3.1 | six ways to sunday ✓

07

NINETEEN YEARS AGO
2002

LIKE ALL OTHER CHILDREN, JUNE LEARNS HOW TO READ IN THE FIRST GRADE. Clarke feels his chest tighten with love whenever he witnesses her run around with wild hair studded with barrettes and streaks of glitter from whatever craft they created in school; it's come to a point that sometimes, he feels his pulse swell with something so tender he can't exactly place his finger on it.

Maybe that was the demon in him.

He's grown to be comfortable in his human form, along with the other factors that accompany it: tiredness, hunger, guilt. It's always a constant battle between his sinful instincts and his inner parental voice that takes its war against the backdrop of his body, nerves lighting on fire and mind always buzzing with unsaid words. Clarke's learned that he's a late riser by nature, and every single morning, he wakes up to the smell of blueberry bagels and a fried egg with those dinosaur chicken nuggets that June loves so much.

Clarke pulls the blanket over his head as his door unceremoniously slams open, still feeling the dizzying effects of sleep wash over him like fairy dust. "Clarke!" Lifting his head, he can just make out a pair of two small hands as they grab for his wrists, equally small feet digging uncomfortably into his calves as his six-year-old child squeals. "Clarke! G'morning, Clarke. Clarke." She pokes his cheek. "Clarke. Clarke?"

He really, really doesn't want to open his eyes right now, but his body betrays him as a soft smile begins to bloom on the edges of his mouth—something that he's reserved only for June Haleson: his special girl. "G'morning, sweetheart," he murmurs in a deep rasp, words almost catching in his throat. Clarke opens his arms and lets June burrow herself on top of his body as her head rests against his chest, smelling of burnt sugar and sticky maple syrup that Julian pours on top of her waffles. "Sleep well last night?"

She smiles, teeth brilliant and eyes wide. "Mhm," she says, nodding enthusiastically. "It's Saturday. Julian promised me you'd read me a book."

"Ah," Clarke responds smoothly, running a hand through his hair in efforts to tame it (but really, it does no good). "Did he now?"

Sneaky bastard.

June giggles. "He said—he said, um, that you'd read me hundreds of books if I was on my best be-behavior—is that how you say it?—this morning." The first-grader looks down at her fingers and twists them in Clarke's shirt, a sudden bashfulness coating every syllable. "I think that's how you say it."

He watches as she mouths behavior again, face so serious it could rival his own. "Yeah? And were you good, princess?" Clarke gently pinches a cheek and feels her skin heat up slowly.

"Yeah!" June defends, crossing her arms and rolling around on top of the mattress, blankets tangling underneath her petite body. "Yeah. I ate my breakfast—all of it, Clarke. Even the apples. Which are, like, gross. So can you read me books?"

Clarke feels himself melt, heart dripping down his body to form a puddle at the base of his feet. She's so unbelievably endearing, and he can't imagine his life without her (even though he's practically a thousand years old). Can't imagine what it was like to wake up in the Second Circle of Hell and soak himself in the tormented souls of those who couldn't afford to find the light. "Of course," he agrees blearily, knuckles coming up to rub at his tired eyes. "I'll read you as many books as you'd like."

Although he and Julian broke the news to June that they weren't exactly human a while ago, sometimes Clarke thinks that June doesn't particularly care for spiritual matters. If she had someone to read her books about fish under the sea, he doesn't think she'd even notice if Clarke walked around the apartment with visible horns.