Work Text:
This was the last thing Veronica had ever wanted to happen.
She just wanted to go through high school unscathed. Read her books, get good grades, get in to a good college, maybe even have a brief fling. So far she had managed and even had the fortune to hang out with the most popular girls at school. Now, however, she was more than likely to lose it all.
It had started with Ram Sweeney and Kurt Kelly. Really, what bad situation did not start with Ram and Kurt? Except the ones with the Heathers, but they were usually involved in some way either way, so Veronica refused to count them. The two had come up to her, unusually obnoxious, even for them, -And Veronica was impressed, she never thought such a feat possible- and she instantly became circumspect. Still, she did not back away immediately, and that had been her first mistake.
“Hey, 'Ronica,” Ram drawled, a disgusting leer on his lips. That she did not instantly leave when he approached was her second mistake.
“Ram,” She said cautiously, not sure if it were a greeting or an inquiry. Just behind him, Kurt moved closer, and she now finally started to wonder if she should quit the room. She was held back, though, not by any lack of desire, but the quiet reminder from the back of her head that she had promised the Heathers that she would stay. Last party they threw, she had managed to worm her way out after an hour and over to Martha's for movie night. None of the Heathers had been happy about that, particularly not Chandler, so it made sense for them to force her to stay. Veronica did not like it, but it made sense. It was therefore she stayed put. That and the fact that, even if she wanted to, the crowd was too thick for her to move an inch.
“You are looking good tonight.” All right, forget everything, if there was anything in the world she did not like, it was certainly the way Ram crooned, and surely not the sensation of Kurt's eyes moving up and down her body.
“Thanks?” She replied after some careful consideration, not quite sure what else to say. Kurt's eyes, foggy and distant, continued to wander over her, and she could not suppress the shudder it induced.
“You look tired,” Kurt slurred, his words oozing of stale beer and wasted, expensive whiskey. It could have been Ram too, she did not know, they both seemed too drunk for their own good. “Ya know, if ya wanna rest, there's a waterbed upstairs.”
“It's great,” Ram agreed, his speech falling into the same impediment as Kurt's. “We can put on a movie on Cinemax, rub our backs.”
“There's this art movie on, about these two girls and...” Kurt dissolved into a fit of giggles, soon followed by Ram. Veronica stared at them for a while, wondering just how much they had been drinking that night and whether or not she should get them to a hospital.
“Are you okay?” She placed a hand on Ram's arm to steady him. Third mistake.
He had been unsteady before, wobbling and fumbling. Yet all of it seemed to have disappeared. As if he had regained his senses, he was quicker than he should have been, as his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her to him. Kurt pressed against her from behind, -When had he moved?- rocking against her.
“I'd be a lot more okay with you,” Ram breathed, the stench of a distillery in disrepair much more pronounced -He was close, too close, oh god so close- as he leaned in closer.
It had been purely a knee-jerk reaction. Literally a knee-jerk reaction. Within seconds Ram was crumpled up on the floor, a pathetic, monotonous whimper escaping him as he clutched his aching region.
“Oh shit, I'm so sorry.” Was she though? The response was only instinctual, she knew, and she could not deny the satisfaction she felt upon having caused him pain, no matter how small. There was a small pang of guilt at this, but she ignored it all the same as she backed away from the scene, Kurt having released her at some point to crouch down to his friend.
“What the fuck, bitch?!” Kurt yelled, his words wavering in strength as his ability to keep upright. “He was just trying to get some relief! What are you, a fucking dyke or something?”
“I-I didn't-” Did not what? Did not want them to make a move on her? Did not want to have to hurt Ram? Did not want the whole party staring at her -Oh god, all their eyes were on her, the whole place was quiet, they were all staring, it would be just like before, before the Heathers, before her makeover, before Chandler, she messed up, she messed up, shemessedupSHEMESSEDUPSHE-
“What the hell is going on here?” Oh no. “I swear to god, if you break any of Heather's shit-” Heather Duke, in all of her jade glory, stepped into the room, hands on her hips, her head high and proud, sneering down at the peers as she evaluated the scene.
Veronica had felt the silence before, tangible and thick and sharp against her. Now, however, now it was directed toward Duke with an unprecedented reverence. She had thought it had been silent before, penetrating, awful silence. Fourth mistake. This was silence and it screamed, deafeningly loudly.
There was a beat, only a second, she was sure, but it felt like an eternity, stretching on and on like the last minutes on a prisoner at death row. Duke was immobile, except her eyes, which scurried across the room with the persistence of a warden, searching for the one making the whimpers, the cries for forgiveness, innocence, whatever applied, it was all white noise in truth. Searching for the one to be brought to the chair. And her eyes landed on Veronica. The beat ended, a frozen frame in a film she could not get out of, Duke the warden, she the prisoner, the noise which had ceased returning in full volume to rival the silence, as Duke strode over Ram and Kurt with a face of disgust.
“Way to show maturity.” Ram made a weak effort to grab at Duke as she passed over, which the girl instantly responded to by crushing his hand with her heel. The boy cried out loudly in pain, as Kurt took a hold on the heel in an attempt to remove it, which only made Ram cry harder as more weight was applied to it. “Quit it jackass,” She hissed, pivoting the heel sharply a final time, then bringing it up. Her attention was fully back on Veronica.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK. She was going to get kicked out of the Heathers now, she knew it. Duke was going to chase her out of the house and tell her to fuck off and all the awful things they were going to do to her at school and how she is never going to survive high school or- Oh no oh fuck no or worse, she takes her to Chandler to have her deal with her herself, She did not want to see the head Heather in this state not right now god no she just wanted to go home and forget everything or just rewind and get away when Ram first started approaching her or-
“Sawyer.” She realised that Duke had been addressing her for a good while, her hand on her arm, squeezing just shy of pain, an irritated crease on her immaculate brow. Veronica did not stay to find out what she had wanted.
It was, again, knee-jerk. Her legs kicked into action, as she shoved away the crowd ahead of her, not able to get away as fast as she wanted, yet her thighs pumping as if she were running for her life. Her headstart was small, but it was enough for her to be engulfed by the crowd, a single drop in a vast, endless sea. She heard Duke call after her, her voice rising just the slightest more in irritation than what was her wont, but Veronica did not listen to what she said.
Ducking beneath someone's arm, skirting around a couples' embrace against the wall, hopping over a stranger's outstretched legs, she ran as well as she could in the unending ocean of people. She heard Duke's shuffling shoves, the girl making no effort to be graceful.
Faster. She needed to go faster. She pumped her legs, skimming through the ocean like foam, searching for that shore to draw it in, needing it to draw her in. She could not go faster. No matter how badly she had to, she could not go faster, not in the ocean, not in its most treacherous element. She needed her shore.
Her night was full of knee-jerks and mistakes, it would seem, and she did not know which one the dive into the first available door was. Swiftly, yet quietly, she pulled the door open just a sliver, enough for her to shimmy into it with a tad of effort, closing it with the same finesse she had earlier. For a moment, the world quieted, and for that moment, she found peace. The beat of the bass became the numb echo of a beating heart, the bounce of dancing feet the blood rattling the veins in an aftershock. The rush of the music, the blood slipping through the veins like a gushing river, murmuring to itself. There was an impatience in the heart, a stir, stiffening.
Horrifyingly quick, a hard, rapid pace took away the calmness of the heart, a disharmonious cadence of stylish, dark stiletto heels against expensive teak floor, drawing closer toward her shore. They stopped, and with them, so did the heart stop, and for a gruesome, agonising moment, the world quieted. For a moment, she could not breathe. For a moment, she could not move. For a moment, her own heart stood still.
The disharmonious cadence continued, a tad calmer, a tad more decisive, clicking away the cacophony in the heart until those stylish, dark stiletto heels were gone. A shuddery, dishevelled breath ripped its way from her throat, her lungs quivering as she regained her abilities, reaching out to run a hand through her ruffled hair. The music, the bass, the dancing was back, but it was not as soothing as it had once been. It was as it truly was, and for some reason that perturbed her greatly. She shook her head. She needed focus, a plan. First act, get her bearings. Looking around, she noticed clothes, mainly coats cascading over her shoulders, some shoes which she almost tripped on, a few hats tumbling from a shelf.
Great. She was in the Chandlers' closet. Not a euphemism she was entirely unfamiliar with, admittedly, but it did not mean she appreciated it in any manner.
A plan, she reminded herself. What were her assets? What could she use to make an escape? Logically, she would have just left the closet and abandoned the house, but she did not know if any of the Heathers still were lurking about, waiting for the moment she would let her guard down, waiting to pounce on her. Normally, the thought of Heather Chandler pouncing on her was one she happily indulged, yet now it only filled her with unspeakable dread.
What was Chandler to do with her once she found out? She did not want to think of it, did not want to imagine it, however, there was a traitorous part which trickled in the single one thought that chilled the blood in her veins to an icy lump.
She would hate her. Heather would hate her and Veronica did not know what to do.
Her legs, as if suddenly becoming straw, could no longer support her, and she crumpled to the floor. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! Heather would hate her for ruining the party. Heather would make her life a living hell, if she even so much as talked to her. A painful gem crystallised in her throat, a pointed ball tearing at the walls, as she realised that Heather might not want anything at all to do with her. She would know that was more hell than anything she could directly do to her. She could ruin her life, destroy her reputation and self until she was nothing, but as long as Heather acknowledged her in any way, she would be somewhat happy. Not having Heather at all would just destroy her. A wrangled sob escaped her before she could stop it, not that she tried.
Fuck it.
She settled into her position, drawing her knees to her chest, her back digging into the wall, an unending paroxysm of mangled, breathless sobs drawn out from her. It was not like anyone would hear her over the deafening music, the clatter of stylish stilettos, sneakers, and cheers outside, any way.
“Oh grow up, Sawyer, being in the closet is so-” Light flooded the tiny, black shore, and the silhouette of a normally welcome intruder pierced Veronica's vision. An iceberg settled in her stomach, as the three Heathers advanced through the doorway, a trio of colourful, harrowing creatures prowling in search of their prey, just having caught its scent. And they stopped. Veronica registered that she was mildly confused by it, yet she did not dwell on it, only staring up at the three girls, one in particular receiving the most of her attention. She did not want to admit how pleading, how desperate her gaze was when directed at her.
“Oh shit,” Chandler hissed, glancing over to Duke. “She's crying. What do I do?”
“Fuck if I know,” Duke spat, rolling her eyes.
“Go comfort her,” Mcnamara offered.
“How?” Chandler asked, as if it were a curse. Part of her regretted it, as the girl shrank back, as if struck, yet not one big enough for her to show it. “How?” She softened somewhat.
“Try with hugs and stuff?”
“With what?” Veronica shared the sentiment. If she had been in any other state of mind, she would have laughed at the mere suggestion. Heather Chandler was many things; Hotter than the sun, mega-bitch, queen of skipping classes, but she did not do physical intimacy. Or intimacy of any other kind, mind you.
“You know, like...” The smallest Heather paused briefly to consider the best way to go about explaining. After a minute of coming up empty-handed, she scuttled over to where Veronica sat and crouched down. Faintly curious, Veronica gauged her. And immediately stiffened as the yellow girl wrapped her arms around her waist, resting her cheek against her breast. “It's okay. Ram and Kurt are just dummies.”
Not quite knowing what else to do, she awkwardly patted Mcnamara's back, glancing up at the two others in hopes that they would know just what else she could do without hurting the girl's feelings. Both the other Heathers were glaring, and for a brief flicker of a second, Veronica managed to delude herself that there was a guttering jealousy in their eyes. At least she thought she was deluding herself. It could also be that Mcnamara simply was just desired by the two others.
The iceberg in her stomach seemed to grow all the more heavy at this. Of course Chandler would want Mcnamara. Who would not want that girl, that beautiful, bright, yellow girl with an endless well of kindness and softness once one scraped beneath the superficial vanity and crassness that was standard to the Heathers. If she had not fallen head over heels already, she certainly would have wanted her.
“No, fuck fuck fuck! Fucking shit, Heather! You made it worse!” Chandler yelled in her modulated, authoritative tone that was common to her, although there was a tinge of angered panic that Veronica could not quite believe was there. Wrestling the smallest Heather away, Chandler looked ready to rip the girl's head from her shoulders using only her own two, perfectly manicured hands.
“Oh for fuck's sake,” Moaned Duke, rolling her eyes yet again, as she pivoted irritably on her heels. “Just comfort your own girlfriend. Let's go, Heather.”
“Coming, Heather,” Mcnamara replied, easily shaking herself from Chandler's enraged grasp, and followed after the jade Heather, leaving the crimson Heather and zaffre blue Veronica alone.
Chandler was frozen in place. Her green eyes were wide and angry. Veronica wanted to say that she seemed taken aback, almost terrified, but she knew that there was no possible way for Chandler to feel any of those feelings, at least not without good reason. Veronica assumed that she were to return to her senses, laugh at the blue girl's pitiful state, declare her time of death and move on with her life, presumably that being by pounding a bottle of rum with the rest of the party.
It was only when the other girl did not do any of these things that it dawned on her that something may be seriously wrong.
“A-are you o-okay?” Veronica attempted to ask, the question dissolving into gasping snivels, and she internally winced at how pathetic she sounded.
It was like a trigger had been pulled. Heather blinked twice, then, faster than a passing thought, she scrambled to Veronica's side, and, before she could begin to question it, she had her buried in her voluptuous chest.
What the hell? Not that Veronica was complaining, except that she could not breathe. Even if she would try to voice this, she was certain that Heather would not hear her.
“What the fuck did they do to you?”
Veronica had heard Heather angry before. She had heard her when she was hell-bent on murder, when she was plotting loud, screaming revenge, when she was prettily telling her about the things she would do to anyone who dared stand in her way. This rage, this dark, hateful fury made all of those situations into shrinking shadows on the floor.
Veronica considered how she were to reply, how she could explain properly that Ram and Kurt had propositioned her and she had not wanted to, how she had panicked and how she had hurt Ram without wanting to. Eventually, however, she could not form a single word of that explanation, instead only finding enough strength to bawl into Heather's crimson jacket.
“I'm sorry,” She wept. “I'm sorry for fucking everything up. I-I'm sorry for kicking Ram in the nuts, I'm sorry I ruined your party, I'm sorry I-”
“Don't you fucking dare, Ronnie, don't you fucking dare,” Heather hissed, and Veronica could not keep herself from wincing at that. Heather did not seem to notice, or maybe did not care, as her hold on her tightened, her nails digging into her delicate skin. “Tell me what those dickfaces did to you.” Veronica swallowed.
“R-Ram came up to me and was drunk and I got worried and Kurt was too and they w-w-wanted to-o-”
“Those cocksuckers.” Veronica felt cold, and at first she could not imagine why. She was not allowed much time to process it, as the sensation was quickly replaced by a thick warmth, one that was just a shade uncomfortable, as an expensive perfume of coconut and roses sifted into her nose, and she finally realised what had happened. Heather had taken off her jacket and wrapped it around Veronica, where it hung like a coat, and she felt somewhat like a child trying on her mother's clothing.
She did not complain, though, instead cocooning herself deeper in it, taking in its welcoming, familiar scent. It smelled just like Heather.
Everything seemed to happen before Veronica could properly make out what was occurring and why, as well as any way to remedy it, tonight. She did not know whether or not she liked it, but she was certain that she would never forget it, no matter the bemusing feelings concerning it.
The peaceful consolation was short-lived, as she was quickly drawn to her feet by the taller girl, her chin squeezed between her perfect fingers. Before she could ask her what she was doing, Heather leaned in. It was a quick peck, meant as nothing more than a simple reminder. A reminder of what? Veronica did not know, and she ravaged her mind searching for some sort of answer.
She was distracted, though. Distracted by how soft Heather's lips were, how sweet she smelled this close, how surprisingly warm she was. It ended all too soon.
“Stay here, babe,” Heather sharply ordered, and Veronica could only dumbly nod. “I'm gonna go hunt some jocks.” Heather left in a flutter of crimson and coconut, the zaffre girl vaguely registering the quick grab of her croquet mallet, leaving Veronica utterly confused, trying to make sense of it all.
She had never wanted to be in the position she was in, and she did not know if it had contributed anything to the evening, yet a strange part of her was grateful for it. And if Ram and Kurt were knocked out, stripped down, posed in a romantic embrace, and put on display on the couch, that was just icing on the cake.