#ocship

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One would think, that in all her time of living, Nat would be prepared to ask someone to be hers. She should be prepared, should be ready for this, like she'd practised while anxiously pacing the warehouse floor.

Tonight was going to be the night, just the two of them, the open sky, and a bottle of juice. She didn't imagine the ring would weigh so heavy in her pocket, a ball of shifting fire trying to burn its way free, carrying Nat's courage with it. Didn't imagine she'd be worrying about the design she'd picked, if Starling would like it, if she'd say no. What if she—

"Nat?"

The voice of her beloved startles her from her reverie. Nat glances down to the face resting in her lap, at brown eyes twinkling faintly under the sky, and suddenly wishes she'd brought alcohol even if Starling didn't drink.

"Yes?"

Starling shifts herself to lean over the vampire, propping herself on her elbow as she runs her tongue along the inside of her mouth, clearly searching for a lip ring that was removed long ago. There's an uncertain dip between her brows that seems so unnatural on someone usually so self-assured. Nat presses her lips to that spot on her forehead, aching to relieve some of the strange tension that's taken over her lover.

"Do you want to get married?"

"What?"

Stunned, she doesn't process the question right away, watching as the woman in her lap struggles to maintain composure. Then the question registers.

Married.

Married.

The same question Nat had been meaning to ask.

It's all she can do to reach into her pocket, fumbling with the box she intended to present to Starling. Her voice is breathless when she manages to open it, "Yes."

Tears begin to well in the artist's eyes before she wipes them away, ever conscious about her appearance. She looks between the ring and Nat, something shifting in her face before she reaches to cradle the new piece of jewellery like it's the most sacred thing in the world.

Her fingers shake when she pulls it from the box, turning it over in her hands. Nat sees the moment Starling reads the words inscribed on the band, hears the flutter of her heart and the hitch in her breath that comes before a silent sob.

"To my Shooting Star."

Morgan thought it was stupid, and Farah had teased her relentlessly about the line, but the weeks of torment were worth it to see the look on Starling's face in that moment. So utterly spellbound, so moved, by such a small trinket.

"Of course you thought of this," She whispers, voice trembling with emotion and eyes shining like the stars that she got her nickname from. Then, quieter, like a prayer:

"My wife…"

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