Creep
ONE.
It's raining buckets outside, water splashing furiously against the window, the sky dark and gloomy. It's a peculiar thing, Clarke thinks, because it happened all so suddenly. It hasn't been half an hour since she stepped onto this train, the morning sun bright in the sky and warmth kissing her skin. This doesn't look like a typical August day. At all.
She taps her pencil against her chin wondering if it'll ease up before she reaches her destination or if she'll have to walk through the pouring rain without anything to fight off the water. She wonders if she'll have to enter her childhood home completely soaked only to be greeted by her mother's disapproving eyes and a ’You could've at least checked the weather forecast.’ Well, only time will tell. There’s not much she can do about it now.
Clarke chews on the end of the pencil, studying the water trailing down the window, the long, irregular liquid lines randomly crawling along the glass. She’ll take a hot Summer's day by the lake any day, but she can't deny the beauty in front of her. Water makes a good motive for sketching; always unique, always so detailed.
’I'm twenty-seven, for crying out loud, I will not let my mother intimidate me like that.’
She sighs, determinedly pressing the pencil against the page in her sketchbook. At least she has another hour or so on this train – a bubble in which she can sketch and ignore the real world outside – before all hell breaks lose.
Her mother never really forgave her for dropping medicine for art. It still hurts, but not as much as the news of her mother marrying a new man. Marcus Kane. He's a decent man. He treats her mother with care and respect, and he treats Clarke as an adult – unlike her own mother. Clarke can't deny they both love each other, that Marcus is good for her.
But he's not her dad.
Her eyes slide from the intricate lines in her sketchbook to the watch on her wrist – an old brown leather strap, not her style at all, and it doesn't even work anymore. It was her dad's and that's reason enough to wear it. It's all she has left of him.
As the train slows down, she feels the soft rumbles from the breaks in her body. The raindrop trails morph from almost horizontal to vertical lines as the train halts completely. Clarke studies the platform on the other side of the glass, it's nearly empty except for a woman who closes her umbrella before stepping onto the train. Her slender figure and her dark wavy hair make for a nice detail against the raindrop trails, her form blurred by the water. Clarke takes a mental photo of it and stores it in her mind for a future sketch. Maybe. You never know.
The train starts moving again and Clarke returns her attention to the sketchbook.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
Clarke looks up at the woman who just spoke, polite green eyes looking back at her. It's the woman from the platform, the one whose slender figure would look good behind a filter of raindrops. It takes only a second for Clarke to decide that she'd be much better off as a main motive in a sketch, the contours of her face beautifully set.
“Uhm, yes. I mean, no! It's free,” Clarke says. She curses herself for being a flustered mess. It's been a long time since a woman made a flustered mess of her.
The woman smiles softly before sliding into the seat in front of Clarke. She places the wet umbrella on the floor below her seat before leaning back, looking out the window.
Clarke tries her best to keep her eyes on her sketchbook. It's not easy. She's mesmerized by the way the raindrops slide towards the beautiful green eyes in front of her. It feels a little like they insist on pulling Clarke's eyes in that direction, as if to say, ’Look. Look! This is much nicer to look at.’ Her shirt, a casual button-up in a blend of blues and greens, brings out her eyes; something the artist in Clarke can't help but appreciate. She's wearing a thin gold chain around her neck, a maple leaf pendant hanging from it. It's perfectly framed between the collars of her shirt, and Clarke can't help but notice how it points downwards–
’No. Don’t go there.’
Clarke blinks to force her eyes back onto her sketchbook. The raindrop patterns on the window long forgotten, she starts doodling again. The maple leaf pendant. The stranger in front of her. She doesn't realize it until the characteristic edge of her jaw appears in soft pencil strokes. Clarke bites her lip. Nervously. Thoughtfully. Then she closes her sketchbook silently, leaving the pencil on top, her eyes focused on the table that separates her from the woman. She’s afraid to look back up; she's afraid the woman saw the sketch.
She really doesn't want to be that creepy person that secretly sketches pretty girls on trains.
“Don't stop.”
Clarke looks up to find green eyes upon her. The woman smiles softly at her, and Clarke doesn't know what to say, or, she doesn't remember how to speak.
“The drawing,” she elaborates, nudging her head towards the closed sketchbook on the table. “You're talented. I don't mind.”
Clarke blushes by the realization that, yes, the woman did in fact notice she was sketching her. Really, Clarke usually isn't a flustered mess. It's becoming a bit of a problem already.
Clarke clears her throat. “I'm sorry,” she starts, “I didn't mean to…”
When Clarke trails off, not knowing how to finish that sentence, the woman smiles at her again. Clarke thinks she sees the hint of amusement in her eyes.
“Can I see?” She asks.
Clarke wants to say no because she's embarrassed having been caught in the act, but a part of her feels like she owes her this much. “It's not done,” she says, as she flips the sketchbook open to the page in mention.
The woman’s eyes slide to the page as Clarke reveals it to her. She leans forward a bit, studying it, and Clarke is lost in the way the woman’s eyes widen, the way her lips part slightly, the way she brushes her chestnut hair behind one ear and then proceeds to run an index finger down the edge of the page.
“Talent,” she says, tapping her finger twice against the paper. “You have an eye for details.”
“Thanks,” Clarke says, smiling timidly. She’s used to getting compliments on her art, but they’re usually from a selective audience, not from beautiful strangers on the train.
“You should finish it,” the woman says, meeting Clarke's eyes. She pushes the sketchbook back towards Clarke. “I'll go back to staring at the moody clouds, if it helps,” she says, a hint of a smirk on her lips.
Ignoring the flutter in her stomach, Clarke considers it for a while. She picks up the pencil in her left hand – her dominant hand – and twirls it between her fingers. She won't deny that she itches to finish it. She can't shake the feeling of being a creep, though, either.
“I'm Lexa,” the woman says, holding out a hand.
Lexa. Clarke wants to say it out loud. She wants to experience what it feels like rolling off her tongue, what it tastes like dancing on her lips.
“Clarke,” she responds, accepting the handshake.
“Clarke,” the woman says, as if she wants to experience the name on her tongue and isn’t afraid of chasing it.
Clarke likes the sound of it, the way the warmth of the a and the click of the k rolls off her tongue. She grabs a little tighter around the pencil as she tries to hide the smile that pulls at the corners of her lips.
The woman, Lexa, nods once, a smile forming on her lips, too. “Go on, then,” she says, before looking back out the window.
Clarke studies her for a while, how her eyes doesn’t focus at all on what’s outside the window, how one corner of her lip keeps curling into a half smile. Clarke bites her lip, putting back down the sketchbook and the pencil. “I can't, I feel like a creep,” she says.
“As opposed to before when you thought I didn’t notice?” She challenges, lifting an amused eyebrow at Clarke.
Clarke blushes. Hard. The heat on her cheeks feels like an untamable fire. “I felt like a creep, then, too,” she confesses. “I didn’t realize I was doing it until it was too late.”
Lexa chuckles and it makes Clarke’s stomach flutter, too. This is ridiculous. Where’s Confident Clarke at? It’s a woman, a random stranger on a train. Knowing she probably won’t ever see her again should make this a lot easier. The realization of this being an impromptu meeting that’ll end soon – a chance, simply the result of two strangers being at the same spot at the same time in history – makes Clarke’s stomach drop. To be honest, she wouldn’t be opposed to randomly bump into her again should fate grand her that gift once again. She’s friendly and has a nice smile, and she makes Clarke smile, too.
“Okay, give me a piece of paper and hand me that pencil,” Lexa says.
Clarke raises a questioning eyebrow, searching Lexa's eyes for any clue as to what this is about.
“Humor me,” Lexa says, dipping her chin slightly, looking at Clarke with wide, smiling eyes.
Clarke keeps her eyes on her – still sizing her up, still not sure what this is about – as she pulls out the last page of her sketchbook and slides it towards Lexa along with the pencil.
Lexa picks up the pencil with much more confidence than necessary for a situation like this, Clarke thinks. Lexa winks at her before bringing her attention to the page in front of her. She looks up again, as if studying Clarke's features, then back to the page as she starts drawing pencil strokes across the page.
Still, way too much vigor. Clarke wonders for a split second if Lexa is an artist, too. She studies Lexa who bites her lip in concentration. A couple of times, she looks back up to study Clarke a bit more. Clarke is a little lost in the green eyes and the charming smile, she doesn't even consider looking at what happens on the paper.
“There, done!” Lexa exclaims proudly, pulling Clarke out of her daydream.
Clarke forces her eyes downwards to the page Lexa just put in front of her. It's a sketch of Clarke – she assumes – a few pencil strokes making up long strands of hair, eyes, ears, nose and a mouth. Pretty straightforward, not too far from a child's drawing. Still, Clarke can't help the laughter that erupts when she sees the word creep above the sketch. It's signed Lexa, the other creep in the bottom right corner. Lexa is still sporting a proud smile when Clarke looks back up at her.
“We're even now, so back to work, Clarke,” she states matter-of-factly.
“Okay,” Clarke chuckles, again itching to finish her sketch of Lexa.
She flips open the sketchbook to the pencil strokes resembling the woman in front of her. Bringing the artist within back to life, she looks at Lexa with searching eyes, searching for the lines and curves that defines her. There’s a curl to her lips that weren't there when she first sat down. It looks good on her, Clarke thinks, and just like that, she's back in her bubble, blissfully ignoring the real world.
Lexa looks content, sitting there, casually focused on the horizon. Clarke wonders what's on her mind, if she'd share it with her if she were to ask. She decides not to. Instead, she silently studies Lexa's features, bringing them alive on paper.
Satisfied with the final result, she looks up at Lexa. It has stopped raining since the last time Clarke looked up, the sun fighting its way through clouds. Lexa is still enjoying the scenery floating by, warm golden colors making her skin glow.
“It's done,” Clarke says.
Lexa slowly meets her eyes, the green shimmering in the sunlight. Utterly stunning, Clarke thinks, almost forgetting how to breathe.
When Lexa smiles at her, Clarke slides the sketchbook closer to her. Lexa slowly leans forward, her movements gentle and soft, a perfect fit under the newly arrived sunlight.
“It's beautiful, Clarke,” Lexa whispers.
“Keep it,” Clarke says.
“No, I couldn't…” She says, meeting Clarke's eyes.
“Yes.” Clarke insists. She can tell by the way Lexa studies the drawing that she wants to remember how it looks like. She sees the awe behind it. Clarke has already memorized the contours of Lexa's face and could easily draw a new sketch, not something she wants to share with her. Instead, she looks at Lexa, keeps looking at her until she finally relents.
“Thank you,” she says.
Clarke reaches for the sketchbook and signs the corner, Clarke, The Creep. She carefully rips out the page and hands it to Lexa who takes it with a soft smile on her lips.
The chuckle escaping Lexa's lips as she reads the signature is worth all of it.
“Oh, this is my stop,” Lexa says, looking out the window.
Clarke’s heart drops as she watches Lexa pick up her umbrella and slides off her seat.
“Good thing it stopped raining,” she says.
“I'll say, I only have this,” Clarke says, gesturing at the clothes she's wearing.
“It was nice meeting you, Clarke,” Lexa says, as the train slows down.
“May we meet again,” Clarke says, nodding once, a goodbye gesture. As Lexa turns around to get off the train, Clarke wonders if maybe she should've added her phone number on the sketch.
Too late now, she thinks, as she watches Lexa's slender figure walk down the platform, an umbrella in one hand, Clarke's sketch in the other.
It tastes a little like regret, Clarke thinks.
TWO.
Tonight's sunset was a beautiful mix of purple and orange, a spectacular show to be watching while sitting on this godforsaken hard wooden bench waiting on the late train. Still, not the most stunning thing she'd witnessed today, Lexa thinks, tightening the grip on the paper scroll in her hand. She'd stolen an elastic band from her sister's kitchen drawer to make sure Clarke's drawing didn't take damage on the trip home.
Boy, did Anya scold her for not getting Clarke's number.
The truth is, she didn't consider it until it was too late. It wasn't until she stepped onto the platform and the train doors shut behind her that it hit her; she may not ever see her again.
With a beautiful souvenir in her hand, but no way to contact her, she’d walked down the platform with a heavy heart.
It had tasted bittersweet.
’May we meet again.’
If she ever does meet her again, she won't make that same mistake. Cross her heart. Pinky swear. Scout’s honor. All of that jazz.
Lexa sighs. It's been a long day and she needs her bed. Forty minutes on a train seems like an eternity right now.
As the train comes in, Lexa picks up the umbrella next to her and steps onto the train. She looks for an empty seat – most of them are as not many people ride the train at this hour. The pale electric light from the ceiling feels a little like a headache and she squints her eyes to better take in the details around her.
“We meet again,” a familiar voice says.
Lexa looks to her left and she feels her jaw slacken in disbelief. It's Clarke. She can't believe it, it's actually her.
“Sit,” Clarke says, gesturing with a nod of the head towards the seat in front of her.
Clarke smiles up at her and she feels a smile form on her own lips as she slides onto the seat on the other side of the table.
“Did you just take the train back and forth?” Lexa asks her playfully. She hates herself a little for that being the first thing she says to Clarke after thinking she might not ever see her again.
“I can see why you’d think that, but no,” Clarke chuckles.
Lexa nods, pursing her lips. “Any new drawings?”
“Not really,” Clarke sighs. “I lost my muse.” She adopts a tiny smirk onto her lips and Lexa feels a sudden urge to know everything there is to know about her.
“Huh, what a shame. Well, you're in luck, Clarke, because I just found mine. Hand me another piece of paper?” Lexa says, leaning forward, a charming smile on her lips. She has forty minutes and they're not to be wasted
Clarke rips out a blank sheet of paper from her sketchbook and hands it over, her pencil too, a grin on her lips. Lexa’s heart flutters by the realization that Clarke's blue eyes sparkle because of something she said. She hopes she gets the chance to make that happen again someday.
“Alright, let's see,” Lexa says, biting her lip, deep in thought.
She's not an artist. The sketch of Clarke she did earlier today could've been anyone, that's how bad it was. But it made Clarke smile, so it did what it was meant to do.
No, she's not an artist, but she doesn't have to be. She draws a sun in one corner thinking of Clarke's golden hair. If she had a blue pencil, she'd color the sky the same shade as Clarke's eyes. Instead, she draws a couple of clouds, soft curves like Clarke's lips. She draws a house with a door, a window and a chimney and she wonders where Clarke's home is, how far or how close they live from each other. She draws a couple of trees thinking of her own home, the house Anya still lives in. She likes her tiny apartment in the city, but the family house with a big forest in the backyard is something Lexa won't ever grow tired of.
She runs out of ideas to draw and looks back up at Clarke who's leaning forward, elbows on the table, her chin held up by a palm, an amused smile on her lips as she studies Lexa's drawing upside down.
“Talent,” Clarke says, winking at Lexa when she meets her eyes.
“Not the slightest,” Lexa laughs.
While Clarke looks at the drawing again, Lexa studies Clarke. The crease between her eyebrows, the way she bites the corner of her bottom lip, both clearly a sign of thinking hard.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Lexa says.
“Well, I'm trying to figure out what or who your muse is,” Clarke says.
“You,” Lexa says, waiting for Clarke to look back up at her. It takes Lexa's breath away when she does; Clarke's eyes a stunning blue, shining like stars at night.
“Oh, really… How’s that?”
“Well, you remind me of a Summer’s day,” Lexa confesses, thinking honesty might win her a bit of points on the charm scale.
Clarke grins at her but then says, “it was raining when you met me.”
Lexa then raises an eyebrow before picking up the pencil again. “Fine, you'll get your little rain cloud,” she says, faux annoyance across her face as she draws a stick man figure next to the house and a tiny rain cloud over its head.
“That's you,” Lexa says, pointing at the stick man figure. She then writes creep next to it, which draws a bubbly laughter from Clarke's lips, a sound Lexa has already come to love.
“Where are you?” Clarke asks.
Lexa then starts drawing again, another stick man figure next to the trees. “I'm over here enjoying the sun,” she says.
“You like trees,” Clarke then says, not really a statement, more like a wondering out loud.
“I grew up next to a forest.”
“Maple trees?”
“No.” Lexa smiles knowing that Clarke is asking because of her necklace. “But there's a big old maple tree in the backyard,” she elaborates, surprising herself because she usually doesn't talk about her childhood with anyone. It reminds her of her best friend, her first love – the neighbor's daughter – who gave her the necklace. She died in a drowning accident nine years ago, and Lexa still misses her. It's still hard to visit Anya in their family home and have to see the tree in the backyard being reminded what life took from her.
It's bittersweet.
That tree is the center of some of her fondest memories.
“I want a dog,” Clarke says, pulling Lexa out of her thoughts.
When Lexa looks at her, she can't help the smile spreading on her lips. Clarke looks adorable when she pouts, and Lexa wonders if she'll ever experience Clarke manipulating her into giving her things like this again.
“I can't draw a dog,” Lexa says. Mostly to poke at Clarke a little, and it works, because Clarke’s pout grows bigger.
“”Okay, okay,” Lexa sighs, drawing a weird doodle next to herself.
“Wait, why is he all the way over there?”
“He?” Lexa raises an eyebrow.
“Rex,” Clarke says matter-of-factly.
“Well, Rex is all the way over here with me because he hates the rain,” Lexa grins cheekily at Clarke. “We're playing fetch,” she says, drawing another doodle next to the Rex doodle. “That's a stick I just threw.”
Clarke snorts, then throws a hand over her mouth. Lexa thinks an embarrassed Clarke is adorable too.
They spend the next twenty minutes adding things to Lexa's drawing. Lexa wants a tree house. Clarke wants stars in the sky, and Lexa argues that ’it's in the middle of the day, Clarke’, but Clarke shoots down Lexa's rationale with a dismissive ’pfft’. Lexa wants flowers ’because they're pretty, Clarke’. Clarke wants a second floor on the house ’to all the kids, Lexa’.
Lexa likes the world they're building, and for a fragment of a second she allows herself to consider it could happen, that she could have this world, well, maybe not this version, but one that brings her a little bit of magic in the form of a buzzing warmth in her heart. Clarke looks at her and it looks like possibilities.
Eventually, Lexa's stop is coming up, so she signs the drawing with her name and her phone number.
“I don't know where you live, but if the distance isn't a problem, I'd love to see you again,” Lexa says. Her sister would be proud of her.
Based on the wide smile on Clarke's lips, Lexa guesses she wants that too.
The train slows to a halt and Lexa gets up, umbrella and scrolled up drawing in hands. “Take care of that masterpiece for me,” she says, nodding towards her Summer’s day with Clarke.
“I will. I might even frame it,” Clarke grins, and it makes Lexa's heart flutter.
“Get home safe, Clarke.”
“You too, Lexa.”
They share a soft smile before Lexa gets off the train. She strolls down empty streets towards her apartment looking up into the night sky. Not only does Clarke remind her of a Summer's day; she reminds her of sparkling stars at night, too.