Chapter Text
“Shit, shit, shit.” Frantic, clammy hands run through knotted hair, as she paces from side to side of what little space their excuse for a dorm room provided. It normally almost feels like a decorated jail cell, but it feels suffocating now. “Raven, how much longer?”
“Sit your ass down, Griffin,” the brunette snaps, side-eyeing her momentarily from her desk. Keen eyes fixate on the screen of her desktop, hand never once leaving the mouse. “Faking documents is an art, and I can’t focus if you keep circling around me like a starving vulture.”
It takes Clarke a second to pause and breathe. She emphatically seats herself on the floor besides Raven’s chair, landing with thump for effect.
The sound and sudden weight pressed against Raven’s seat grabs her attention. She doesn’t look away from her screen, her hand still working delicately and expertly with the mouse. There’s a pull at the corner of her lips, stuck between an incredulous grin and smirk.
“Had I known you were this desperate, I would’ve charged you more than a month’s worth of notes.”
Clarke glares at her, not amused. “Had I known you would take this long, I would’ve asked Monty.”
“To fake an entire application, resume, certification, photos and all for you on two-hours notice?” Raven guffaws. Tilting her head side-to-side, she takes a quick stretch. “Not only does he have the morals of a saint, but only I’d be lazy enough to cop out to this feat for notes.”
The reminder of her nearing, ticking deadline tenses Clarke’s shoulders. She roughly grabs the teal, square pillow behind Raven’s back and presses her face against it, letting out a primal scream.
Raven flinches. “I hope you didn’t get spit on that.”
“I hope you finish faster,” Clarke bites back. She glances at her watch. 11:56am. Her job interview is at 1pm, but it’s off-campus on a Friday afternoon. Traffic will be impossible, but she can’t possibly bike there in time. “I also need your Jeep.”
She looks at Raven, who pauses from her work and leans back against her seat. Look contemplatively at the ceiling, she replies, “It’s gonna cost you. Two weeks extra.”
“Are you serious?” Clarke withholds the urge to tackle Raven. “How do you expect to pass this class?”
“Work smarter, not harder,” Raven says with a sickeningly sweet smile, throwing in a wink for additional frustration.
Clarke feels her blood pressure escalating. 11:58am. “Those photoshopped pictures better look like they came straight out of Pets Magazine.”
“You swear it’s that easy to Photoshop your head over Octavia’s in her entire fucking photo album,” Raven sarcastically retorts, rolling her eyes for emphasis. She’s working at a pace Clarke considers much too leisurely. “You just had to pick a girl with a different hair color, different body frame. Shit, Clarke, you might as well have picked Oprah.”
“The job’s to train a German Shepherd, and she has one! This is my ticket in,” the blonde deadpans, “You said you could do it.”
“I didn’t say it wouldn’t take time,” Raven fires back, “So, unless you want to look like a drunk Snapchat face swap gone wild, give me space.”
“Fine.”
It’s a reluctant response, but Clarke has little option aside from easing the pressure and leaving Raven to her illegal expertise. After all, it was her fault for forgetting about this job ad until the morning of, forcing Raven to work in her hungover state and inflating her prices enough that Clarke can barely withstand the immorality of it all.
Paying for fake documents for a job she doesn’t even want but desperately needs. It sounds the beginning of a college story bound for a downward spiral into a mess of lies and guilt. It is necessary, though, she bitterly reminds herself. Art doesn’t pay, until… well, it does. Until then, something else has to pay, and dog training seems flexible and easy enough.
Clarke’s snapped out of her daze when a manila envelope and photo album slam onto the ground inches from her spot. Raven heaves a loud, dramatic sigh, before her signature cocky smile beams brightly and widely for Clarke to see.
“This is all of it?” She’s still in shock, thumbing through the materials. The resume, rec letters, and Petsmart certification are in the envelope. Clarke finds that her head looks surprisingly natural over Octavia’s body. 12:16pm. “You’re done, for real?”
“If you can’t get the job with God’s work,” she points to herself, “then you owe me two months of notes for emotional trauma. Disappointment’s a bitch.”
Clarke doesn’t bother to respond with more than a scoff. Hastily, she shoves the envelope into her faux, brown leather messenger bag. She plants a brief kiss against Raven’s forehead, much to her verbal distaste—“Fuck off, Griffin.”—before snatching her Jeep keys and rushing out the door.
She feels like, maybe, just maybe, she can pull this off after all.
Until she parks outside her future client’s house and reads her texts.
“Oops, overlooked a few pictures but they’re in the back. Get creative.”
Clarke feels an aneurysm coming. Breathe, she reminds herself, taking slow, deep breaths. When she feels relaxed enough, she shuffles out of the car, arms firmly pressing the messenger bag against her chest like it holds gold. It’s her future job, it might as well be.
The house she stands in front of is incredible, to say the least. It’s almost an idyllic two-story home, with a lush green front yard and cobblestone walkway. As a starving artist and student bouncing from paycheck to paycheck, one odd job to the next, Clarke’s almost in disbelief that a classmate—who frequents the same campus coffee shops, sits in the same lecture halls, walks across the same campus Quad—lives here. Worlds apart, she thinks. While she’s struggling to get her life together, a classmate seems to have breezed past that stage.
She quickly straightens her clothes, a blue pin-striped button-up and black jeans, before ringing the door bell.
Calm down, calm down, calm down, she reminds herself. It’s just a job. A dog training one, no less. She’s dressed fairly nice enough and—
When the door opens, a regrettably familiar face almost knocks her over. It’s her classmate, Ontari, who unsubtly measures Clarke head-to-toe before scoffing.
“Griffin,” she greets coldly. “You here to fight me for the job?”
Clarke feels her resolve slowly evaporate. Of course, Ontari—her arch rival, if she had to pick one—would be interviewing for the same job. Of course, she would be decked out in an uptight, professional suit, blazer and all. Of course, she’d carry a padfolio and wear heels.
Instinctively, Clarke’s grip tightens around her leather bag and her toes curl up in her worn out white Converse sneakers. “It wouldn’t be much of a fight. I think the minimum requirement for this job is a heart.”
A fluttery feeling of victory fills her stomach when she sees Ontari’s face visibly distort into a near growl.
“You—”
A light snicker catches both of their attention, and Clarke finally notices the young boy standing by the door. He has sandy blonde hair that barely falls above his eyes and a tiny frame, but Clarke only sees his remarkably kind eyes. She feels her own anger and dislike for the brunette dissipate.
Ontari catches herself mid-sentence and clears her throat. She smiles at the boy, dipping her head slightly out of respect. Clarke wants to gag at the plasticity of it all, but when she remembers her own disposition, her short-lived feeling of victory is just that.
“Thank you again, Aden,” Ontari says, extending a hand. “Tell Lexa I look forward to hearing back from you both.”
Aden doesn’t shake her hand, only nods. “Thanks for your time.”
There is visible tension between the two, and Clarke immediately likes the boy for more than his eyes.
Ontari awkwardly retracts her hand and leaves with a huff.
“Hi,” the boy says, extending a hand toward Clarke. “I’m Aden. Are you here for an interview? I don’t remember receiving your application.”
Clarke hopes the heat rising in her cheeks isn’t apparent. The challenge begins now. “Clarke,” she says, meeting his hand with her own. “I know this is a bit unorthodox, but I saw the app late and I figured I’d try my luck. If you don’t have time, I completely understand.”
Aden looks at her, measures her the same way Ontari did, head-to-toe. This time, though, she doesn’t feel as scrutinized or insecure. She stands straighter, more confidently, and with a genuine smile. She feels like she’s with a dear friend.
“I like your shoes,” he finally says softly, flashing a small smile.
“Huh?” Clarke sputters, embarrassingly. She notices that he is wearing a white pair of Converse as well.
“I’m not a fan of Ontari,” Aden states offhandedly, casually scratching the back of his head. Clarke wants to laugh; they already have two things in common. “Since she’s an automatic out, I guess we have space for one more candidate.”
When he motions for her to follow him into the house, Clarke hesitates. This boy, so full of youth and joy and kindness, is giving her a chance not many people have, and without even seeing her resume or qualifications. Just pure faith, and it arouses bittersweet feelings in Clarke.
She feels too guilty to walk through the door.
Clarke is ready to turn on her heels and shred her application—it’s not even real, and she doesn’t have the heart to intentionally fool the first person who’s shown her faith in so long—but Aden looks back at her and grounds her with that same small smile.
“Come on, Clarke,” he ushers, too excitedly for Clarke to decline. “Lexa’s waiting.”
Lexa, right. The blonde shakes her head, reminding herself that Lexa is the one who posted the ad and is likely the one in charge. Lexa, the same stoic, professional, pre-business student council president, whom Raven affectionately coins, “Lex-stick” for the “stick up in her ass.” Unoriginal, but from everything she’s heard, Lexa’s reputation is infinitely more credible than her application.
She seems far too stiff for a puppy, but this is whom she must impress. Her heart plummets into her stomach.
“Aden, who’re you talking to?” Lexa stands and approaches Aden, but halts when she notices Clarke awkwardly standing by the doorframe, clutching onto her bag too hard to fake confidence. Her hair is down and partially pulled back with intricate braids, and she’s as well dressed as Ontari. An even finer pressed blazer draped over a clean white button-up and slim fitting black slacks.
Her sneakers that Aden liked suddenly feel multitudes tackier.
Lexa doesn’t say anything further, only measures Clarke again. It doesn’t feel as intrusive as Ontari, but it certainly doesn’t feel as welcoming as Aden either. Lexa’s hard to read, she’s heard, but seeing is believing.
“Hi,” Clarke extends her head as steadily as she can. She’s come too far to be unnerved now. “I’m Clarke.”
Lexa takes a moment to return her handshake, firmly and confidently. Clarke’s hand feels like a limp squid.
Fuck me. She already feels royally screwed, and the interview hasn’t even begun yet. She’s not even sure if it ever will, at this rate.
“Did you submit an application?”
Clarke opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out. Not even air, she thinks.
“Lexa,” Aden interrupts, briefly locking eyes with Clarke and she immediately feels better. “Clarke’s a friend. She saw the app late, but she came all the way here, so can we give her a chance?”
The brunette looks down at Aden with a surprised and curious gaze, and Clarke can’t help but look at him the same way. Giving her a chance is one thing, and for that she is grateful, but Aden fighting for her and lying for her is a reach she can’t quite understand.
The two stare at each other, one confused and the other adamant, before Lexa breaks away. She looks at Clarke and sighs, “Okay.” She gestures toward the couch in the living room, moving to lead the way.
Aden winks at her before following Lexa.
Bending over to untie her Converse, Clarke surmises the two must be siblings or some kind of family. She hadn’t heard much about Lexa's family—or anything at all, really—and she sees no resemblance, but the way she looks at him and caves to his request—despite the obvious lie; they’re hardly friends—is demonstrative of something dear and special. A side of “Lex-stick” she didn’t expect but is honored to see.
Clarke notes how, as put together as the outside looks, the home’s interior looks even more orderly and perfected. As she makes her way to the seating area, she takes note of the muted white walls, the drawn back curtains—real curtains! Not just old dress shirts—and the glass coffee table surrounded by a complete, L-shaped furniture set.
She sits on the lone wooden chair, pulled from the dining table set, across from Lexa and Aden who are on the white, plush couch straight out of an Ikea catalogue.
“So, Clarke,” Lexa begins, carefully eyeing her. “Did you bring anything for us to review or just yourself?”
Strike 1.
If her cheeks didn’t flush before with Aden, they certainly do now. Rushing into her bag, she pulls out the envelope so fast it actually flies out of her hand and toward the worst possible direction. Toward Lexa.
If Clarke didn’t believe that life’s most undignified and nightmarish moments were caught and immortalized in slow motion by a masochistic brain, she does now.
She feels her eyes initially widen out of shock, as the envelope whizzes past her hair so quickly she feels the wind slap her face. Clarke’s eyes follow the yellow envelope, recognizing the trajectory toward Lexa’s face, and Clarke feels her stomach turn and roil. Lexa’s reflexive enough, however, effortlessly catching the envelope with a quick swipe of her hand. The scowl on her face after catching it is telling, though.
Strike 2, 3, 4, 5, 99. Strike out.
“Thanks,” she narrows her eyes, “Clarke.”
It would be funny if it wasn’t so damn real and horrifying altogether.
Lexa wordlessly skims through the documents, eyes moving corner to corner at a blazing speed. Clarke would think she’s bullshitting, fake reading as an intimidation tactic, but Lexa isn’t just anyone. Aden dawdles, though, smiling reassuringly at Clarke, occasionally peering at the documents in Lexa’s hand.
She’s not even looking at Clarke, but never has Clarke felt more under surveillance as she does now.
“These are surprisingly good recommendations,” Lexa finally states, looking up to meet Clarke’s eyes. The blonde tries not to look surprised. Raven actually pulled through. “I’m assuming we can contact Raven Reyes to verify?”
Knowing Raven’s tendency to party hard and sleep just as hard, Clarke is internally screaming because why, why, why? If her future hinged on Raven answering her phone, she might as well give it up now.
“Of course,” she replies with a tight smile. Fake it until you make it. That’s the motto.
“You have an outstanding resume for an art student.”
“Oh?” Clarke’s surprise slips. “You know I’m an art student?”
Lexa cocks a brow. “Your resume lists your major.”
“Oh.”
Strike 100. As if Clarke had to make the bullshit any clearer.
“But yes,” Lexa continues matter-of-factly, “I am aware. I’ve seen some of your work.” Before Clarke can inquire further, Lexa asks, “Do you have anything else for us?”
“Yes!” She’s aware she sounds too eager as a supposed seasoned professional, but she’s too enthusiastic about how this interview isn’t crashing and burning like she wholly expected. Pulling out the touched up album from her bag, she cautiously hands it over to Lexa’s outstretched hand. “Just some photos of me and a previous client’s dog.”
Aden animatedly flips the first page and his smile broadens so widely that Clarke thinks hungover Raven may have saved her life somehow. One page after another, he continues flipping through the album, as Lexa idly relegates herself to second in command as his sheer joy takes charge.
Clarke, having little else to do, engrosses herself in this familial moment. Aden flips through the pages, absorbed in his own world, as Lexa looks on in wonder. When she sees the corner of Lexa’s lips tugging upwards into a true, full smile, a wave of warmth rushes over her. Never has she seen Lexa smile like this before, even if they barely saw each other. She’s only heard rumors about the cutthroat, no-fun, uptight class president who, while certainly efficient, is also alienating. Watching these two, though, makes her wonder what alienation her classmates saw in Lexa.
She notices the brief furrow in Lexa’s brow as Aden continues flipping through the pages, and suddenly she remembers Raven’s damning text. Before she can fathom an excuse or positive reinforcement, Aden closes the album and looks up at her with the widest grin.
“Clarke, this is amazing.” He nudges Lexa whose smile has since faded. “Lexa, please, can we hire Clarke?”
Lexa’s eyes widen slightly, shocked by her brother’s impulsive decision. “Aden, aren’t we rushing into this? We did have other applicants.”
Though she’s disappointed by Lexa’s tempered response, Clarke understands where Lexa’s coming from, more so because of her own awareness of her fabricated background.
“But I like Clarke the best,” Aden asserts, meeting Lexa’s gaze with an equally resolute stare.
Lexa studies Aden, as does Clarke. She’s sure Lexa’s feeling just as confused and incredulous as her as to what Aden sees in her—hell, he’s a bigger advocate for Clarke than Clarke herself is—but she appreciates this boy more than he possibly knows in the half hour they’ve known each other.
“Okay,” Lexa resigns with a sigh and accompanying shrug. “Clarke, if you’re still interested, the job’s yours.”
She’s sure this moment is unreal. She isn’t even sure if she’s breathing, because her lungs feel like they’ve stilled all but entirely, but when Aden tackles her with a hug, she lets herself fall into his warm embrace and into this moment.
“I’ll get Cole,” he says, swiftly pulling away from the hug and running up the stairs.
Lexa stays rooted on the couch, looking at Clarke with an unreadable expression.
“Thanks for the opportunity, Lexa,” Clarke manages to say, deciding to break the awkward silence. They have to be friends, at this point, for Aden’s sake. “I really appreciate this."
Lexa doesn’t acknowledge her thank you and instead plainly remarks, “I know you’re a fake.”
The slow motion devastation that horrified earlier seems miniscule compared to now.
“W-What?” Clarke stutters, unsure of what defense to go with. She didn’t expect to get this far. She expected a simple rejection, probably, easy enough to handle. Not getting busted and still getting the job.
“I’m not blind, Clarke,” Lexa states curtly, sounding almost bored. She uncrosses her legs and straightens her blazer. If that’s an intimidation tactic, it’s working. Clarke feels her hands getting clammy and her feet have an urge to pace. “Aden’s young, so he probably doesn’t recognize the Photoshop edits, but I do. Reyes did a great job, almost fooled me.”
Shit. Raven’s notorious blind eye for the law is more renowned than she assumed.
“Then why?” Clarke probes, recognizing the sinking lie of Titanic proportions.
“Because Aden likes you, and that itself is enough,” Lexa laments. Despite not knowing either of them, she recognizes that the statement is special, somehow. Lexa crosses her arms and looks blankly at Clarke. “Fake papers or not, if you can’t perform, I’ll fire you no matter what Aden says."
Before Clarke can articulate a coherent response, she loses sight of Lexa when something so forceful physically collides against her front, knocking her onto the ground. The sheer force and speed at which it happens bewilders her. It isn’t until wet, warm, softness repeatedly presses all over her face that she realizes a dog tackled her to the ground and is slobbering over every inch of visible skin.
It’s a sickening feeling, and Clarke half wants to puke.
When she finally regains her visual focus, she sees a grinning Aden standing over her beside an unfazed Lexa.
“Welcome to the family, Clarke,” Aden says with that same beaming grin.
Family? There’s a strange accelerated thumping in her chest, and Clarke isn’t sure what to make of it. It’s an equally strange word to hear after so long, and here of all places.
When Clarke instinctively looks to Lexa for direction, their eyes meet but Lexa gives away nothing.
Clarke only breaks eye contact when the slobbering continues down to her neck, jerking her back to the reality of having to fight off an overly affectionate puppy half her size.
“Clarke!” Aden laughs fully and his happiness is so contagious she can’t bother feeling irritated. “Cole likes you.”
Her hands scramble to calm the giant pinning her body to the floor, grappling for anything to assert herself. She feels rough, shaggy fur between her fingers and immediately recoils. He, however, only takes this as a challenge and barks at her some more before repeatedly licking her face again and again.
Is this what family is?
Lexa catches her eye; or, really, it’s the small smirk dancing across her lips that reminds Clarke of the sobering facts.
This is more than she bargained for in a part-time job.