Chapter Text
You remember, don't you, when they fell from the sky and everything changed forever?
You thought, my God, what a beautiful shooting star. And of course, the most beautiful things are the most destructive.
You tell Clarke - sprawled against you - that in the few days before you knew what was hiding in your shooting star, you wished upon it for unbreaking peace. You both let out humourless huffs. How ironic.
Clarke says; "I was so young then".
But so were you, and didn't you give them mercy, despite everything? You didn't burn and burn and burn innocents at a whim. You've talked in circles about this countless times, and it isn't something you want to revisit. You let it lay.
"You were so clean, too." You say, trying to force a small smile.
She laughs then, and you don't have to force it anymore.
"Yeah, remember when my hair was blonde?"
You don't have the heart to tell her that all you remember from then was pain - and fire.
-
You spend a lot of time wishing you had met in different circumstances.
What if you had been born in space, too? Would you have been able to love freely, with no wars to start and end? It's foolish, of course, to think like that. Clarke would not be your Clarke if she had remained her in her ivory tower of sorts. And you, who would you have become?
Clarke, ironically, grounds you.
She says, "I love you, warts and all." And you can't help but believe her with all your being.
Your love is something that should have been inconceivable. You left her people to die in the mountain, and yet she comes to you still, places gentle kisses on your forehead and sleeps so soundly by your side. You suppose it wasn't always like that. You fought tooth and nail for it, after all. Remember the knife, pressed - for a moment - unflinching against your neck. She didn't kill you then, and you were surprised. If anyone was deserving of death, it was you.
You ask, "Did you want to?"
She answers, "Yes," without a second thought. Then pauses, says "no," and you know that it is true.
-
Clarke spends the summers in Polis and the winters in Arcadia. You would rather it be the other way around, ice and snow don't exactly comfort you. You know her people need her more, so you've never pleaded. She does so much more for them then drive away their fears with her kisses.
Her people celebrate something called Christmas. In peace-time, she makes sure you receive her gift. You send a rider with thanks, but you both know the only thing you truly need is her.
Those winter months when you miss her warmth so fervently bleed into spring, and before you know it she is at the gates, her perfected cold façade melting away when you slip your hand into hers.
You say; "I missed you."
You don't let her answer before pulling her firmly into you, lips searching for hers.
The stars shine so brightly now, when the clouds allow the sky to be seen. You think, there is my star, and she is blinding.
-
Those coveted summer nights become long, arduous days. You bear your teeth to the council, knuckles white, clutching your knife. There is always something to argue, no one ever gets their fill of testing you. Sometimes that person is Clarke, who pushes and pulls with such force you could get whiplash.
A territory needs codifying onto a map, Skaikru was attacked unprovoked, huge wealth was stolen. It never ends.
But it does, when those hulking doors slam shut and the last representative sulks out.
Clarke says; "You did so well."
And you never needed such reassurance before her, but those words from her lips melts the grimace from your face.
"I didn't give you what you wanted."
"I love you, regardless."
With her hand so soft on your face, eyes swimming with love, you forget when they fell from the sky and changed everything.
It is just you and her; your shooting star.