Dedicated to my wives: Lexualityy AwkwardRainbow_ IStan2Dorks they are amazing go worship them - except for AwkwardRainbow_ she's . . . um, you're better off just staying clear of that one
So this is like my fun fic. I'm just gonna write it and try not to stress. Determined not to overthink things in terms of grammar, technique, words sounding right, posting on time. This is my fun destressor fic. Therefore it will not be my best work.
For that I apologise.
I've also never lived in a group home or known anyone who has or runs one. While I've tried to do some research, I can tell you right now this will probably not be accurate, especially when it comes to the legal side of things.
Anyhoo, I hope u enjoy!
...
(Bond, n:
that binds, fastens, or holds together, such as a chain or rope
that brings or holds people together; tie: a bond of friendship
that restrains or imprisons; captivity or imprisonment)
…
So, Clarke hates her mum.
Hates her.
Well, OK, that's not exactly true but right now it sure rings so for Clarke.
What had she been thinking when she suggested this? This being work part time for free at Jaha's for the school year until exams hit. Clarke doesn't do work. She's just not built for it - her body's more inclined towards the sleeping and partying aspects of life. She most certainly doesn't do free work.
And yet here she is.
Here being Arcadia, a transitional home for teens and young adults. Thelonious Jaha and Marcus Kane, two men Clarke has known since birth, run the place and, she has to admit, they do an OK job - no-one has died yet, at least.
She remembers it being much smaller back when she was a kid, harassing the residents to play with her, a hesitant Wells always at her side. Whether they had wanted to or not, Clarke always got her way, and she has hours of memories of playing dress up with uncomfortable teens, attacking horrified faces with markers . . .
Back then, it was smaller, only three or four teens living in at a time. These days they usually average on about ten.
Way too many hormones to cohabit a single house at onnce. She's not sure how Kane and Jaha handle it, to be honest.
She's not eager to find out either.
'Oh, but Clarke, the volunteering will look so good on your college applications!'
Pfft.
Maybe.
Except this isn't so much volunteering as being coerced into forced labor, also blackmailed (her mum may have implied that she would send her off to live with her crazy aunt Diana for the summer holidays, if she resisted). An empty threat, probably - since it entails that her mum would actually have to have a conversation with Diana and she fears that bat almost as much as clarke - but still. She's not about to risk it. Her mum's been weird lately, not exactly a model for predictability.
But then so has Clarke.
Which brings them round to the other reason (the main one Clarke suspects) for Abby's interference in her life. For some reason, she thinks volunteering at Arcadia will give her the perfect opportunity to socialize and make new friends ('Wouldn't that be lovely? What with Wells away, and you drifting apart from that group you used to hang out with all the time . . . This might be just the thing you need, sweetie').
Clarke's not convinced.
Both that her plan is 'just the thing' she needs or that her behavior of late is anything to be concerned about. That group she drifted apart from? Total self-absorbed assholes, something she soon realized when shit hit the fan and they were nowhere to be seen. And Wells being away? Not a permanent thing. He may be living out the year in England with his mum, and she may miss him (a lot), but it's not like he's no longer her friend. They still have facebook, snapchat and skype. Which, really, is a fully fledged healthy relationship in this day and age.
So she's not the social butterfly she used to be. She still gets around. There's a party almost every week with her name on it - though drinking herself silly and spending the rest of the day in bed with the mother of all hangovers probably isn't her mother's preferred method of 'making friends'.
At any rate, manipulating her into servitude was an overreaction. And one that's likely to be the farthest thing from helpful. Especially since she's worked so hard to avoid Arcadia this past year. It's not that she has anything against the place. The whole setup is great - providing a home for those in need isn't exactly something you can go wrong with - and, hell, she used to love hanging out here with Wells.
It's just . . .
As of late, she'd rather be anywhere else.
And her mum knows that.
She sighs, moving into Arcadia's only kitchen.
It's been a long day. She came straight here after school and between manning the phone for almost an hour and losing a fight with Charlotte - Arcadia's youngest and, arguably, most troublesome resident - trying to get the girl to do her homework, she's exhausted. All Clarke's ready to do now is collapse on her bed and catch up with what's been happening on The Walking Dead. Of course, that would mean making it to her car and driving all the way back to her house, which, at the present moment, seems like too much to ask of her failing body. So she'll just have to camp out in the loungeroom here and hope there's something on TV that's not a total snoozefest - the house still hasn't caught up to netflix yet. Jaha and Kane won't mind, she used to do it all the time with Wells.
But first, a little reward for all her hard work.
She's rifling through the various cupboards,shaking her head at the utter lack of anything sweet or chocolaty (Jaha's doing, no doubt), when a noise interrupts her search. It's the sound of a throat clearing, low and hesitant but impossible to ignore, followed by a polite, "Excuse me."
Clarke swings around in surprise, hand to her chest.
It's a girl.
Well, no shocker there. Given the many inhabitants of the house, it was bound to be that or a boy and, well, the voice didn't sound all that masculine. Not that you can always tell. She certainly isn't about to judge anyone's gender based on that alone but, well, this is most definitely a girl.
Most definitely . . .
Clarke pulls her head up from the intruder's lithe, muscular legs which are peeking out beneath a plaid blue skirt - and, ok, she kind of always had a thing for the school girl look and, oh, is that a tie? Her cheeks redden slightly and she forces herself to focus on the girl's face.
Which isn't all that much of a reprieve.
Fuck, those eyes . . .
Is that blue or green?
She remembers learning in biology how like, only two percent of the population have green eyes, so maybe it is blue. No, it's green, she can see the flecks of gold when the light catches her irises, washing away the blue sheen.
Stunning.
God, if she had her paints with her she could . . .
OK, bad Clarke. This is nothing more than evidence that she needs to get laid more often. Clearly, her once weeklies were no longer cutting it.
The girl's voice breaks into her thoughts. "Bottom right cupboard. At the back, behind the lentils and chickpeas."
What?
"What?"
To be fair, the girl doesn't look any more comfortable with the conversation than Clarke, though she hides it better. Pursing her lips, she inclines her head towards said bottom right cupboard.
Oh.
OK, so, this could easily be a trap. Despite only having been here two days, Clarke's already learnt that the teens living here have a penchant for practical jokes - and she's wound up on the receiving end of more than a few of them, much to her dismay. Octavia is the worse, though Jasper and Raven seem to be competing against her for the honor, and Murphy is . . . someone Clarke hopes to avoid for the foreseeable forever.
The point: the girl may play at being helpful but odds are there's a stink bomb in that cupboard.
Still . . .
She's just hungry enough to risk it.
Eying her with suspicion, Clarke makes a move towards the potentially dangerous object, opening with caution. Nothing happens and her shoulders sag a little. Remembering the rest of the girl's instructions, she inches a hand towards the back, shifting aside a packet of brown rice. Her eyebrows jump up in surprise when her hand locks on the yummy answer to all her prayers. "Huh."
Oreos. Thin mint.
Her favorite.
Not a trap then.
Or, if it is, it's the most delicious one Clarke's ever been lured into.
She glances back at the girl for an explanation.
The brunette seems to shrug, though it's the most elegant shrug Clarke's ever seen. "Miss Blake has taken to hiding them, so as to conserve for her own pleasure. Though her past hiding spots were soon found, she's becoming increasingly creative. This is perhaps her best. Mr Jaha is the only regular occupant who eats lentils or chickpeas, and as of three weeks ago, he's on a low carb diet."
"Oh." Clarke blinks, nonplussed, and looks down at the packet in her hands for a moment. This girl sure likes to use a lot of words, but she reckons she got the gist of it - Octavia doesn't want anyone eating her precious oreos. Understandable. They are pretty fucking delish. "How'd you know it was there?"
"I'm observant." She hesitates. "I also find myself . . . craving them as of late. I thought it necessary to arm myself with the knowledge of its whereabouts at all times."
"OK." Slightly odd, but OK. It's not like Clarke can't empathize with a hankering for thin mints. "Uh, thanks." Wow, Clarke, aren't you smooth? So the girl's ridiculously hot? And a little strange? No reason to lose all intelligent vocabulary.
She nods with the slightest incline of her head. "You're welcome, Clarke." Her tongue clicks against the 'k' and, OK, that's hot, wouldn't mind hearing that again and-
Wait.
"How do you know my name?" Suspicion disappears into panicked embarrassment. "Oh crap, we haven't met before have we? I'm not that good with faces, or names, or well, any of it." Especially when I'm drunk. Though this girl doesn't really seem the type to attend her usual party scene.
She spares one quick look down at her sinful legs again.
Unfortunately.
The hot stranger halts that train of thought. Thank God. She should not be this turned on by a confusing conversation and an offering of oreos. "Have no fear, Clarke, rest assured we have not met before today. Mr Kane and Mr Jaha informed us three days ago that we would be receiving a new volunteer in the house," she explains before pausing to give Clarke her own once over (and, OK, she's really regretting the sweat shirt and sweatpants look right about now but live and learn right?). "Their descriptions of you were accurate enough."
How the hell did she even do her hair today? Did she do her hair today? Where's a brush?
Maybe if she pushes her hair behind her ear like this the knots will be slightly less-
Pay attention, Clarke! The hot girl is waiting for you to speak.
"Oh." She inwardly cringes at her poor attempt. She should really think of a new word, or at least tack on some extra ones.
The girl doesn't seem to notice, or is too polite to let on. Probably the latter. "But I'm being rude." She offers Clarke her hand. "Alexandria Woods, pleasure to meet you."
Clarke stares at the hand, which she assumes is meant for shaking because well. Who even does that anymore? You know, except like businessmen and creepy smiley politicians. Which this girl is most certainly . . . not.
She takes the hand. Of course she does - it would be rude not to. But also, the hot girl's - Alexandria's - skin looks so soft and smooth, and the chance to touch it is way too tempting to pass up. "Uh yeah, Clarke." Wtf, clarke? She already knew that. Idiot. "Which, um, you already knew." She smiles, ducking her head. Awkward. Biting her lip, she hastens to take hold of the girl-Alexandria's hand. The contact is brief but electric and the moment Alexandria pulls away, she misses the hot press of her palm against her skin, much to her dismay. Clarke wonders if it would be too awkward to attempt another hand shake this soon. "But, uh, pleasure to meet you too."
Alexandria's lips tease at a smile - or a smirk, Clarke doesn't know her well enough yet to tell if she has a devious side - but it's gone in a flash. Hidden beneath the weight of indifference. Clarke blinks at the shift. How the fuck do you do that? Could someone teach her how to do that?
Might help her in trying to prove to her mum that she's fine (which she is) and get her off her back.
She'll have to ask if Alexandria is willing to give lessons. Later. After all this . . . awkwardness is over with.
"I thank you in advance for the services you will be contributing to Arcadia. It is, of course, much appreciated," Alexandria says and, honestly, Clarke's trying to get a peek at the back of her head to make sure there isn't a monkey on a typewriter behind there, rattling off a script - complete with spell check and all!
Who talks like that?
She blinks, coming up empty. No monkey. "Uh, yeah, no worries. Happy to help." It's not like she's about to inform her that she was all but forced at gun point by her mum to sign up. That might risk spoiling the angelic image of her Lexa is no doubt forming - first impressions are important, or so her mum reminds her.
"The others may be," Alexandria hesitates before continuing, that monkey of hers apparently failing at finding the right word for once, " . . . less amicable to your presence to begin with. From what I've seen, outsiders appear to undergo a sort of screening procedure before being accepted into the community." She frowns, a thought occurring to her. "In that course, pilfering her private stash would not be advisable."
Clarke glances down at the oreos, having almost forgotten about them. Yeah, she's already gotten a taste of that 'screening procedure'. It's not just Octavia, Jasper and Raven who have been getting in on the fun. Some guy called Murphy pushed her into the pool when she was weeding it out yesterday. From the cackles she heard in the background, he seemed to have audience approval for the action. Thank god she didn't have her phone on her at the time. "Riiight," she draws out, glancing back up at her hot, and increasingly helpful, stranger. "Think she'll notice?"
Alexandria gives the question perhaps more consideration than its due, or at least more than Clarke would have. Life is short and all. "She has not yet taken to making records, so it is possible one or two could disappear undetected. Your chances increase significantly if you eat some before she returns from basketball practice at five-fifteen pm." She nods at the end of her sentence,assuring herself of the fact.
"Cool." Clarke smiles. "Thanks."
Another nod, this one more subdued - no, dignified. "Of course." Though she doesn't smile back, Clarke can detect a hesitant warmth in her eyes, before she turns to leave.
Ripping open the wrapper and stuffing three in her mouth, she watches her go. Alexandra Woods, hmm. Maybe this volunteering stuff won't be so bad after all. The company promises to be interesting, at least.
…
Having sealed the door to her bedroom, Lexa takes out her phone, biting her lip as she scrolls through the minimal notifications. Most are reminders - for appointments, homework and the like - and there are some emails from newsletters she subscribes to - a few articles from medium look interesting and she makes note to read them later. There is also a text from Anya, inquiring about scheduling another Skype session - their last was canceled due to unforeseen complications.
It is not urgent.
Lexa checks the the door to her room, assuring herself that it is indeed closed - not locked, Arcadia does not allow locks on its doors for obvious reasons - and listens for the sound of footsteps down the hall. All is quiet bar the distant arguing of John Murphy and Bellamy Blake a floor below, and the drone of the television - the volume of which is at a level broaching inconsiderate, if not rude.
She ignores these disturbances, satisfied for the present, though her palms still sweat around the casing of her phone.
The clock on the wall signifies she is running behind schedule, so there is call to be extra wary. She chose this time because her roommate has a recurring appointment at the local car shop, working part-time as a mechanic. Her absence, therefore, ensures that she will not be disturbed, but one can never be too cautious.
Especially when every tick of the clock increases the probability of being discovered.
It is her own fault. That run in with the house's new volunteer, Clarke - Dr Griffin's daughter, 18, here after school Wednesdays and Thursdays, as well as every second Saturday - set her back. It was an inconvenient distraction, wasteful. But she does not regret it.
The conversation was pleasant, if awkward. The blonde seemed nice enough, amusing at times, and she even awoke a smile in Lexa for a second . . .
The sensation was odd, strained, a muscle protesting from disuse . . . but the ache was soothing, and the memory brings with it a shadow of warmth.
In exchange, she was forced to sacrifice her (subtle) allotment of cookies - the reason for seeking out the kitchen to begin with - but she considers the loss to be an acceptable one. True, she will have to wait some time before it can be considered safe to 'commandeer' a few oreos - Octavia will grow suspicious if any more go missing in such a short time frame - but perhaps that is for the best - the cookies are high in sugar and fat, not to mention hydrogenated oil, and then there was that study that found them to be nearly as addictive as cocaine - no wonder she cannot bring herself to stop craving them. Her parents would never have allowed them past the threshold of their home - though Anya always had a secret stash of all things deliciously unhealthy under the loose floorboard of her bedroom.
Clarke is welcome to them.
Clarke. It is an unusual name. She likes the way it sounds, the click of it against her tongue. Clarke.
And when Clarke was the one to smile . . .
Lexa's chest aches to think of it - burns in the most unpleasant way, then leaves her cold.
She has a beautiful smile. Warm, full, bursting with a life Lexa cannot emulate.
She frowns, shaking her head free of the blonde. Such thoughts are inconvenient, and even troubling. She refuses to entertain them.
As is routine, Lexa makes her way over to the small but sizable window seat and settles down. Though the cushions are the color of infectious mold and the material scratchy, they offer an acceptable level of comfort. It is the view that draws her, anyhow. She likes to gaze out into the backyard and spy the birds creeping in the trees, tallying up each species and comparing it to the records in her memory.
The mourning doves are her favorite. Their colors and plumage are far from significant but she has a fondness for the puff of their chests which swell upon song. Sometimes she cracks open the window to listen to their plaintive coo.
She hesitates before bringing her legs up to tuck under her ('Feet off, Alexandria. You're a young lady, not some uncivilized trash'). There is a comfort in the position, in the tight hug of her body. For a brief inhalation, she is secure.
The phone in her hand chases that away.
She has dawdled too long. Her roommate could be back soon and she will have nothing to show for her vigilance and planning, and she is uncertain how long it will be before she can secure this level of privacy again.
Taking another breath, deeper this time, harsher, she navigates to her voicemail. Pressing the phone to her ear and shivering against the hot touch of metal, she weathers the trembling vibrations down to to her spine.
And exhales.
And if she flinches when the voice finally comes (too soon, always too soon) -
Well.
Only the birds are the there to witness it.
"So, what are we getting for dinner Friday night? It's your turn remember?"
All thoughts of Clarke are erased.
...
"Let your handshake be a greater bond than any written contract."
― Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience
...
so, what did you think? Any good? Bad? Want more?
Let me know. Or don't. Whatever's good. Just go with what comes naturally.
Also, if you feel like some stalking come find me!
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