author's note: So, before reading this you should know: this fic is mixed between texting and social media (like skype, snapchat, emails + telephone calls) and Clarke's real life interaction. Each chapter will be different, and though this started as a primarily texting AU there's lots of real life elements and interactions to it as you'll get a glimpse of in this chapter. This fic is written in Clarke's POV and I've loved writing it through her eyes. It's a Modern, texting/real life AU.
Oh, and one more thing - this fic/the format of it was inspired by the amazing Hawksilver (avengers/mcu) fic called "sweet talker" by clintspietro. If you're in the MCU fandom or you're looking for a good fic to read, check it out!
Clarke | Lexa
and this means someone is typing; ....
MONDAY - 21 MARCH
Clarke dreams of a sunset again.
It isn't a simple or average kind of sunset, and it's not the one she sees on her afternoon walks home in the city. It's a wild sunset; beautiful, and raw, and orange. Free. Unconstrained, and unrestricted by the skyline of the city.
Her fingers itch to sketch it, to draw it down, so when she wakes that's the first thing she does. She sketches it first, draws the outline, the different shades and the way certain parts linger with the others. Then she paints it. Still in her PJ's, and knowing that this will make her late for work, she paints the sunset on her old art book. She could use another one but she keeps it, because it looks just like the one her dad gave her when she was a little kid. Sometimes she'll find a spare page in the book her dad gave her, but it's mostly filled now and there's definitely not enough room for this sunset in that book.
The sunset doesn't turn out exactly like she imagined it, but sometimes it doesn't, and that's okay. It's a little blurred, the paint dries a little awkwardly in spots - again, she blames the book because it's old and some of the corners and sections have been ruined in spots, from water, or paint that has seeped through on her messier jobs, or those nights where she just painted like she didn't have a care in the world. It's kind of like that now, she doesn't care, she just wants it to be like she pictured it, but part of her does care.
Slowly, Clarke's fingers direct the brush across the page, curving it gently before stepping away to let it dry for a while. It isn't finished, she hasn't finished a lot of her art in a while but it's still something. An incomplete beauty, she thinks, and leaves it to dry on the nightstand.
The sunset in the city isn't like the one she dreamed of, the one she often dreams of. It's still nice, it has it's own kind of beauty to it. But it feels restricted in a way that Clarke doesn't like, a way she's never liked, but she's still here.
She finds cereal in one of the cupboards outside, fills a bowl and plops down on to a chair next to the counter. Clarke chews on the cereal while her eyes scan over yesterday's paper. In the distance she hears music playing, it sounds like it's coming next door, or maybe it's coming from the boys across the hall. It isn't too loud, it doesn't bother her. She likes it, because it's almost like a weird constant in her life. She can always rely on the people that live in her apartment complex to be the same; loud, noisy, and fun. Sometimes fun, and sometimes annoying.
The clock reads 9:03 AM. She knows she'll be late, and today's going to be a busy day with all of the showings and private clients coming in to see the pieces of art. Clarke decides on finishing her cereal first because she'll need it to get through the day. She notices she's low on cereal and starts to write a note, of things she needs to pick up on her way home from work this afternoon - and things she'll need to do, eventually. On the list she writes 'Call or text mom back.' Then she adds several question marks and a small drawing of a sunflower next to it, because sunflowers are actually on her list of things to get. They brighten up her otherwise dull apartment.
It's small, very simple. The kitchen and living room are in the same space, when you walk in the door there they are on the left side of the apartment. The kitchen is small but filled with the necessities, and she's sure if she used it more she'd find it actually kind of great. She sticks to her regular meals, the ones she knows she can cook, and take out. The living room is small, sort of. There's a long, orange couch not far from the kitchen stools near the bench. So it's fairly close to each other. It's not like she's ever had a problem with space, or with it being too small though, since she's always lived alone here. The TV is a good size - it's big enough to watch documentaries on, and all of those shows she binge watches in a few sittings. There's a tall brown bookshelf beside the TV which is filled with books and random ornaments. To brighten things up, she keeps splashes of color everywhere. Whether it's her own art or someone else's, she hangs it up. There's usually flowers around, though she often forgets to water them and they wither and die - which isn't great when she's looking for more color and vibrant in her apartment.
To the right of the apartment, past the bookshelf and the small table, there's a set of french doors that she fell in love with from the start, and they open up to her bedroom. From inside there there's a walk in bathroom that's small but comfortable.
Clarke ends up in the bathroom a few minutes later, brushing her teeth and tying up her curls into some sort of messy but professional style. It ends up braided in parts, but it looks neat and that's what she needs for today. Her bedroom's a little bit of a mess right now, Clarke sifts through the clothes at the end of her bed that she'd tried on for work yesterday, but had changed out of at the last minute. They look better today, they feel nice.
She settles on a pair of clean, black jeans. A patterned dark blue lace shirt, and a blue jacket. It's the end of winter after all, it's not too warm, and not too cold, and this is her favorite jacket so she decides to wear it today. For luck, maybe. She's closing the gallery at 1 to show a new, important client around so Clarke decides she needs all the luck she can get and goes with the jacket.
On her way out of the apartment Clarke makes sure to check the fridge and cupboards for anything she might need, she writes down a few more things, then shoves the note into her bag, grabs her keys and phone and leaves, sort of prepared for today. She's spent the last week building herself up for this, but it's not like she's not prepared. It isn't like she has no experience in this job. It's not her art that she's selling, and it's not her gallery - she just works there, helps sell the art, attract new interest, and show specific buyers around. It's not exactly where she thought she'd be, five years ago when she thought about it, but it's better than it could be. It's enough, or she has to at least believe it is because it helps her get through the long days.
There's a nice cafe on the corner of the block up ahead of hers, she walks there most mornings when she feels like a nice coffee or warm mug of hot chocolate, and sometimes even a little snack or pastry on the way to work. It's the end of winter now but it's still chilly out. Clarke's eyes scan the sky of the city - what she can see, over the tall, looming chrome and grey buildings - while she waits for her coffee. In the summer they serve the best chilled drinks here; like smoothies, milkshakes, and delicious chilled creations that are the reason she's a regular here. Now that she thinks about it, or looks inside while she waits at the outside queue on the pavement, Arcadia isn't small at all. It just feels like it is sometimes, it feels cozy, and comfortable and she feels like home here sometimes.
Nights are fun here. Arcadia is complex; by day, they serve breakfast and lunch meals with drinks ranging from coffee to cocktails and creations from the owners and staff. By night, it turns into an escape and becomes a bar. Never a rowdy one, there are never fights and when there are they're usually outsiders. The regulars get along, it feels electric here some nights. Arcadia has two levels - she used to think it was crazy for something to be this complex, but it's not. The first level is the bar/cafe, the long wooden benches of the bar wrap around the tall glass and metal stands piled with items ranging from breakfast necessities like coffee beans and the proper glasses, as well as a range of liquors and glasses for the night life. The serving area of the Arcadia takes up the entire right side of the building, almost. There's a fairly large gap at the end, where the kitchen door and pass stand, and all sorts of delicious creations come out of there.
The rest of the room is a mix of circular wooden tables and vintage, stylish chairs, to benches and booths. It's a pretty mess. There's artwork and photographs over most of the walls, and there are large, square windows that let a lot of light in - and both of those things bring a lot more life to the place. In the winter it bursts with warmth and a strange sort of love, and in the summer it oozes a freshness she hasn't really found anywhere else in the city yet. Not like Arcadia. In the back of the Arcadia, there's a comfortable little bookstore filled with plump cushions and long chairs. It's a part of the cafe that runs non-stop too. Clarke often finds herself in the library, reading, or drawing new books in a comfortable seat near a window, or next to the electric wallpaper.
The second level of the Arcadia is the accommodation, Clarke's stayed there a few times, mostly when she was having trouble with rent or was in need of temporary accommodation. The accommodation is nice, like the rest of the building. It's always busy though, and most days the rooms or the seats are booked out. Today, Clarke's lucky that she caught the line to the outside queue as quickly as she did. The coffee's still warm when she receives it, she pays for it and then she's on her way to work.
Clarke checks her watch again and sighs, knowing she'll definitely be late now. It's not really avoidable, she starts to think - starts to prepare herself to think so she can explain to her boss why she's late again. It's been a bad habit lately, but her dissatisfaction with work and her current situation slowly trickled into her work. She can't help it, she just needs to find a way to deal with it or get past it.
The job isn't that bad, she reminds herself. The coffee tastes delicious like it always does, she keeps walking to work through the sea of people passing her by. Clarke's eyes catch on the skyline in the distance and remembers the one from her dreams, the one she painted and left at the end of her bed. It could be worse.
It's another rough day. Clarke can still hear the music or some sort of noise coming from the apartment complex when she arrives home. It's almost eight, it's later than usual but the traffic was terrible and she was kept back at the Gallery longer then expected. Her head aches from the afternoon at work, and the trip home VIA the store didn't exactly go to plan either. But she doesn't care about the music at all, it kind of just fades away into the background right now - and she really doesn't want to think about the trip to the store and that stupid argument with that lady over shopping carts and aisle space.
Once she's inside her apartment, Clarke basically shoves everything away into the fridge regardless of what is it. She begins to strip out of her clothes but then she remembers the things that don't really belong in the fridge like toothpaste and hair-clips, and she returns to retrieve them and put them away where they belong. Clarke ends up leaving everything that doesn't go inside the fridge on the bench, she decides she'll pack them away later and she retreats to the shower.
It feels warm and it soothes out the slight muscle pains she gets sometimes, from standing all day and following horrid clients around. The headache remains, she dips her head back beneath the strong stream of water and gently massages at her head.
Work didn't go well, from the moment Sandra - or Sasha, or whatever her name was - arrived there, she was awful. And she had the nerve to complain to Clarke's boss about her. It was something about Clarke not being helpful enough or patient enough, or something made up like that since Clarke had known from the moment they met that she hadn't liked her. Sasha had been rude from the start, and she had slowly worn out Clarke's patience.
The warm water is nice for a while, Clarke tries to push out all thoughts of work but they always linger. She knows she'll need to get into work on time tomorrow because she can't risk arriving late after today's situation. Her boss is kind, sometimes. But it only stretches so far, and she's determined to make sure everything at the Gallery continues to run smoothly. Clarke knows she'll have to be on her best behavior for the next few weeks until things calm down.
Clarke dresses in comfortable clothes after her shower and makes a lazy attempt at cleaning up her room, but she ends up giving up and marking it as something she'll 'definitely do tomorrow'. There's always something on that list, lately. Like call Mom back, or send her a text. She leaves the bedroom in the almost tidy state and leaves for the kitchen, her slightly damp feet pad across the wooden floorboards leaving faint footprints behind her.
On the way to the kitchen Clarke switches the TV on for some background noise. Her phone makes a noise on the couch where she left it, she picks it up and drops it down on to the kitchen counter to look at in later, after aspirin and water- but she doesn't reach for aspirin or water right away, because the little green bubble that pops up on her phone screen catches her attention.
[9:01 PM]:
I swear to all the gods that if you don't stop what you're doing, I'll get angrier. Is that something you want?
For a minute Clarke just stares at the screen. Then she blinks at it slowly, her forehead now knitted into a frown. She begins to type up her reply but stops, deletes it and tries again. It doesn't really work because she doesn't really know what she's supposed to stay back. Clarke finishes the drink next to her, then picks up her phone to reply - but the screen lights up with another message before she's even opened the first one.
[9:12 PM]:
Do you think this is some sort of game to me?
[9:12 PM]:
This isn't a game, Anya
Clarke frown remains twisted into a forehead - a mix of her confusion and her bad headache. She decides to reply, then find some aspirin and water. The aspirin doesn't have an instant effect, of course it doesn't. She just wishes tonight it would. Clarke returns to her phone, leans forward on the bench a little and stares at the screen as a reply comes in.
[9:15 PM]:
I'm sorry but you have the wrong number. This isn't Anya.
[9:16 PM]:
What do you mean?
[9:17 PM]:
Is this another one of your games, Anya?
[9:25 PM]:
Again, I'm sorry but you have the wrong number. I don't know what you expect me to say, but this really isn't Anya.
[9:27 PM]:
This can't be right. I just spoke with her.
[9:30 PM]:
Not through this number.
Suddenly Clarke's phone lights up with an incoming call with a caller ID that she doesn't recognize. She hits the red button to end the call, then reaches for her glass of water. Bzzzz. Another message comes through, followed quickly by another. She lifts a hand to her forehead and massages out the creased lines.
[9:32 PM]:
Anya?
[9:33 PM]:
I'm tired of your games, Anya.
[9:35 PM]:
Look I'm sorry but this really isn't Anya. My name's Clarke
[9:36 PM]:
I have no idea who you are. Or who Anya is. Please don't call me again.
Clarke ends up on the couch shortly after replying to the stranger. She leaves the glass of water nearby in reach, and picks up a book to sketch but she just doesn't feel like it tonight, not with a headache this bad. Instead of sketching she switches out the lights, stretches out on the couch and finds an old rerun of something to watch. Or fall asleep to. Shortly after she's comfortable, her phone vibrates on the table beside her and she makes a weak effort to pick it up. Three new messages come in.
[9:45 PM]:
Really?
[9:47 PM]:
This is my mistake then, and I'm sorry.
[9:47 PM]:
My phone was stolen, I thought I had the right number. I'm sorry.
[9:51 PM]:
That's okay. And I'm really sorry about your phone, I hope you find it. Good-luck finding Anya.
[9:52 PM]:
I doubt it, I was mugged. It was dark, they were fast. And thank you...Though she's probably wishing I won't find her.
[10:02 PM]:
Oh my god. Are you joking?
[10:02 PM]:
You have to be kidding.
[10:05 PM]:
....
[10:06 PM]:
Why would I joke about muggings?
[10:07 PM]:
It happened. They happen to people a lot. It's very serious.
It happens again. Clarke's not entirely sure how to answer this. She's not sure why she does, it's a strange situation to be in. With this person she doesn't know that was mugged, and is angry and looking for someone called Anya. But eventually, she replies regardless of how weird it all feels at first.
[10:15 PM]:
It's just that you're...Very weirdly calm while talking about a mugging.
[10:16 PM]:
It's just a little weird. How calm you are. That's all..
[10:16 PM]:
I'm sorry, I really didn't think it was a joke. It's just weird.
[10:17 PM]:
Yes, I know it's weird. That's the third time you've said that in the space of a few minutes.
[10:17 PM]:
It was fine, I've had worse. It wasn't serious. Who knows? I might find him after all.
[10:18 PM]:
Thank you for your concern though, Clarke. And I'm sorry for disturbing your night.
[10:21 PM]:
And I thought I had a bad day...
[10:21 PM]:
It's okay. I'm sorry I wasn't the person you're looking for.
[10:24 PM]:
Goodluck with everything.
[10:31 PM]:
....
[10:37 PM]:
Why did you have a bad day?
[10:38 PM]:
Were you also mugged?
[10:41 PM]:
What? You were mugged today, and your first priority is to replace your phone?
[10:41 PM]:
You have to go to a hospital if you're injured. And you should report it.
[10:45 PM]:
No, not today. I really am fine, I've had worse.
[10:46 PM]:
It happened yesterday.
[10:51 PM]:
So tell me about your bad day.
[10:59 PM]:
I'm in some pain, I could use the distraction from my rage.
[11:01 PM]:
You sound like you still need medical attention. Are you sure you're ok?
[11:02 PM]:
And if you don't mind me asking...Why so much rage?
[11:08 PM]:
What was bad about your day?
[11:14 PM]:
Well, for starters I had a pretty bad argument with an old lady at the store.
[11:15 PM]:
How bad was it?
[11:17 PM]:
There was yelling - from both of us. And people were looking.
[11:18 PM]:
....
[11:21 PM]:
Was she family or a stranger?
[11:26 PM]:
It was over the shopping carts. It sounds stupid.
[11:27 PM]:
And she wasn't family. Just a very angry stranger.
[11:35 PM]:
It doesn't sound that bad.
[11:38 PM]:
Really?
[11:41 PM]:
People were staring at me like I hulked out and turned green.
[11:41 PM]:
But they didn't hear the things that she said to me.
Clarke ends up turning off the TV and retreating into the comfortable blankets over her bed. She sets her alarm, takes a little more aspirin because her headache still won't disappear, and then she slips beneath the covers of her bed. For a few minutes she starts to doze off, she thinks she's almost asleep but then her phone vibrates on the nightstand and she still finds herself reaching for it.
She has to be up early tomorrow, there's still things she needs to get from the store and her apartment really needs a clean up. Not the entire apartment really, it's just her bedroom and the scattered clothes she didn't end up wearing for the past week. They ended up on her floor. There's things she wants to do before leaving for work tomorrow, and even though she knows she should try to go to sleep, she still turns her phone over to see another green bubble on the screen.
[11:51 PM]:
It sounds justified, Clarke.
[11:52 PM]:
Really? Kinda feels like you're judging me. With all that silence.
[11:52 PM]:
You weren't there, you don't know what she was like.
[11:58 PM]:
No judgement.
[11:58 PM]:
Yes, it does sound justified.
[11:59 PM]:
But that really depends on who you're talking to.
Now, pushing the thoughts about her own day out of her head, Clarke settles more comfortable in the bed with her phone above her hands. She types up a reply and then another, then watches as a green bubble pops up on the screen again.
[12:02 AM]:
Good point..
[12:03 AM]:
You know, you never did tell me your name.
[12:03 AM]:
It's Lexa.
[12:06 AM]:
Ok, Lexa. Why so much rage to Anya?
[12:06 AM]:
I'm just curious. Your first messages to me were pretty tense.
[12:25 AM]:
Again, that was my mistake. I'm sorry about that.
[12:26 AM]:
It's late and it's a very long story, Clarke. And it really doesn't matter.
[12:29 AM]:
But thank you for clearing things up, I'll try a few more numbers to reach Anya.
[12:31 AM]:
And thank you for your story, it was a welcomed distraction.
[12:35 AM]:
That's okay, I hope you laughed at my bad day.
[12:35 AM]:
Thanks for the chat, Lexa. Good-luck with everything
[12:36 AM]:
And make sure to go back to the hospital if you don't feel better.
[12:41 AM]:
Yes, Clarke. I will. I wish you good luck with things too.
[12:41 PM]:
..like avoiding ladies with shopping carts.