Alex Turner X Reader Oneshots

I Buried A Hatchet

This is part one and will have a second part, anything in italics is a memory and it's from Smoke Signals by Phoebe Bridgers, "I buried a hatchet, it's coming up lavender"

Cleaning out an attic was a lot harder than the films made it seem. Physically and emotionally. You had to go through each and every little tid-bit and trinket and decide whether or not you wanted to keep it. And that's the dilemma Y/N found herself in.

She had found a small box, green and made of tin, in the corner of the attic. It seemed to be locked, and she wondered whether or not it would be worth keeping and opening or just throwing out. However, when she picked up the tin and a little key dropped from the bottom, she decided then and there that she had to open it.

Upon unlocking the green tin she found photos. Rows and rows of Polaroids, drawings and more. Carefully, she took one out. A photo of her parents smiling together in a park. Once she was done with it she gently replaced it before taking out another one.

It was a photo of her and a group of boys. She recognised her 5 year old selves goofy, toothless grin from anywhere, but the boys around her? She had no clue. Perhaps they were old classmates? 

This theory was quickly destroyed when she found more photos of a younger her with the same group of boys through all different ages. Some had her with a guitar in hand, others with pen smeared across her face. 

"Alexander!" Y/N complained loudly, "Give me back my pen!" she demanded, sitting up on her knees in the chair she was currently perched on.

The boy across from her simply stuck out his tongue and giggled, until his mum walked into the room, "Alex! Play fair! Give Y/N back her pen." She told him and he reluctantly followed.

Before anything else could happen, three other little boys rushed into the kitchen, giggling and covered in mud.

"Nick, Jamie, Matt!" Alex's mum scolded, rushing to tidy them up.

Why had she only remembered that now?

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion and she sifted through more photos, more memories.

And then she found it, a crudely written letter:

Dear N/N, 

Im sorrie you had too moove awae. I hope too sea you agai soon. Mums gona put a numbar at the botom so you can call wen ever you get lonly,

luv, Alex XxxXXXXxxxxXXXxxXXxXxXxXxxx

The note, obviously written by a much younger person, made her smile. It all came back to her, the short time she spent in Sheffield as a child, the people with no names or faces, the attachments she had made. And then, she spotted the number at the bottom of the page.

And she decided then and there that she was going to call it.