#crying lightning

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1 You’re Mistaken If You’re Thinking That I Haven’t Been Called Cold Before

a/n: This marks the official beginning of the short Alex and Arabella series:

Crying Lightning

Admittedly, it's a bit of a cliché; I'm well aware that the concept of the-girl-completely-unfazed-by-an-artist-like-Turner-until-she's-not is thoroughly overused. But I like the storyline so much that I don't really care — and it's my blog, after all..

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Alex Turner had a rare stretch of days off and did what he always did when the noise became unbearable: he looked for a pub quiet enough to disappear in.

This one seemed promising. Dim lights. Worn wood. The kind of place where nobody looked twice at anyone else. He ordered a double whisky, neat, expensive enough to justify lingering over it, and settled into his booth with the intention of being left alone.

His eyes, however, betrayed him.

His gaze drifted across the room and landed, unbidden, on a booth of three girls.

The first girl was blonde. Perfect ponytail, scraped back tight like it meant business. Long, glittering earrings flashed every time she moved. She had on a fitted top worn with absolute assurance, and her smile was easy, beautiful, and fully conscious of the attention it drew. It was clear she liked being looked at.

He felt an immediate, irrational irritation. She knew exactly what she was doing, and worse, she liked it. Hungry for it. He looked away, faintly annoyed with himself for noticing her at all.

The second girl sat beside her. Light brown curls, carefully styled but missing the same effortless polish. She wasn't unattractive, there was just something unsettled.

Alex noticed the matching jewellery, the similar silhouette, the effort to mirror what seemed to work for the other. There was something gentler in her face, something warmer, and that made it worse. It wasn't irritation this time, but a quiet discomfort—a sense that whatever she might have been on her own was being edited down to fit.

Then there was a third. She sat opposite them, her back to him. All he could see was a fall of long, dark hair—untouched by artifice, heavy and natural. When she spoke, he heard her voice before he properly took in what she was saying. Contralto. Low, steady, unhurried. She spoke quietly, never raising it to claim attention, never lowering it to disappear. The kind of voice that didn't ask to be heard because it assumed it would be.

He found himself imagining her face. Ugly? Unremarkable? Beautiful? The voice, the hair, the calm, economical way she moved her hands as she spoke suggested the third, but he didn't trust his instincts where women were concerned anymore.

Then, the two girls facing his booth noticed him. He clocked the change immediately: the sudden tension, the exchanged glances, the frantic whispering. They leaned closer together, giggling, adjusting themselves like actors who'd just been told the camera was rolling.

Alex's stomach tightened.

They knew who he was. Clear as glass.

Not the third girl, though. She didn't turn. Didn't sneak a glance. Didn't straighten her posture or lower her voice. She carried on exactly as she had been, unbothered, uninterested.

A stupid part of him wanted her to turn around. Wanted her to notice him, recognise him, so he could finally see her face. Another, stronger part—honed by years of unwanted attention—won out.

He fixed his gaze on his whisky.

The glass was still nearly full. He considered downing it in one go and leaving before the inevitable approach: the autograph, the photo, the forced charm, the attempt to be memorable. The next would‑be muse for his already exhausted solitude. He nearly laughed.

Then her voice cut in close, far nearer than he expected. "Alreet." Thick Sheffield. Unmistakable.

He looked up instinctively, his hair falling forward to shield his eyes—a habit more than a strategy. Too late. He pushed it back behind his ears and found her standing there, looking down at him.

She was beautiful in that understated, almost accidental way. Nothing screamed for attention. Her skin was pale and smooth, soft-looking, with a faint natural flush across her cheekbones. No heavy makeup, just a trace of mascara framing striking icy blue eyes that met his directly, unflinching. Her face gave nothing away—sharp-featured, composed, with the faintest hint of boredom, like she was already half-done with the conversation before it had properly begun.

She was dressed simply: a black long-sleeved top, cropped high enough to reveal a small silver piercing glinting at her navel. Her jeans hung low on her hips, worn and faded in that effortless way that spoke of genuine use rather than careful styling. There was nothing contrived about her figure—no gym-honed edges or deliberate display. It was balanced, natural, and entirely her own.

She cleared her throat, visibly uncomfortable with his scrutiny, but faintly amused by his complete lack of subtlety.

"Reyt, so," she said. "My mates over there—" she gestured vaguely with her thumb, not bothering to look back "—reckon you're that lad from the Arctic Monkeys."

Alex said nothing.

"They won't come over themselves. Too shy, apparently. Autograph an' all that." A pause. A measured breath. "I hate bothering you while you're enjoying your..." her eyes flicked briefly to his glass, then back to his, cool and incisive, "...suffering-builds-character sort of drink."

There was something dry in her tone. But she wasn't mocking him, just being observant.

"But it was either your peace or mine," she went on, "'cause they weren't letting it go."

Silence stretched between them. Alex felt uncharacteristically pinned in place.

"You're not him though, are ya?" she added, already half turning away. "Sorry to bother you."

She took a step back. Without thinking, Alex reached out and caught her wrist. The shock registered on both of them at once.

The contact broke as quickly as it had begun. She pulled her arm back, decisively, as if correcting a mistake rather than reacting to an offence. Her eyes hardened—not with outrage, but with boundaries. Clear. Non‑negotiable.

Alex's hand hovered in the air for half a second before dropping back to the table. The silence that followed wasn't loud, but it pressed in on him all the same.

"Sorry," he said. The word came out low, stripped of performance.

She didn't answer straight away. She looked at him as though recalibrating him, filing the moment away, deciding what category he belonged in.

"Oh," she said at last, deadpanning, voice flat. "So he does speak."

Alex leaned back slightly, an instinctive retreat, clear his throat and said: "Yeah."

She leaned forward and set her hands flat on the table, close enough now to make the point without raising her voice. It wasn't the closeness that surprised him, but the certainty of it.

"Right," she started, "then I'll say this once and go back to my seat." She flicked her gaze briefly toward the booth behind her. "My friends think you're someone you might not want to be right now." A pause. "I told 'em I'd check."

Alex followed her gaze briefly, caught the flash of blond hair, the poorly disguised anticipation.

"They're not subtle," he said.

"No," she agreed. "They rarely are."

Her eyes returned to him. They didn't soften, if anything, they held. He found himself oddly aware of his posture, the way his hands rested on the table, the space between them.

"You can say no," she added. "I'll tell 'em you're not in the mood, or not you at all. Either way, problem solved."

He hadn’t expected it to be that simple. It threw him.

He studied her face now that he had permission—how unreadable it was, how carefully uninviting. She wasn't trying to impress him. She wasn't trying to protect him either. She was simply offering an exit.

"I'm him," Alex said.

No visible surprise. She gave one short nod.
“Alright then.”

That was all. No dramatic widening of eyes, no change in her voice. Just a subtle recalibration, effortless as clicking into a new gear.

"You want me to lie?" she asked.

Alex huffed softly, more breath than laugh.

"Tempting."

"Thought so."

Another beat passed. He realised he was watching her far too closely, and the stillness, the confidence with which she stood, and the way she didn't fill silences for comfort's sake.. it unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite place.

Behind her, he could feel the room resuming its shape, the pub humming quietly around them again.

"I won't keep you," she said, already stepping back. "They'll get restless if I take too long."

She paused, just long enough to add—

"And for what it's worth, grabbing people usually doesn't help."

He met her gaze, steady now, unembellished. "Noted."

A flicker—something like amusement, or maybe approval—passed through her eyes and was gone. She turned away then, walking back toward the booth with the same composure she'd arrived with, leaving Alex exactly where he was:

Still.

Watching.

And quietly, inexplicably, wanting her to turn around again.

She didn't even looked over her shoulder, she just slipped into her seat as easy as she did everything else, leaning in just enough to be heard. He couldn't make out the words, but he didn't need to. He recognised the cadence of explanation, the clipped efficiency of someone delivering news they didn't particularly care to soften.

The reaction came immediately.

The blonde's smile collapsed first—just a fraction, but enough. Disbelief followed. She leaned forward, peering past Arabella's shoulder, eyes narrowing as she checked again, shamelessly now, like she was willing the truth to rearrange itself.

Are you sure? her face seemed to say.

The other girl looked between them, confusion knitting her brows. Arabella said something else then, shorter this time—final. Whatever it was, landed. The blonde leaned back with a huff, disappointment setting in hard and petulant. She glanced over one last time, then looked away.

And that was that. They left him alone.

Alex exhaled, a tension he hadn't realised he was holding loosening in his chest. He lifted his glass in a small, private gesture toward the booth—toward her—though she wasn't looking.

Cheers, he thought.

He drank more slowly after that. Let the whisky sit on his tongue, warm and welcome. The pub settled into itself again, the low hum of conversation smoothing the edges of his thoughts.

Still, his mind kept drifting back. The way she hadn't flinched. The way she'd offered him an out without asking for anything in return. The way she'd lied for him—cleanly, convincingly.

He told himself not to read into it.

By the time the glass was empty, the night had worn thin around the edges. He stood, shrugged into his jacket, and stepped outside for a smoke. The air hit him sharp and cold—sobering. He leaned against the brick wall, lit up, and let the nicotine ground him. For a moment, there was nothing but the glow of the cigarette and the quiet of the street.

Drop it, he told himself, when she started dancing on the edge of his mind again. He crushed the thought as he crushed the cigarette, bringing it up for one last drag—

The door opened behind him.

He didn't turn at first. He heard footsteps, lighter than his, then the familiar sound of a lighter striking.

He glanced sideways, she stood a few feet away, already smoking, gaze fixed on the street ahead like he wasn't there at all.

His heartbeat speeded up. Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. He lit it, the flame flickered briefly, dancing across the pale skin of his nose and the shiny surface of his corneas.

She noticed. A corner of her mouth lifted.

"Blimey," she said, exhaling slowly. "That was quick. You always attack fags like that?"

He huffed, embarrassed despite himself. "Only when I'm thinking."

"Dangerous habit," she replied. "Both of 'em."

He glanced at her, then back at the street. "Thanks," he said.

"For what?"

"For earlier. You didn't have to."

She shrugged, a small, spartan movement. "They wanted a story, I gave 'em one. Seemed easier."

He smiled faintly. "You're good at lying."

She shot him a look. "I'm good at not making things worse."

They stood in silence again, smoke curling between them, the space oddly comfortable.

"Your mates looked gutted," he added.

"They'll recover," she said, trying her best not to roll her eyes. "By tomorrow they'll be obsessed with someone else." She flicked ash onto the pavement. "You don't seem like you enjoy it much."

"Enjoy what?"

"Being recognised," she replied, flatly.

He considered that. "No, not like they think."

She studied him for a second, then looked away again. "Well," she said, "you did a decent job of hiding. Almost had me fooled."

"Almost?"

She smirked. "You light expensive whisky like it's a coping mechanism. Gave you away."

He laughed quietly, shaking his head.

They smoked in companionable silence for a moment longer.

"Anyway," she said at last. "I'm going back in."

"Yeah, course."

She hesitated, just briefly, then looked at him again.

"Try not to burn through the whole packet. Chain-smoking makes you look twitchy."

He met her gaze, something warm and restrained settling between them. "I'll keep that in mind."

She took one last drag, then crushed the cigarette under her Converse with a sharp twist.

"Reyt," she said, already turning. "Enjoy yer existential spiral."

She made it halfway to the door before he spoke. "Oi."

She stopped—visibly irritated at herself for having done so—and took a long breath. "Mm?"

He lifted his shoulders slightly, hands in his jacket pockets. "You know me name.. feels a bit one‑sided."

She didn't answer straight away. Just watched him, eyes narrowed, like she was deciding whether this was harmless or not worth the effort or..

"Arabella."

He paused for half a second, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

"Arabella," he echoed, clearly liking the sound of it. "That's a name that turns heads without even trying, innit?"

She let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah, alright," she said, clearly not buying it. "If you say so."

He shrugged again, still leaning against the wall, casual as ever. "Must be the only Arabella in the whole of Sheffield right now. Makes it stand out whether you want it to or not."

Her mouth twitched again. She tried to fight the smile but lost the battle for a second. "Christ," she muttered, "you’re really observant for someone who’s meant to be broody.."

"Occupational hazard."

She looked at him again then, properly this time. Less armour, present, not exactly friendly.

"Well," she said, reaching for the door, "now you can stop wondering."

"Yeah," he said.

She gave him a quick, crooked half‑smile "Night, Alex."

"Night." She disappeared back inside.

He finished the cigarette down to nothing and dropped the end into the grit, grinding it out with the toe of his shoe. That was the signal to move on. No lingering, no second look. He set off uphill toward High Green, the night already thinning, the air cooler as the houses closed in.

His parents' place looked unchanged, as it always did. Familiar light through the front window, the quiet weight of routine. He let himself in quietly, slipping his shoes off by the door and sinking into the stillness of the house. Upstairs, his old room waited exactly as he'd left it—functional, slightly cramped and mercifully free of ceremony.

He shut the door and picked up the guitar without sitting first, checking the strings with a quick brush of his thumb. In tune. He sat on the edge of the bed and played something simple, a progression he didn't have to think about. The sound stayed contained, dry against the walls he'd grown up with.

Halfway through, his attention slipped. Not a replay. Not a picture. Just the impression of her presence earlier. The way she hadn't leaned in or softened. No fast smile, no accommodation. She'd met him squarely and moved on, as if there was nothing to negotiate.

He frowned slightly and kept playing.

The thought irritated him more than it pleased him. The recognition of something sharp and unyielding passing close by, then refusing to linger. He told himself that was all it was: an aesthetic response. He didn't follow the thought far enough to make it personal. He adjusted his fingers and tightened the rhythm.

A note landed awkwardly. He noticed it bend strange, corrected it and carried on.

The spark—if that's what it was—sat there without demanding attention. He didn't admit it as attraction, but he didn't dismiss it either. There was something in her refusal to perform. He respected it before he realised he liked it, and even then, the liking stayed measured, almost physiological.

He stopped playing before it went anywhere. The guitar went back on its stand. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around him. Whatever that moment had been, it didn't need naming. It had passed, and he preferred it that way—kept small, filed down, left where it belonged.

By the time he turned the light off, the night had already folded itself into something manageable. The room returned to neutral. And he slept without revisiting it.

And she got everything she needs

And she got pretty, pretty feet

And she got flowers in her hair

Yeah, yeah