Long Way Home ☆ A Clato Modern AU oneshot
Summary: The cramped rush hour train stalls in the middle of the tunnel, forcing two strangers shoulder to shoulder in the boiling heat of the carriage and leaving them with nowhere to go and nothing to do except flirt badly.
Warnings: None. Surprisingly this is just Clato meet cute and fluff.
A/N: I am awful at summaries, but I needed a little break from series, so I took over the weekend to write this little one-shot, loosely based on an experience I had myself on the tube last Thursday. And who better to do it for than my favourite ship possibly ever, Clato. I gave them modern au personalities, so they might be a little ooc, but hey it's fanfiction.
posting this on my girl Mei's birthday too as a little gift of sorts to my hype woman, the absolute legend who keeps me writing, motivates me and inspires me. and the only person who will care about this little drabble I did randomly.. I love you MeiMei. @secretsfromthelighthouse
There is one part of working in the Capitol that Cato had accepted since he started his big time recruitment job, at Apex Tribute Associates, one of the city’s most prominent firms. Only a complete and utter psychotic maniac would choose to drive their daily commute when the high-speed train can take you to neighbouring districts in one hour. He’s convinced that only a masochist would choose to get stuck on the long straight highways that remain gridlocked for hours. His brother had tried it once and was hit with everything under the sun, construction, heavy rainfall, and a road closure. He was three hours late. He’d given up after that. Cato refuses to make that mistake, which is why he takes the fast train every day, getting his car from his home station in Two.
That’s why Cato Hadley prides himself on being an excellent commuter; fast, efficient and respectful of people’s space.
But there are some days when it’s like the whole universe is against him. This evening is one of those times. Not only had the train’s air conditioning broken and the entire carriage had sighed in annoyance at being unable to feel the sweet relief of the cold breeze they usually rely on, but the train is so packed today that it is jerking and jolting from pressure to the doors. No matter how much the driver tells people to stop pushing against the doors, there is nowhere they can really go; the train continues stalling as hundreds of sweaty bodies stifle each other.
He hopes for a reprieve when the train stops in South Street, the creative media district of the Capitol, but although hordes of people disembark for night time work, it feels like even more replace them. He shimmies his briefcase between his feet to make more room — once again, considerate — and grabs the pole above with his left hand.
More people push on and he’s suddenly aware of a woman immediately in front of him, clutching her backpack tightly to her front, with nowhere to hold. Her dark hair is tied into a bubble braid and rests against the crisp white of his dress shirt. It's making his torso all kinds of hot and sweaty but there's no point in embarrassing her; he tells himself that he'll simply deal with it until she gets off. He uses his height to his advantage and looks down at her, and he muses that she's kinda cute from above.
All is good for the first few seconds as the train pulls away from the station and into a nearby tunnel. But then; with a spine-tingling shriek, the wheels battle against the tracks. It’s a losing battle and the vehicle screeches to a sudden halt, sending half the train flying with the jolts and jerks, including the woman in front of him.
On instinct, Cato’s hand quickly leaves its comfort in his pocket and lands on the woman's waist to steady her.
She turns to face him, but the angry expression disappears in the instant she watches his hand be lifted up, hovering in surrender beside his face. “Thank you,” she says plainly, before turning again. He does not need to bear witness to the flush on her cheeks that deepened at the sight of him. She'll blame the hot air down here instead.
Cato's hand moves from his position of surrender to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. He winces, swearing that the beads of sweat have only gotten more persistent since they entered this tunnel. Not a good look in front of the pretty woman, he thinks, but he suspects everyone is feeling the same. It certainly smells like it.
He knows he shouldn't, and his mum would probably berate him if she found out, but he peeks over the woman's head to look at the phone she's just pulled out and the texts she's frantically typing to what he hopes is not a partner.
A smile creeps across his face when he reads the excitement in the messages, how she'd just been held by what she describes as a ‘gorgeous wall of a man’; followed by a load of expletives and just as many exclamation marks.
The train shudders and the wheels screech again. The stuttering continues for a long period, unable to move, leaving the group of commuters stranded in the tunnels. It's a miracle the lights haven't cut out yet. “Please stand clear of the doors,” the train driver says over the tannoy leaning on the doors is triggering the release mechanisms that are preventing us from moving. So, please, if you could.”
The people at the edges of each carriage push forward, though it only serves to squish commuters together. A smirk threatens Cato's mouth despite his annoyance and proximity to overheating, because the woman from before is now pressed up against him, and he can see her blush spreading further.
Unfortunately, the train makes no improvements; continuing to jolt abruptly and intermittently. It’s followed by an ominous clunking noise and the groans of commuters as they almost fall over one another with the suddenness.
The driver's voice rings out again. He sighs, and disappointment bleeds through into his tone. “Sorry folks, bad news unfortunately. We're having some signalling issues with our braking systems. I have called for engineers and will update you as soon as any information becomes available. I do apologise for the disruption to your journeys and I hope to have us moving as soon as possible.”
Complaints erupt throughout the carnage, not helped by the heat at all, having complete strangers talking to each to voice their frustration, but no one has tried to space back out. And Cato can feel himself getting overly irritable, so he takes initiative. “Is anyone able to move out a little while we're stuck down here. It's very warm in the middle of this carriage; we would really appreciate it.”
There's some shuffling and some space opens up by some miracle and he breathes a sigh of relief when the woman in front doesn't shy away from him. That's a positive sign, he thinks.
Clove curses, there is barely enough room to lift her elbows properly yet alone take a step backwards; despite people doing their best to spread slightly. The train is no more bearable. And she isn’t tall enough to reach the overhead rails, so when they finally do move, she’s going to lurch again, and the man she’s still pressed against might not catch her this time. She’s basically been using him as wall the entire journey, and this close and personal, she’s able to notice things she would probably never have noticed under normal circumstances. He’s tall enough that she barely reaches his shoulder, his blond hair as high as the overhead railing. Broad shoulders beneath a crisp white dress shirt that looks a size too small for the view it gives of sculpted biceps is wonderful.
Her phone buzzes and it’s incredible they haven’t lost signal; she supposes she has to thank the fact they barely left the station.
If there’s one thing to know about Clove Kentwell, it's that the most important thing is that she doesn’t take kindly to being called a chicken. And now the word has flashed in her mind, courtesy Glimmer, she’s going to have to do the unthinkable and take the photo. She glances up at him, noting him distracted by a couple who are getting too close for public comfort a few metres down, and she decides that if she’s quick, and if she angles the camera down— at his torso, not his face…
She subtly tilts her phone enough for his absolutely ridiculous bicep to fill the screen, and her thumb slides to the button, and clicks.
But when she looks up, her heart stops. The man is looking down at her, amusement dancing in his ice blue eyes.
“Oh my god.” Heat floods her face but she can’t look away. Maybe she’s a glutton for punishment, or for mortification. “I can explain.”
She stops the replies from tumbling smoothly out of her mouth. There is no believable lie. Her brain is failing her. She sighs. “As soon as this train moves, I’m getting off, changing my identity, quitting my job and moving to District Ten.” Dramatic? Maybe. But right now she can’t think of another option.
That makes the man laugh, and she’ll never admit that she enjoys the sound, and she enjoys watching his shoulders and chest contract. “Do you want a clear shot?” He asks, making her slowly dropping head snap straight back up.
“My arm.” Cato lifts it slightly, flexing despite the lack of space. Her eyes immediately dart towards it. His smile only grows. “The lighting is pretty shit down here, but I’ll change the angle as much as I can. Anything to help a beautiful girl.”
“You’re full of it.” Clove giggles, but her face flushes a bright red she hopes he can’t see in the darkness of the tunnel.
Cato shrugs. “Maybe. But that’s only because being stuck next to a hot girl in a small space is every guy’s dream, mine included. Except, you know, normally we’re alone and wearing way less clothes.”
“Of course.” Clove scoffs. “Because that isn’t weird at all.”
“Weirder than taking photos of men’s biceps?”
Clove is surprised when she doesn’t take immediate offence to that. She usually hates whenever men assume things or try to be funny, but this time she decides to let it slide, and she actually laughs. Her tongue rests against the inside of her cheek, feeling the intensity of his gaze looking down at her as she chuckles, informing him that her friends dared her, and that it’s against her morals to back down. She isn’t surprised when he tells her he’s the same.
She’s about to ask the name of the man she's talking to, when the train jolts, trying to move out of the tunnel once more, unsuccessfully. Again, she would’ve gone flying if not for his quick thinking, his hands shifting, one to the pole beside her shoulder and the other to her waist. He creates a little more space so she isn't pushed around by the larger businessmen as much. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s hardly your fault.”
“I know but you have four people pressed into you right now and I’m here using you as a wall. You don’t need to be responsible for keeping me upright.” She mumbles.
“Apologies, I tried to fix the signalling myself but no luck. Still waiting for engineers. They’ve estimated forty minutes until they arrive.” The driver’s voice says.
“I think I’ll pass out if that’s true.”
“And that’s only until their arrival.” Clove is the bearer of bad news to their cluster of commuters in the carriage. “Who knows how long they’ll take to fix whatever’s up with the signalling?”
A collection of groans has her laughing lightly, pretending to surrender the idea, and telling everyone she hopes she hasn’t jinxed it.
The next hour and a half — Clove checked, using the last remaining power on her phone and wishing she’d brought her powerbank to work that morning— is spent talking to those around them and trying not to pass out from the heat. The driver opens the doors to let some throughflow of air after an hour and ten, warning people not to step out onto the tracks, but it still does little to quell the intense heat. Only after another thirty-five minutes, taking the grand total to two hours and five minutes stuck upright in a carriage, does the driver announce that the issue has been fixed. Cheers go up as everyone celebrates with the strangers around them, excited to move on and hopefully be privy to some fresh air at the next few stops. It’s surprising there isn’t a deep puddle on the floor from everyone’s incessant sweat.
They move away from the doors, squishing together and Clove’s cheeks warm at the feeling of his hands against her waist. After two stations, both at the southernmost end of the Capitol, half the carriage pours out, living in the less expensive apartments and housing complexes. Enough people to free up seats.
Clove takes a seat. She blushes excitedly when she notices the man taking a seat beside her. Maybe he does want to speak to her, and it isn’t just forced proximity interest. The more she stares at his face, the more she feels like she recognises him; maybe they’ve been on the same tube before. Now that they aren’t practically standing on top of one another, their conversation is somehow easier.
“So, when are you getting off?”
“What?” He rasps through his coughing and surprised spluttering.
“What station are you getting off the train at?” Clove rephrases, facepalming. “I was talking about the train, oh my god, I didn’t mean—”
Cato laughs at her rambling, liking how her eyes are wide, and so green, and how her gaze drifts downwards, staring at the floor for a few moments before awkwardly coughing and muttering how embarrassed she feels under her breath. “Relax,” he tells her, hand daring to rest on her knee. “I’ve heard worse.”
“I’m sure you have, but I’m a stranger, isn’t that awkward.”
“It happens,” he shrugs. “Cato, by the way. Cato Hadley. And I’m getting off at Adoquin South.”
What? Clove thinks to herself before smiling as she realises he’s given her his name so they aren’t strangers and she was right earlier, she does recognise him. “Clove Kentwell. But I’m not telling you where I’m getting off. Didn’t your mother ever tell you about stranger danger?”
“She did,” Cato answers. “But I don’t think much of it considering we’re not truly strangers. You were two years below me at the Academy, I could never forget the face of the girl who won ever field hockey award possible. I think my coach liked you more than me, and I was his star player.”
“Holy shit. I remember now. You were in my sister’s year.”
Cato’s hand flies to his chest, clutching imaginary pearls. “Only now do you remember? I’m offended, Kentwell.”
“Men have such fragile egos,” Clove teases.
“I've met lots of people, you can't expect me to remember every face.”
“Ouch, and here I was thinking I was important. l guess both my boss and Coach Kramer lied to me.”
Cato chuckles lightly with a shake of his head. “When I catch you Tictac; it's on sight. I'm gonna text him now and tell him how disappointed I am.”
“Yeah, he was my coach since I was a kid, my mentor, he's like my second dad. You still text yours? Golding, right?”
Clove nods. “Well. Enobaria’s not as old as Brutus so I wouldn't say she's like my mother but we're still in regular contact. Maybe my older sister?”
A laugh erupts from Cato's chest; he’ll always appreciate any jokes about Brutus’ age. “You still play?”
Another nod from Clove. “Every Tuesday and Saturday. Just for fun really. The league isn't that competitive anymore. You?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes, and just for fun, too. Mostly a throw-about or against my friends when we have the time after work. Being an adult is very busy.”
Clove hums in agreement. usually small talk grates on her nerves, because she's accustomed to it from work— and so is he apparently, naturally confident — but this seems different. She’s relaxed and enjoying herself. Who knew that all it would take to enjoy small talk is dazzling blue eyes, fluffy hair and a gorgeous smile? And the biceps sure don't hurt.
Her journey home has never passed quicker than it is today, as they talk about everything and anything they can think of. And although none of it is deep, Clove finds herself wishing that the train would stop again. She's never entertained that thought before. The idea would have been absurd to her, even yesterday.
It's astoundingly easy for them to continue talking all the way until the train pulls into Adoquin South. And so what? Cato thinks, so what if my eyes have been wandering in both directions? He'll admit in his mind, and only in his mind, that he's hooked on tho beautiful, feisty marketing executive. His friends are never going to let him live it down.
Cold air immediately reaches them as they step off the train and onto the platform, two hours later than usual, which is now bathed in darkness. Clove shivers. It's hard to believe that it was heatwave temperature when they had stepped onto that train with how fast it has dropped. They both suppose it’s due to Adoquin's location, in the shadow of the looming mountain range.
“Do you mind if I walk you back?” Cato asks her as they reach the white-bricked houses.
“I know,” Cato smiles. “But my mother didn't raise a bitch. I'd feel better knowing you got home safely, but if you don't want me knowing where you live then no hard feelings. I’ll wait at the end of the road, I swear.”
Clove is comforted by the fact there is nothing pushy about it; he isn't immediately trying to gain access to her bedroom like other men have before. She grins. “I’d like that.”
“Any excuse to talk to me more, yeah?”
“Sure, you can believe whatever you want to.” Clove snorts, playing hard to get despite him being completely right. But she's stubborn, to fault, and so he's going to have to work for her attention.
He lives up to his promise and walks her right to her front door, telling her that he’s only a few streets away so it's no bother. The information gets locked away in the back of Clove’s organised mind.
Cato reaches into his pocket and holds up his phone. He unlocks it, brings up a new contact and then hands it over to Clove, boldly asking for her number. And she eagerly types in it before handing it back.
“Have a good night, Clove.” He beams, taking a few steps back and putting his hands in his pockets as he watches her twist the key, on high alert for any sudden danger that might appear from nowhere.
She blushes in the low light as she steps into her too-warm entryway. Clove finds herself wishing that he'd been a typical man; that he'd kissed her or asked to come inside. God does she hate having to wait for good things, and this feels good. Her sister always calls her impatient, and this time, Clove will freely admit she's right.
Clove is unable to stop smiling as she plugs her phone in, watching it come back to life and all the messages coming through from her friends.
One catches her eye. An unknown number.
titsay
areudirty
gracieabrams
snowghoul
amandla
