#akated

[sondakikadunyacomtr]

Sitemize "Kuraklıkla karşı karşıya kalan İstanbul'da suyun yüzde 22'si çatlak borular nedeniyle şebekeye ulaşamıyor" konusu eklenmiştir. Detaylar için ziyaret ediniz. Kuraklıkla karşı karşıya kalan İstanbul'da suyun yüzde 22'si çatlak borular nedeniyle şebekeye ulaşamıyor Son Dakika Son Dakika Dünya

[d-clayton]

she treats me well (1/1)

Erin takes care of Holtzmann in more ways than one. 

read @ ao3

word count: 3115

Holtzmann forgets a lot of things when it comes to taking care of herself. She forgets to eat and sleep for long periods of time, working for as long as she can before giving in to her exhaustion and falling asleep at her work table. She forgets to take care of the little nicks and cuts on her hands when she’s tinkering with new machinery because she’s so close to making it work flawlessly. It’s not that she intentionally does it, it’s just that everything else seems so much more important and there's so much to do.

Erin watches all of this and it bothers her for some inexplicable reason. She doesn't like watching Holtz crash and burn from exhaustion, only for her to get back up and and restart the unhealthy cycle of work, work, work, then collapse in a tired heap. It's a problem so she does the one thing she knows best: she finds solutions.

So when it’s 12 pm and she’s eating her lunch and notices that Holtzmann hasn’t had anything to eat besides handfuls of pringles, she casually says, “Want a piece of this?”

It catches Holtz’s attention immediately and her eyes snap up to Erin. She grins wide and removes her goggles. “Why Erin, I thought you’d never ask.”

Erin blushes, her cheeks and the tips of her ears heating up. This seems to delight the engineer, causing her dimples to become even more prominent. “Um, I- I meant,” she holds up the other half of her sandwich, neatly cut and wrapped. “My sandwich. Do you want it?”

Holtzmann’s smile is still in place, and her eyes twinkle with mischief. “I’m not that hungry for a sandwich. But you on the other hand...” Her eyes dip down and back up and she winks.

Erin holds the sandwich mid-air, rethinks her life and how she always manages to get herself in the middle of Holtz’s innuendos. She clears her throat and says, “You need to eat,” and Erin sees the way Holtz is looking at her like she’s about to say something inappropriate so she immediately adds, “food . You need to eat food.”

Holtzmann hums a tune and disappears under her work table, quickly reappearing with her can of pringles. She pops one in her mouth and gives Erin a thumbs up.

Erin sighs. “Holtz, that’s not a proper meal.”

“Oh, knew I forgot something.” She disappears back under the table and pops up with a drink in her hand. She sips loudly through the straw.

“That’s not what I meant.” Erin moves closer until she’s standing right across the table from Holtz and extends her arm to put the sandwich into her reach. “Here, eat this.”

“But it’s your lunch.”

“Don’t worry, I always pack extra food,” she lies. Erin never packs extra food.

Holtz continues munching on her chips and thoughtfully says, “Doesn’t seem fair for me to rob you of a sandwich.”

“Well, how about we trade then? Your chips for my sandwich.”

Holtzmann thinks it over, humming, then nods. “Alright,” she leans over the table, “sounds like we have a deal, Gilbert,” she says it in a low voice like they were making a drug deal.

She ignores the way her heart flutters at the proximity and reaches over to grab the chips, but Holtz slaps her hand out of the way.

“What?” Erin questions.

“We have to shake on it first.” Holtz says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Um, okay.” Erin sticks her hand out for a handshake.

Of course, it’s not a regular handshake. Holtzmann slaps her hands several times in random patterns while Erin tries to keep up. She doesn’t think she did a very good job but the smile on Holtz’s face indicates otherwise.

“Now you can have the salty parabolas.” Holtzmann slides the can over to her while Erin gives her the sandwich. "I knew you'd give in to their deliciousness eventually."

Erin nods and smiles with satisfaction as Holtz unwraps the sandwich and takes a big bite, muttering a quiet yum and giving her a thumbs up.

It’s not until later when Holtzmann is back to tinkering with her machinery that Erin tentatively reaches into the Pringles can and eats a chip.

She doesn’t notice Holtzmann watching her with a small smile from across the room.

From then on, Erin begins packing extra for lunch. She leaves food on Holtzmann’s table whenever she notices that the engineer hasn't eaten and without fail, there's always a can of Pringles on her own desk within the same hour.

She doesn’t eat them at the same rate that Holtzmann does, in fact, she barely eats them at all. Nonetheless she allows this trade to go on because that’s the only way that Holtz accepts food from her and she’s finally eating regularly.

It also helps that Holtz hasn’t realized that her supply of Pringles never dwindles because Erin puts the unopened cans back into her stash under her desk when she’s not looking.

-

Erin sleepily climbs the stairs to the second floor. The sun hasn’t come up yet, but a theory has been bothering her since she went to sleep and she’s too irritated to go back to sleep until she figures it out on her whiteboard.

She shuffles her feet quietly across the floor when a hum makes her stop in her tracks. She spins around to Holtzmann’s side of the room. There’s no sign of the engineer but the subtle hum continues. Erin cautiously approaches the work table, paranoid that Holtzmann forgot to turn off some deadly contraption.

When she’s behind the table where Holtz usually stands, her foot hits something, causing the hum to get louder momentarily. Erin bends down, having an idea of what she’s going to find.

Holtzmann is under the table, sleeping, curled into herself and cuddling a wrench in her arms.

Erin frowns. Her goggles are still on, meaning that Holtz must’ve been too tired to take them off and go downstairs to the main floor where her room is.

Her heart clenches with an unexplainable desire to take care of this woman. Erin sighs, and debates whether she should wake her up. The floor doesn’t look very comfortable.

“Holtzmann,” she whispers, gently shaking her shoulder. “Wake up.”

Holtzmann curls tighter around the wrench she’s holding to her chest. Erin tries not to think too much about being the one in Holtzmann’s arms.

“Holtz,” Erin repeats, shaking her shoulder a little harder.

The engineer furrows her eyebrows and opens one eye then closes it again. “I’m sleeping,” she murmurs.

“How long have you been down here?”

Instead of answering, Holtz mutters something about beauty sleep.

Erin shakes her again. “Come on, Jillian, let’s get you to your bed.” She tries the name and it tingles on the tip of her tongue.

Holtz slowly opens her eyes, squinting through her tinted goggles. She can’t read the expression on the engineer’s face and Erin thinks that she’s going to get reprimanded for calling her Jillian, but after a few moments, all she hears is a quiet ‘okay’.

Erin gives her room to roll out from under the table and stand up. She tries very hard not to melt at the sight of Holtzmann in this soft light with her goggles askew and loose strands of hair cascading down the side of her neck.

Erin leads her down the stairs, making sure that Holtz doesn’t get sidetracked by her projects on the journey downstairs. She leans against the doorway of Holtzmann’s room, watching as the engineer collapses on her bed and lies on her side. She’s out like a light, her hand still grasped around the wrench and goggles over her eyes.

She moves to kneel by the bed, feeling a little awkward being in Holtz’s room. She’s seen the inside of it from the hallway, but she’s never been inside the space. It’s very … Holtzmann.

Erin pries the wrench out of her hand and sets it on the bedside table. Then, she gently removes the goggles from her face, with minor grumbling from Holtz, and sets it next to the wrench.

Erin brushes loose strands of hair away from Holtz’s face and doesn’t understand why her heart is beating so fast. She tries to find answers in the curve of Holtzmann’s lips, the dip of her brows, her cheeks that are now void of the adorable dimples. She searches and searches and ends up more confused than before. That's a problem for another day.

She sighs and stands up, turns off the lights and just before she closes the door, she hears a soft “Good night, Erin,” echo through the room.

She doesn’t have the heart to remind her that it’s morning.

-

They come back from a successful mission and Holtzmann runs out of the car as soon as the engine’s off. She’s talking loudly about the new ideas she got in the midst of ghost busting and Erin is a little too tired to completely understand what she’s saying. She follows behind Holtzmann’s excited steps while Patty and Abby run past both of them to fight for the shower. For once, she wasn’t the one that got covered in ectoplasm.

Erin and Holtzmann are on the second floor. Holtz is bouncing around on her side of the room, collecting pieces and tools here and there and depositing them on her work table. Erin sits in her chair, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of Holtz’s excitement. At first it’s quick, bouncing steps, and then she hears light singing and dancing. She opens her eyes to watch because a singing and dancing Holtz is her favourite Holtz.

But then she sees it.

“Holtzmann!” She’s out of her seat immediately, crossing the room towards the blonde who’s struck still by the sudden shout.

“W-what?”

“Your arm is bleeding!” Erin gasps as she gets a closer look.

Across Holtzmann’s upper arm, near her shoulder, is a small gash that rips through her uniform. Blood slowly soaks through the surrounding fabric, leaving a dark patch along the rip. The bleeding wasn’t noticeable during their mission, but after the vigorous job, it had gotten irritated.

“Oh my god, Holtzmann! Why didn’t you tell me?!” Erin is visibly panicking and Holtzmann struggles to understand why.

She got the cut when she was trying to squeeze through a gap in the fence to gain access to the haunted property. She saw the cut, figured it was nothing, and continued on. The adrenaline that came with ghost busting and new ideas masked the pain.

“It’s just a scratch,” she pokes the area and tries not to wince. “See? Nothing to worry about.” She gives Erin a reassuring smile.

“It’s not just a scratch! God, Jill- Holtzmann!” Erin shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “Take a seat,” she orders, pointing towards a stool.

“But I have to test if the proton-”

“Sit. Now.”

Holtz shuts up and sits, hands in her lap, fidgeting nervously at the sight of Erin's clear distress. Erin retrieves a first aid kit from the cabinet and places it on the table next to Holtzmann.

Erin places her hands on her hips and sighs, frustrated with the woman in front of her. “You can’t do this, Holtz.” She gestures at the wound. “You can’t get hurt and ignore it.”

Holtz watches as Erin tentatively reaches to unbutton the top of the uniform. She takes the cue and helps maneuver her injured arm out of the sleeve.

“See? It’s nothing-” she begins without even looking at the wound. (Erin wants to roll her eyes in exasperation because really?) Holtz stops when she actually sees it. “Woah, okay nevermind.” She winces.

Erin shakes her head. “Jillian,” she starts. Holtz looks at her right away. “This isn’t okay. You need to take care of yourself, alright?” She begins to disinfect the wound. Her anger at the situation causes her to accidently press harder than necessary.

Holtz hisses and leans away from her, putting a hand out to stop her. She quickly says, “As much as I appreciate a rough woman, please save it for the bedroom.”

Erin settles her with an unimpressed look and resumes disinfecting the wound, gentler this time. Holtz quiets down after this and it helps her concentrate. She carefully places butterfly stitches on the wound and when she’s done bandaging it, she lets out a breath that she didn’t realize she was holding.

“What, no kiss?”  

Holtzmann’s wide smirk makes her want to do irrational things. It makes her want to kiss her.

So she does.

She pulls her in and kisses her, trying to convey to Holtzmann all that she’s feeling but can’t put into words. She kisses the frustration and anger and sadness that she feels whenever she sees Holtzmann sleeping on the floor or working herself beyond her limit. She places her hands on Holtz’s neck and her thumbs caress her pulse point, feeling her fast heartbeat. It reassures her that Holtzmann isn’t going anywhere - that she’s here.

And maybe that’s why she cares so much. Because she wants to keep Holtzmann around for as long as she can. She wants to watch her dance, listen to her talk excitedly about her projects and she wants to blush at Holtz’s constant flirting for as long as possible. She likes her in way that she's never really felt towards anyone else.

But if Holtzmann is ignoring everything that it takes to live a healthy life, then how can Erin be sure that Holtz won’t suddenly disappear one day? She’s never met someone who consistently prioritizes everything above herself before and the uncertainty of how much Holtz is willing to sacrifice scares her.

Erin pulls back from the kiss and hugs her around her neck, careful not to aggravate the wound. Her grip on her is tight, almost overbearing, but Holtz reciprocates it, wrapping her arms around her waist.

Holtz senses that something is wrong, and it makes her frown momentarily at the possibility that she's the cause of Erin's troubles. "Are you okay?" She asks hesitantly.

“I’m scared to lose you,” Erin confesses against her neck.

This makes Holtz pull back from the embrace to look Erin in the eyes. "What?"

"I-" Erin furrows her eyebrows, trying to collect her words. "I like you." Holt smiles at that. "I like having you around. But you do things like walk around with an untreated injury and I just-"

The engineer pulls Erin back into the v between her legs and wraps her arms around her lower back, rubbing gentle circles to ease her distress. “Hey, I’m not going anywhere.” She shrugs confidently. “I have a hot doctor who fixes me up,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.

And Erin laughs because, god, Holtzmann is so unabashedly her and she never wants to lose that. Her laughter dies and she says, “I won’t always be around, you know. You need to take care of yourself. Please. I worry about you.”

Holtz is listening with abrupt attention, slowly connecting the dots. She hums thoughtfully, thinking back to all the instances that Erin took care of her. “So you feeding me and putting me to bed wasn’t part of your plan to woo me?” she jokes and before Erin can get a word in, she adds, “I’m kidding, you woo’d me just fine without that.”

Erin blushes. She knows that Holtz likes her because she isn’t exactly subtle about it, but it still catches her off guard whenever Holtzmann flirts with her. "I'm serious, Jillian."

The intensity of Erin's concerned gaze makes her feel off-balanced. Only her parents call her Jillian, and yet Erin says it like it belongs on the tip of her tongue. The difference between her name leaving Erin's mouth and her parents' is striking. She says it with such affection that Holtz forgets her parents' apathetic and disdained version.

"You know, my parents only call me that." Holzmann takes her glasses off and clears her throat. "They- They didn't care very much when I was growing up. They just let me be, which in hindsight sounds like every kid's dream because I could do whatever I want, but-" she shrugs.

And Erin gets it now. She imagines a little Jillian, taking things apart in her house until late hours of the night, her parents too occupied with other matters to tell her to go to sleep. She thinks of a little Jillian being hungry, but not knowing what to eat so she goes for the snacks that her father left on the coffee table. She thinks about the neglect and it makes her heart hurt that Holtz still has those habits today. That no one she met later in life took the time to remind her that she was more important than she realized.

"Jill- you deserve so much, okay? You're more important than projects and missions and whatever else you do. Do you understand?"

Holtz nods shakily at her sincerity.

"Good."

The air is filled with tension, but then Holtz slices through it like a knife cutting cake. "So Dr. Gilbert, do you kiss all your patients like that?"

Erin rolls her eyes and chuckles.

Holtz's eyes roam Erin's face, frowning slightly when she notices the hints of exhaustion. She looks at her wrist, pretending to read a non-existent watch. “Oh, would you look at that! It’s bed time!”

“It’s 3 in the afternoon-”

“Nope, doctor’s orders. Let’s go!” Holtz grabs her hand and pulls her downstairs towards Erin’s bedroom.

“I thought we were going to your room?” Erin questions.

Holtz smiles and raises her eyebrows. “Do you want to go to my room? You just look tired so I thought maybe,” she shrugs, “you wanted to catch a nap or something.”

"Oh," she says surprised.

"You've been taking care of me all this time. I want to do the same for you."

Erin can't help but kiss Holtz one more time before she enters her room and lies down on the bed. She feels the mattress dip beside her and turns to see Holtz lying on her back with her eyes closed.

"Um.." Erin starts. "Are you okay?"

"I think I should get some rest, too. Don't you think?" Holtzmann peeks at her through one eye. Erin doesn't remind her that her room is right down the hall.

Instead, she agrees and allows Holtz to lay by her side.

"Good night, Jillian," she says out of habit.

Holtzmann doesn't even hesitate. "It's afternoon. Good afternoon."

Holtz's laugh is the last thing she hears of before she falls asleep.

[d-clayton]

home: is where your heart is set in stone (1/4)

The problem is that Lexa’s spirit stays right where it is and she’s fine with it. That is until a blonde decides to move into her apartment.

or

ghost au

read @ ao3 

word count: ~6600

part 1/4: home is where your heart is set in stone

This is her home.

-

The apartment has been vacant for five months.

People are interested in it when they first see the listing online, but in person, it’s different. There are many open-houses for people to tour this unit, but at the end of the day, no one signs the lease. It’s colder, much more unfriendly than what they imagined from the pictures they saw online.

The first step inside makes them feel unwelcomed. The second step and the hair on the back of their necks stand up, suddenly hypersensitive. The moderate-sized apartment is high ceilings, large windows, and spacious. It’s desirable, but at the same time, it makes them feel like prey in the open.

But some people are blatantly blind to all these signals. They walk through like it’s a fucking theme park, full of excitement and energy, not feeling or simply ignoring the uninviting vibe that the apartment gives off.

Lexa hates those people - thick-skulled and can’t take a hint. Those are the ones that stay, but not for long. Lexa makes sure of that.

The occupants move in and out in a matter of two to three months. The record so far has been one month when the resident, a trust fund baby, freaked out over seeing Lexa’s shadow. Five times. In one day. Everyday.

Okay, so maybe Lexa put a little extra effort into getting rid of that guy. He was obnoxious, wrecked the apartment, and thought that the building rules didn’t apply to him.

(Lexa had briefly wondered if he was the leader of some secret cult because each week, a group of college boys gathered in the living room and drunkenly chanted “Whatever the hell we want, whenever the hell we want!”)

Lexa’s been peaceful for five months. Her stuff remains untouched by strangers, she’s able to move around without worry, and the place is fully hers.

Until one day, a blonde girl walks in with the building owner, Quint. Lexa hates him with all her being and upon seeing him, the room gets considerably colder.  

Quint shivers and zips up his jacket, continuing his speech. “This apartment comes furnished with everything you see here. There are two bedrooms, one bathroom, and the living room and kitchen are connected.”

“Wow, this is great,” the girl remarks, attracted by the view from the windows. The park is full of vibrant trees, running paths, and a small pond.

Quint comes up behind her and adds, “It’s one of the perks of this particular apartment. If you were on the opposite side of the building, your view would be of the new condo the city built.”

She nods, looking over the park and at the horizon. She’d love to see what the night sky looks like from up here. Her previous place was a small townhouse located on the off skirts of what's commonly known as 'the city of lights'. The view from the ground was never great because of the light pollution, but from this high up, Clarke could easily overlook the lights and focus on the open sky.

“Clarke,” he recalls her name from moments before, “Let me show you the two rooms. I’m sure one of them is perfect for that art studio you were talking about.”

The bedrooms aren’t as furnished as the living room. One of them is empty while the other has a mattress and a broken bed frame. Clarke doesn’t even ask.

The empty room, however, has potential written all over it. It’s painted dark blue like the night sky and has a window that allows natural light to illuminate the room. Clarke’s mind starts decorating the room, trying to see where all her equipment would go - to see if it looks good. She smiles softly. Yeah, it'd look good.

When the duo return to the living room, Lexa scowls. She recognizes the hopeful and satisfied look ton Clarke's face. She's seen it on all the previous tenants before they rented this place.  

“So, what do you think?” Quint asks.

Clarke smiles, looking over the living room. “I can definitely see myself living here.”

Quint breaths a sigh of relief. “Great! I’ll go get the papers-”

But Clarke interrupts him, deciding to cut the bullshit, and asks, “What happened to the previous tenants?”

Quint blanches at the question, preparing to deflect but he’s interrupted once again.

“I saw several one-star ratings online and warnings to stay away from,” Clarke glances at the door number, “apartment 214.”

She’s been looking for flaws throughout the tour, but in the end, she came up empty-handed. Other than the broken bed frame, there seems to be nothing wrong with the apartment and yet, the vague reviews said otherwise.

Quint crosses his arms. “No clue, really. They didn’t stay around long enough for me to question them.”

Clarke purses her lips and raises an eyebrow. “You can’t tell me anything at all? Because I’m ready to walk unless you talk.”

Quint stares down at her, but Clarke stares back twice as hard. She really does like this apartment and plus, it's the only place that she can really afford right now, but the only thing stopping her is all the bad reviews and mysteriousness around the place.

Lexa watches, crossing her arms and quirking an eyebrow. It looks like she may not need to intervene at all. The blonde seems to be asking for a reason not to take the apartment.

Quint gives in. “Fine. From what I’ve heard, there’s been some,” he pauses, “strange activity going on in this particular unit.”

“Strange activity,” Clarke deadpans. “What the hell does that mean? Bad plumbing? Faulty bed frames? You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“You know, paranormal activity. Shadows, things moving around,” he gestures. "There's supposedly a ghost around here."

Clarke scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Right.” But Quint doesn’t look like he’s kidding. She raises her eyebrows and states, “You’re serious.”

Quint shrugs. He watches as her expression changes from sarcastic to incredulous, and briefly wonders why the girl doesn’t feel weird in this place. She looks level-headed so he thinks that she's not purposely ignoring any strange signals she may be feeling.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“But don’t let it stop you from renting this unit!” He says. “The lease is on a month to month basis, so you’re not bound to a long-term contract.”

Clarke huffs in disbelief. She’d be fucking crazy to let this opportunity pass because of some superstitious assumption. “I’ll take it. I’ll take this apartment,” she says firmly.

Quint nods, somewhat surprised. “You’re sure?”

Clarke nods.

“I’ll get the papers then.”

Lexa watches the exchange with dark eyes and a clenched jaw. She approaches Clarke, standing right in front of her, sizing her up. Lexa waits for Clarke's heart to speed up instinctually, for her to feel threatened, but Clarke doesn't react to Lexa's presence at all. No shivering, no goosebumps, nothing. That's odd, she thinks.  

Lexa says, "Leave," the same time that Quint shouts Clarke's name, causing her to startle. The two different words mingle together, leaving the blonde confused and not sure what she heard. It was her name, she thinks.

She's about to look for Quint when he pops his head back through the door.

“Clarke," he repeats and the blonde breaths a little easier. Yes, that's the voice that she heard. "On second thought, we can sign the papers in my office.”

He didn’t want to leave her alone, just in case. He's heard some of the rumours from the visitors and he doesn't want anything to happen for Clarke to change her mind.

Lexa sees the motive in his eyes and clenches her fists even tighter. She quickly maneuvers so she's directly behind him. "Get out," she whispers into his ear.

Quint swats at his ear, not quite hearing anything other than feeling a gentle breeze.

She says it louder and channels more energy into it, and this time, Quint freezes in recognition of the words. His breathing stops all together and his eyes grow large.

Lexa moves back as Quint shuffles out of the doorway. "Let's go get those papers!" He says, putting on what he hopes is an excited smile instead of an oh-shit one.

Clarke eyes him oddly, then nods. “Sounds good." She follows him, closing the door behind her.

Lexa immediately locks the door. Clarke doesn't notice.

And Quint, well, he practically runs back to his office with his tail between his legs.

-

It’s been a week since Clarke moved in and the apartment is still filled with cardboard boxes. Everything is a mess. The fridge is empty except for a carton of chocolate milk and leftover takeout, and Clarke has no idea where she left her glasses.

But she doesn’t particularly care because she spends most of her time in her art studio. Compared to the rest of her apartment, her art studio is a palace.

The room is just the right size for Clarke to furnish everything the way she wants. It’s spacious and has just enough room for Clarke to move around without knocking stuff over. The floor is covered by plastic tarp because god knows how messy she can get. Her art works are mounted on dark blue walls, a canvas stands against one of the corners, and her sketchbooks are neatly lined on the only bookshelf that she owns. There’s a large table with a lamp in the centre of the room and it’s littered with loose sketches and pencils. The only thing that’s not unpacked is her box of supplies.

It’s perfect.

Meanwhile, across the hall, Clarke’s bedroom has a mattress. (She got rid of the broken bed frame.)

That’s perfect, too.

Clarke is beyond pleased. The rent is absurdly cheap, the building is in the heart of the city, and there’s a beautiful view of the park across the street. Not to mention, the apartment came mostly furnished, which worked out for her because otherwise the rest of her apartment would be as sparse as her bedroom.

As for the rumour that Quint told her, well, Clarke has been paying extra attention to her surroundings. She doesn’t believe in ghosts, but even if she did, she isn’t scared. At least that’s what she tells herself.

She pays close attention to where she places her things and occasionally checks to see if they’ve moved on their own. (They haven’t, but then again, Clarke's memory is very short-term.)

She hasn’t seen any shadows besides her own. There are no creepy, creaking doors that open on their own or weird moans during the night.

She’s starting to think that this paranormal business is just the result of some paranoid tenant.

Everything’s normal, Clarke thinks as she eats another spoon of her cereal. With that, she starts to relax and revel in the fact that she’s hit the jackpot with this apartment.

-

Lexa has been passive so far, observing and judging Clarke. She’s not a mean ghost, but she’s not a friendly ghost. (Screw Casper.)

She finds out that Clarke’s an artist, always covered in some sort of paint or charcoal. Clarke leaves prints everywhere and Lexa bites her tongue to stop herself from scolding the blonde.

Lexa’s been in the art studio several times. She never had time to get involved in the arts, but she’s intrigued by the colours that decorate Clarke’s canvases. Lexa supposes that she hasn’t been too harsh to Clarke because she wants an opportunity to see the creative process. She didn’t have any artistic friends besides Lincoln, but even then, all she ever saw were brief glimpses of his sketchbook whenever they were back at the station. (Still to this day, she doesn't understand how Lincoln knew which of his sketches were her favourite. It's not like she ever stared or lingered at any of his work, but yet on her birthday, she arrived to work to find her favourite sketches of the forest and mountains framed neatly on her desk.)

Lexa spends a lot of her nights out in the balcony, looking over the greenery of the park and embracing the openness of being up high, unrestrained. She enjoys the eery quietness of the night.

One night, at 2 a.m., Lexa is interrupted by the sliding of the balcony doors.

Clarke sleepily stumbles out into the balcony, rubbing her eyes. Lexa is leaning against the railing to the far right, and watches as Clarke stands in the centre of the balcony in boxer shorts and a tank top. Lexa is cautious and unnerved by the intrusion. No one has ever joined her out here.

The blonde closes her eyes and takes a few, shuddering breaths. It's then that Lexa notices that Clarke is trembling. She bites her inner cheek, debating whether or not she should force the blonde back inside the warm building, but suddenly, Clarke is ducking her head and crying into her hands. Lexa freezes, lips parted and hands awkwardly raised, not sure what to do.  

She's no stranger to witnessing people's vulnerable moments, having seen the process of death and mourning so many times, but it's been so long since she's actually been so close to someone crying.

She's even more startled when she feels Clarke's sadness hit her like ocean waves, consistent and strong. Lexa quickly backs up away from the blonde, overwhelmed by emotions that are not hers. It's uncomfortable, and foreign. It's weakness, she thinks. The feeling is short-lived because before she knows it, Clarke is sniffling and drying her tears. Lexa watches as she leaves and the sadness slowly recedes until the waves no longer reach the shores.

Clarke seems to have some sort of interest in medicine, judging by the amount of biology textbooks in one of the cardboard boxes. There’s also a stethoscope in a neatly wrapped plastic container. On the corner is a scripted Love, Mom. It’s untouched like it’s never been used nor opened.

She learns that Clarke has many arguments on the telephone and gestures with her hands a lot. Lexa catches snippets of the conversations, but doesn't bother to dig deeper. It's not her business.

Clarke works part-time at a bookstore several blocks away and comes home in the evening with coverless books. Some nights, she curls up on the couch and reads until she falls asleep, glasses crooked on her nose and book loose in her hands.

It’s only then that Lexa allows herself to pick up one of the damaged books in Clarke’s pile and reads until the blonde grumpily wakes up the next morning. She’s missed reading novels. The previous tenants didn’t have much other than tabloid magazines and newspapers.  

Lexa indulges in the things that Clarke unknowingly provides her. But the excitement of art and books can only last so long.

Clarke is starting to annoy the hell out of her.

After Clarke’s friend, Raven, visited and chastised her on the state of her messy apartment, Clarke has been on a mission to renovate.

It starts out small. Clarke rearranges the furniture, unpacks all of the boxes, and Lexa sees the addition of some of Clarke’s stuff around the apartment. That doesn't bother her so much because she always thought the apartment looked a little bland.

But Clarke has a lot of junk. And somehow, the blonde comes to the conclusion that instead of throwing out said junk, she has to make room to keep it.

In other words, Clarke gets rid of Lexa’s stuff to keep around useless shit. The logic infuriates her.  

It starts out as a relatively normal day for Lexa. She leaves for the day to visit the hospital and wander in the forest. But when she comes home, every fucking piece of furniture that came with the place is out in the hallway, including Lincoln's framed sketches that's lying upside down on the floor.

Lexa’s furious. How dare she? Who the hell does this girl think she is?

Lexa opens the door and slams it shut. The sound echoes loudly through the apartment and she waits for Clarke to come investigating.

Except, Clarke isn’t home.

Lexa fumes and struts into the living room, but halts when she sees the room. Every inch of it is redecorated with Clarke’s stuff. There’s a new flat-screen mounting the wall, different couches surround a small wooden table that wasn’t there before, and Clarke’s art hangs on the wall instead of Lincoln’s sketches.

It looks like she never lived there at all.

Lexa balls her hands into fists. She looks around and sees the buckets of paint, newspapers, and brushes lined up against the walls.

She knew she should’ve got rid of the blonde the moment she saw her. It was foolish - no, stupid - of her to get sidetracked by curiosity.

Lexa storms into the art studio with such vigor that she knocks over a canvas and the cup of paint next to it. It flows around her feet and spreads on the plastic tarp.

Clarke isn’t in there, so Lexa marches to the bedroom, leaving heavy paint tracks with every step.

She searches for the blonde, but comes up with nothing.

Clarke’s not here.

Lexa purses her lips, anger still brewing, and goes out into the hallway to retrieve Lincoln’s sketches.

-

Clarke goes out to celebrate with her friends after she finally properly moved into her apartment. They transferred all her furniture from her old place to her new and got all the things she needed to start repainting. It was therapeutic to put her own personal touch on the apartment and claim it, like painting on a new blank slate.

The place wasn’t bad before, but it just wasn’t hers. It was a stranger’s home with a stranger’s belongings and had no personal connection to the blonde. She felt like an invader.

The group celebrates over bottles of cheap beer and games at the local pub, and when all is said and done, Clarke returns to the apartment.

She furrows her eyebrows as she approaches her front door, keys in hand. There’s a trail of paint-covered footprints from her door to the stuff she left in the hallway. The pile is disrupted and she notices that the framed sketches are missing, a large space where they used to be. Maybe one of her neighbours went through the stuff to scavenge what they liked.

She puts the key in the lock and turns it, but the key meets no resistance and turns too easily. Clarke's heart drops. The door is already unlocked.

Clarke cautiously steps into her apartment, opening the door inch by inch, heart beating out of her chest. She tries to convince herself that she’s not scared, but the moment she steps through the door, her jaw drops.

There are footsteps everywhere . A mixture of blue and green paint covers the tiles in a pattern very similar to someone pacing the floor.

She gulps and steps further into the room, praying that it isn’t the wrong thing to do. Maybe she should run for the door. She should, “like, get the fuck out of there,” her inner Raven tells her.

Clarke pulls out her phone and clutches it in her hand, just in case. She has Raven on speed dial. Oh, and the police, too. She makes a quick stop at her kitchen and swiftly grabs a knife.

Okay, now she’s ready.

(“This is so stupid. I’m gonna fucking die,” Clarke repeats in her head. “Please, don’t let me die.”)

She scans the living room, looking to see if anything’s missing. Perhaps this was a burglary, she thinks, but the idea is immediately dismissed. She freezes and her eyes grow wide when she sees the framed sketches back on the wall and her own paintings on the ground. Dry paint surrounds that area.

Clarke backs up in disbelief, starting towards the open door.

It can’t be.  

There’s no way that this is because of-

The door slams shut and clicks before Clarke reaches it. She yelps and spins around, knife up and eyes wide. Her phone lays forgotten on the ground.

Clarke frantically runs everything through her head. She’s been perfectly fine for the past two weeks; nothing out of the ordinary has happened. This can’t be happening right now.

The only thing that echos through the apartment is her labored breaths. But then-

“Put the knife down.”

Clarke jolts at the angry female voice and grasps the knife even harder. She frantically searches for the source of the voice, but there’s nothing. “Who’s there?” She asks fiercely.

(Jesus Christ, she’s out of her mind.)

“I said, put the knife down.”

Clarke heaves. “No way,” she says breathlessly. She takes a defensive stance, body crouched and lowered. She's slightly less horrified (but still horrified nonetheless) that it’s a female that she’s dealing with. She looks around. “Where are you?” She demands.

“Clarke.” It’s even and authoritative. It’s a warning.

Her mouth gapes. “How do you know-” The blonde steels herself. “Show yourself.”

Suddenly the floor is swept from under her and she’s on her back, breath knocked right out of her. The knife slips out of her hand and Clarke looks up to see it floating right above her. She scrambles to her feet.

“Woah, okay!” Clarke puts her hands up and backs away until her back hits the wall.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the voice says firmly.

Clarke watches as the knife drops to the ground and is kicked away. She doesn’t feel any less scared or cornered.

“What do you want from me?” Clarke’s voice wavers.

“I want you to leave.”

Instead of doing the smart thing and leaving, she thinks about the art studio, the beautiful view of the sky and park from the balcony and the other pieces of herself scattered around the apartment.

She likes it here.

So Clarke tentatively says, “I don’t want to leave.”

She’s faced with silence and as the time ticks away, she gets progressively more nervous. Her eyes dart around the room.

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

Clarke isn’t an idiot. She knows that the person she’s talking to is angry, but she’s gonna fight for this place. In the few weeks that she's been here, she's never felt more independent and alive. She's feels right here - she belongs here, more so than anywhere else she's ever lived.

“I don’t want to leave,” Clarke punctuates, taking a cautious step forward. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she moves with newfound confidence.

“I’m not giving you a choice. Now, get out,” the voice seethes.

“We could make an arrangement - a deal,” Clarke proposes. “Maybe I can help you move on-”

“I don’t need your fucking help.”

“But this is my home, I can’t just-”

“This is my home!” The voice roars throughout the room and Clarke flinches. “Not yours.”

Clarke feels the anguish and softens. “Look, I’m sorry I got you so upset.” And for the first time, Clarke hears the other person’s labored breaths.

“Apologies will get you nowhere.”

Clarke wets her dry lips. Her brain starts to catch up to the bizarre situation and naturally, she starts questioning the whole thing.

“Where are you?”

She doesn’t get a reply.

“Who are you?” Clarke asks.

There is still no response.

“Are you a ghost-”

“I think you know the answer to that,” the voice sneers.

Clarke’s hands shoot up in defense. “Right, sorry.”

“I’m giving you a week to move out. One week.”

“I’m not leaving.” Clarke stands her ground.

Clarke feels a sudden shift in the air. The breathing is louder, a small breeze hits her face, and she feels a pair of eyes on her. "Is that you?" Clarke stumbles back. “Are you in front of me?”

There’s no answer. Instead the voice repeats slowly and clearly, “One week.”

The closeness of the voice causes the blonde to shiver, but she stares straight ahead at what she hopes is the person. She starts to speak, but is interrupted.

“And if you dare throw out those things in the hallway, I’ll make sure that you regret it.”

Oh. Clarke mentally face palms herself. That's what she did wrong. No wonder this ghost wants to kick her ass out. Clarke hears light footsteps moving towards the door and shouts, "Wait!"

She rushes to the front door and covers it with her body.

"Get out of my way."

"I didn't know it was your stuff," Clarke explains. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have thrown it out."

"Quint warned you. And yet, you have the nerve to come into my house and disrespect my property," the voice argues.

"I'm sorry, but for god's sake, I didn't even know that you lived here. And honestly, Quint? Have you seen him? Who would trust what he says?"

Clarke thinks that she's made a valid point when she doesn't get a rebuttal. "Let's just take a minute to calm down, okay?"

There's no answer.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

All that meets her is silence.

"Did you walk through the walls?" Clarke asks genuinely, looking at the wall next to the door.

For a few minutes, she thinks that, yes, the ghost did walk through the walls and ditch her, but then she hears a controlled, "No, Clarke. I do not walk through walls."

Clarke sighs in relief. "I'll bring your stuff back in, then we can sort this out, okay? No one has to leave."

She listens to a steady stream of breaths and waits for a response.

"I wish to be alone, Clarke."

Clarke looks confused. "Sure? I can leave for a few hours if you'd like."

"No. I mean, I want to be alone in this apartment. I want to live here by myself."

"Oh," Clarke says. Her eyebrows furrow and she frowns. "No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"This is my home, too. I'm not just going to leave," Clarke explains as if it's obvious.

"Don't be foolish. You haven't even been here for a month. You can find a new place to call home." The female voice says with finality.

"No, I can't," she says through clenched teeth. "It's not that simple."

"Lucky for you, you have one week to figure it all out."

"I'm not leaving," Clarke repeats lowly, enunciating each word.  

"You do not belong here," the voice says with fervour. "There's no place for you-"

"I have nowhere else to go!" Clarke shouts, fed up with the implication that she doesn't belong. "I can't afford to live anywhere else right now and god knows my mom won't even look at me for longer than five seconds." She takes a deep breath and blinks quickly to prevent tears from falling. "So no, I'm not going anywhere."

Clarke struggles to hold back all the emotions that she's been bottling since the day she declined her acceptance to medical school. After that, home was never the same. Disappointment and shame always polluted the air and she suffocated on it until the day she moved to another city, away from her mother.

(She misses her, but more so, she misses the comfort of being in her presence without feeling like a traitor.)

Clarke brings her palms to her eyes and exhales a shuddering breath. "And I belong here just as much as you do," she adds on bitterly.

Minutes pass and she grows frustrated with the lack of response.

"I swear to god, if you left-"

"I'm right here," the voice says quieter this time.

Clarke squares her shoulders. "Good. Now I'm going to get your stuff and then I'm gonna go to sleep."

This time, she doesn't wait for an answer and walks out the door.

-

Lexa watches as Clarke struggles to carry the couch back into the living room.

After the outburst, Clarke's been colder and more defiant. When Lexa tried to pick up some of her belongings to bring back in, Clarke took it out of her hands and gave her a stern, "No, I can do this myself." Lexa rolled her eyes and waited till Clarke left before picking up more stuff. She hoped that Quint was getting a good look at all the floating objects in the hallway.

"Let me help you," Lexa says. "You're going to put a dent on the wall."

"No," she huffs. "I've got this."

Lexa watches as Clarke nearly tips over and rushes over to alleviate the weight. "Clearly, you don't."

"Get your hands off this couch."

"This is my couch," Lexa reasons.

"-that I took out here. Now I have to take it back in."

Lexa rolled her eyes, changing their position so she took most of the weight. "Don't be ridiculous. Plus, I'm stronger than you."

Clarke scoffs, annoyed and grateful at the same time. "Yeah, right."

"Trust me. I was an officer."

Clarke freezes at the new information. "Oh." Her mind goes back to earlier in the night when the ghost removed the knife from her hand. The movement was so tactile and calculated that she didn't realize what happened until it was over.  

Lexa frowns. "Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just- wow, the reality of this is finally sinking in." Clarke pauses in thought, staring at the space across from her - where a ghost is standing. "An ex-police ghost is helping me carry a couch right now," she says dumbfounded.

Lexa doesn't comment and instead directs the couch to a spot in the living room and places it down, careful not to crush Clarke's fingers.  

"Well, that's the last of it," Clarke says.

The living room practically has double of everything and there's an absurd amount of couches in the living room. Lexa is kind of disturbed by it.

"That's it," Lexa confirms. She doesn't know what to say or do next, but the important thing is that Clarke can't see her. Lexa could, however, see Clarke's fidgeting.

"You can go to sleep now, Clarke," Lexa says, eyes glancing at the blonde's tired eyes and flushed neck.

"Don't tell me what to do," Clarke mumbles then looks around at the floor. "There's still all this paint to clean up."

Lexa bites her inner cheek. The paint covered floors was her fault, not Clarke's. The blonde shouldn't have to worry about it. "That is a job for tomorrow," she says, "Go rest."

Clarke hesitates then nods. She's still upset and high strung from the argument, but she thinks that sleep will do her some good. Clarke starts to retreat back to her room, but before she closes her door, she looks down the hall and asks, "Do you need anything?"

Lexa furrows her eyebrows at the odd question. "Need?"

"I mean, are you comfortable? I know all your stuff is back in here, but," Clarke shrugs, "you still might not be 'at peace' or whatever."

Lexa is not used to such a question or consideration so all she says is, "I'm fine."

"Okay," Clarke chews on her lower lip, still feeling bad about throwing everything out. "Good night," she says softly.

Lexa hears the door click close and sighs deeply. She's tired and drained from the interaction with Clarke. She doesn't usually talk to people.

She steps out into the balcony, sits against the wall, and stares through the glass railing at the abundance of trees in the park.

-

For a few moments after she wakes up, Clarke thinks that everything was a dream - or a hallucination - because when she steps out into the hallway, all of the paint on the floor is gone.

She rubs her eyes and looks again. Okay, the floors aren't spotless and there are still faint paint trails left over, but who is she to complain? More importantly, who is she going to complain to?

She enters the living room and surely enough, all the extra furniture is scattered around - a stark reminder that last night was not a figment of her imagination. She navigates through the mass of objects and stands in the middle of the room, looking around.

"Hello?" Clarke says tentatively. "Are you here?"

She hears nothing but the sound of the garbage truck outside. She walks to the kitchen and sees that the knife that she used yesterday is back in its place. "If you're here, can you give me a sign?"

Nothing.

She sighs a breath of discontent. She doesn't like leaving conflicts unresolved and she really wants to put the issue to rest.

"If you're here, I just want to say that I'm sorry for throwing your things out last night."

Nothing changes in the room, but Clarke goes on regardless in case that she is here. "I just didn't know. I won't do it again, I promise."

She feels awkward, talking to an empty room. She shuffles her feet then adds, "And thanks for cleaning up the paint."

Silence.

She purses her lips. Maybe the ghost isn't awake yet. After all, it is 6:30 in the morning and she knows from experience that some people sleep like the dead.

-

Clarke doesn't encounter the ghost for three days. Aside from constantly questioning her sanity, she gets back into the ritual of her daily life fairly easily. She goes to work at the book store, eats, sleeps, paints, and so on. She should be happy, but she's mostly suspicious and weary. She spends a lot of her time going through various scenarios about the ghost's whereabouts and she's narrowed it down to three.

1) The ghost has moved on. (RIP)  

2) The ghost is out there rallying up troops to storm the apartment and take it back. (SOS)

3) There is no ghost and everything was either a figment of her imagination or a very elaborate prank, courtesy of Raven. (WTF)

Or even worse, maybe the ghost has been here this whole time. She did go two weeks without Clarke ever noticing her. She shakes her head. No, the thought just creeps her out too much.

-

It's been a week and slowly, Clarke just learns to accept that she will never know where the ghost has gone. There are constant reminders of her though (oh god, she sounds like a heart-broken ex).

Mainly, it's just the extra fucking furniture that she keeps bumping into. She doesn't dare to move any of it though.

Even when she stubs her toe on the corner of the couch for the umpteenth time and swears like her life depends on it.

It's 1:00 in the morning, she's tired and hungry, and now she has a throbbing toe. Life is great, it really is. (If Raven was here, she would say something along the lines of 'Griffin is trippin').

She pours herself a bowl of cereal and milk, and sits on the kitchen counter to eat.

Her eyes wander aimlessly around the dimly lit room, finally ending at the glass door of the balcony where the moonlight shines in.

She stares blankly at it, entranced by the way the light resonates through the glass. She finishes her cereal and heads towards the balcony, grabbing a sweater off the back of the couch.

It's cold outside, colder than she expected. She wraps the sweater tighter around herself and leans on the railing, looking up at the stars.

God, she loves it here. She can see everything. The moon, the stars - constellations. She breathes in the feeling of freedom, lets it settle into her chest. It's nice, really nice -

"Clarke."

The blonde jumps so high that she's momentarily worried that she actually jumped over the railing.

"Oh my god," Clarke grabs her chest, "Jesus fuck."

"Language, Clarke."

She recognizes the voice, even over the sound of the frantic beating of her heart.

"Language? That's what you're worried about right now?" Clarke bends over and puts her hands on her knees. "You nearly scared me off this balcony!" She cringes as she looks down at the height.

"That was not my intention."

Clarke straightens up and moves away from the railing towards the brick wall. "Well, maybe think twice next time about where you decide to suddenly announce yourself."

The air is quiet, contemplative.

"I apologize," the voice says.

Clarke waves her hand nonchalantly as if nearly dying wasn't a big deal. "It's okay. Just," she takes a deep breath, "don't do that again."

The air stirs. A nod, maybe? She hopes so because if that message was not received then she better start writing her will.

The blonde pulls at the sleeves of her sweater. "So, where've you been?" She says casually. Calm, Cool, and Collected. That's Clarke.

There's a moment of silence, then the voice replies vaguely, "Around."

"Like around here?" Clarke furrows her eyebrows. "Were you here the morning after the incident, you know, when I apologized?"

There's no reply, so Clarke decides to reiterate what she said that morning. "I'm sorry that-"

"I was there," the voice cuts her off. "I heard."

"Oh, okay. Good." Clarke pauses, kind of annoyed that she didn't say anything back that morning. "Wait, so have you been around the apartment this whole time?"

The answer is short and not at all reassuring. "No."

The wind picks up, rattling the trees. Clarke shivers and goosebumps litter her skin. "I think we should go inside." She makes her way in and the sound of the glass door sliding back into place tells her that the ghost also followed.

Clarke feels the atmosphere change the further she gets into the living room.

She's haphazardly avoiding the maze of furniture when the voice says, "It's been a week."

"I've noticed," Clarke replies tentatively, on guard. She has an idea where this is going.

"Your belongings are still here."

"Indeed, they are." Play it coy, Griffin.

"You're not leaving," the girl says evenly. It's an observation, a statement of fact.

"No, I'm not. Look, I like it here, okay?" She shrugs hopelessly. "And I really don't have anywhere else to go." The insecurity floods her body and she instinctively crosses her arms across her chest and stares absently at the wall.

Lost in thought, Clarke startles when one of the couches suddenly moves, scraping along the hardwood floor. It ends up in the corner furthest away from the hall. The blonde gapes her mouth, not sure about what's happening.

"Um," she starts nervously, "You're not making room to murder me or anything, right?"

The silence does nothing to calm her nerves. The wooden table slowly sliding towards the far wall doesn't help either. She scratches the back of her neck. Should she be getting her knife right now?

The ghost must sense her uneasiness because she says in an even voice, "Calm down, Clarke." Another couch is moved. "I am simply tired of hearing you swear whenever you bump into a couch."

She watches cautiously as the array of furniture is rearranged in a manner that is deemed 'Safe for Clarke'. It feels like a truce - an olive branch.

"I-" She doesn't know what to say other than, "Thank you."

There is no response and Clarke isn't really expecting one. It's startling, being in her presence, but it's also oddly easy.

When the furniture stops shifting, Clarke sits on the arm of a couch and asks the one question that's been on her mind for the past week.

"So, what's your name?"

The couch dips across from her and she can almost imagine a person sitting there across from her.

"Lexa."