ear and brushes away a few strands of curls. Her features are delicate and remind him of budding flowers: soft, sweet, innocent, and despite the hurtful pang in his chest, Julian smiles and holds her a little tighter.

"June Haleson," he whispers into her ear, pressing a kiss to her forehead as the baby starts to fall asleep just a bit. "You're nothing but trouble, hmm? M'so tired because of you."

She giggles and grasps his finger as he slides his back down the wall and sits down, bouncing her a bit on his lap. "You know," Julian tells her, "you're my first baby I've had to watch. And I guess you and I are kind of temporary until the Inner Circle finds you a real, human guardian, but hopefully you'll learn to fall asleep by then."

The baby frowns.

"Hey," Julian defends, frowning right back. "Don't give me that look, princess. It's not fair—holy fuck, please don't spit on me. Please, oh god, please."

There's a muted sound of a door opening down the hall, and Julian's head lifts mid-plea to see Clarke (his husband, holy shit) stretch his arms over his head, midnight hair getting messier by the minute as he tries to shake off the syrupy effect of sleep away. Between the vague, blurred hours of midnight and sunrise, Clark Del Rosario looks like a tragic poem that history has never been able to decipher. Their dynamic consists of interaction at the wrong time and a blushing Julian (it's not his fault that he's never lived with a demon before).

The demon rubs his eyes (adorably) and Julian looks away, afraid he'll melt before they even have a conversation. Living with someone definitely brought new aggravations and habits, but for the most part, they've been compatible with space and time.

It doesn't help that Clarke is the most beautiful person in this entire world. And it certainly doesn't help that Julian thinks that maybe in a different life, he would've fallen helplessly in love.