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Chapter Text

Heather Chandler sipped a solo cup of beer, her nose crinkled in distaste. Watching the other two Heathers, McNamara and Duke, dance clumsily, both already a couple drinks in. She sighed, hoping she wouldn't have to stop one of them drunkenly being led upstairs by Ram or Kurt or any of the stupid jocks. It'd happened before, ending with Chandler having to drag McNamara away from some horny frat guy who was practically slobbering all over her.

Though she shouldn't be one to talk, she'd practically slept with half of the football team, she was always in control. It wasn't a reckless, heated decision in the haze of alcohol. She wasn't stupid, and she certainly didn't just open her legs for anyone. It was always to get something she wanted, whether it was attention or power or a distraction. Or just to show that she could. In fact, she couldn't think of a single time she pulled someone into a secluded room or invited them into her queen sized bed because of lust. Or a single time she got an ounce of pleasure out of a tryst.

Shaking off those distracting thoughts, her eyes returned to their original view, watching the newest addition to the Heathers, Veronica, who was trying to down some vodka without cringing. It was obvious that the girl was new to parties, alcohol, and, well, everything. If Heather wasn't so coldhearted, she would've thought it was adorable. But since she was the mythic bitch whose reputation preceded her, she watched with a stony face as Veronica placed the cup down after a few more swallows, her face twisting in disgust. From a distance, she wasn't sure, but Veronica began to cough like she'd just inhaled battery acid or something.

Heather sighed dramatically to no one but herself, snatching a nearby shot and downing it before striding over, her little red dress swishing around her thighs as she approached Veronica. "What the hell is wrong with you?" She demanded, crossing her arms, and when Veronica turned her dark eyes to her, confused, she clarified: "have you never had alcohol, ever?"

"No, and this tastes like detergent and drain cleaner. Why does anyone drink this?" Veronica retorted, unhunching her back as she swallowed hard, probably trying to push the burn of vodka down her throat. As she straightened up the lighting was thrown to her exposed collarbones in her grey sweater, which was off the shoulder. Heather's eyes darted down momentarily before she grabbed Veronica by the elbow and pulled her into a quieter corner of the room.

"Listen, I didn't bring you to your first frat party so you could humiliate me. Get your act together and stop making those stupid fucking faces." Unfortunately, as Heather said so, she focused in on Veronica's face, which was slightly red from holding back coughs. Were her eyes always that particular shade of brown? Did her hair always frame her cheekbones like so?

To cover up her initial surprise to her own reaction to Veronica, Heather gestured aggressively at her clothes. "You're wearing a sweater for God's sake. You look like a librarian or someone who eats mothballs as a hobby."
Veronica's lips tugged down in a displeased expression, and Heather was again surprised by how she wanted to press her thumbs to Veronica's lips and force her to smile. It was a party, not a funeral.

" 'M sorry, Heather." Veronica say in a sarcastic fashion, swaying a little on her feet as she faced off the blonde. "I don't remember it being me that forced me to come to a frat party with a bunch of odious, shirtless guys all grinding against me at every chance and awful beverages and no food." She leaned precariously against the wall.

"You should at least try to enjoy yourself! You're one of the Heathers now, why don't you start acting like it and try not to be such a loser for once?" Heather argued, mimicking Veronica's stance and leaning against the wall as well. Though that might have also been the effects of the handful of shots she'd taken in case she did something tonight she'd rather forget. The thought of other guys trying to touch Veronica, to grope or flirt with her or even stand too close in her presence, irked her.

"Well, easy for you to say." Veronica prodded at her chest, "you're a bitch all of the time and you obviously don't care about anything besides yourself." Her eyes narrowed in concentration like she was trying to pick out the right words. Damn, was the girl was drunk? "And I was actually perfectly fine without you coming over here and throwing a fit, so you can go back to tonguing with Ram Sweeny or whatever the fuck you were doing."

Heather should not have found it so attractive that Veronica stood up to her, but it was the beer talking, wasn't it? She knew better than to lose sleep thinking about it. "That's not true. I care about-" She retorted, but stopped. What did she care about? Well, Duke and McNamara were two of her best friends, but she knew better than to ask them to catch her during a trust fall. She didn't hate her parents, certainly, but they were like distant figures that came and went on weekends and rarely made cameos in her life. She cared about herself, but she knew that wasn't what Veronica was getting at. Damn it, did she really have to be so snappy, even drunk?

"What? What do you care about, Heather?" Veronica said in a faux-sweet voice that made Heather want to gag. At the same time, it was rather enticing, and she wondered if Veronica knew what was running through her mind at the moment.

Heather stared at her for a moment more. To answer with you would be stupid, and uncharacteristic, but Veronica was really growing on Heather. The first person with a sense of wit in the damn school, someone who was constantly proving she wasn't a naive puppet to be pulled around like McNamara sometimes could be, or any of the two-faced girls who probably wanted to stick out her foot when Heather was walking. No, Veronica seemed genuinely earnest in their friendship, and uncomfortably nice, even rubbing heads with figures like Martha Dumptruck of all people.

What was even more confusing was the strangeness Heather felt around her. At first, she brushed it off as the oddness of having another person in the Heather's trio, but as they became increasingly familiar, she realized it wasn't it. It was an odd sensation in her lower stomach whenever Veronica bit her lips when thinking, or told off someone furiously for teasing Martha, or put up her hair. Which was, of course, fucking ridiculous because those were all normal, everyday events, nothing to get upset about.

Veronica was still watching her, and Heather realized it'd been a good fifteen seconds of no response from her end. Staring at Veronica's slightly parted lips and glinting eyes was almost like getting tunnel vision. Heather's world narrowed from TV's and Pucci pumps and her rock-hard reputation to her unfairly attractive face.

It was fortunate that both of them were drunk, it was an easy excuse as Heather brought her hands to Veronica's waist, the sweater unpredictably soft as she tugged her closer and kissed Veronica firmly on the lips.

Chapter Text

Veronica's lips tasted like vodka, unsurprisingly, and a hint of vanilla that must've been her lip balm. Heather nearly laughed through the kiss, who wore lip balm to a party instead of some shade of slutty lipstick? The pleasant feeling of their lips colliding ended when Heather was hit with the clarity that this was incredibly wrong. Quickly, she leaned back, her hands returning to her sides. Veronica let out a ridiculous gasping noise after Heather pulled away, and Heather was glad the room was mostly dark, but what the fuck was she thinking? Kissing Veronica Sawyer of all people, in a crowded room, when anyone could see, could fan the flames of a burning rumor, could ruin her reputation. She'd be called a dyke, an outcast, a freak...

"What the fuck was that?" Veronica breathed, wiping her lips. Heather noticed a smudge of her own red lipstick and felt a twinge of satisfaction that was at odds with the dread she felt settling in. What had she done? She glanced around quickly, and not seeing any obvious prying eyes, turned back to Veronica, whose cheeks were literally pinkening within seconds. Heather was sure her own face was matching in color. 

"That was a mistake. We- I am drunk. You're- fuck." Heather, for once, struggled for words. She licked her lips, discovering a trace of vanilla that made her crave more. Still, she knew better than to hook up with someone when inebriated. And especially a girl. What was she thinking? She was straight, she was the queen bee, she was Heather fucking Chandler, and those three facts were as clear as day. There were no acceptable reasons for kissing Veronica. Self-disgust curdled in the pit of her stomach and she took a step back. 

"Heather, wait." Veronica's grip suddenly appeared on Heather's arm, and she inhaled sharply. She might have misjudged how much Veronica drank, because her eyes were sharp and serious as ever. They scanned over Heather's blushing face, and she prayed to any and all gods up there that the next words out of Veronica's mouth wouldn't be-

"Do you like me or something?"

A smug, self assured grin appeared, pulling up the corners of Veronica's mouth, and Heather could've killed herself, thrown herself out the window or hit her head against the wall or inhaled the contents of the cup Veronica had put down until she choked on vodka that probably tasted like drain cleaner and dropped dead right there. And of course Veronica had to be so crude, so blunt about it, like it didn't matter a bit that the demon queen of high school had currently kissed Veronica, a nobody until she'd joined the Heathers less than a week ago. A girl.

"What? No!" Heather tried for an outrageous tone, but was there any point denying it when she'd just full on kissed the girl? Drunk or not, one usually didn't have the urge to kiss one's best friend. Or go any further with her, which was what her alcohol ridden brain was telling her. "I- why would I like you?" She yanked her arm out of the brunette's grip, feeling Veronica's fingertips almost burn into her skin. 

"I don't know. I think you liked kissing me." Veronica's voice was low enough that none of the other partygoers could hear, but loud enough that it took up nearly all of Heather's headspace. She took another step back, finding herself backed against the wall. It mystified her, how one moment Veronica could be all cute and flustered and naive about alcohol and the next be using that oh-so awful tone of voice that made Heather's stomach do a flip. It was akin to the sensation that she felt whenever Veronica did anything even slightly provocative.

"I did not. Your breath smells like piss." Heather threw the first insult that came into her head, desperate to get Veronica to go away, to stop looking at her like that and stop making her feel the worming in her stomach that was relatively new. She hugged her arms around her sides, like that would do anything, as Veronica moved closer. Even with Heather's heels, she was just barely up to her height, and with the way Veronica watched her, she felt about ten inches tall.

"Now, I know that's not true." Veronica paused. She must have noticed the apprehensive look on Heather's face, because she stopped in her tracks, less than a foot away. When she spoke again, her voice was even softer, like she was talking to a little kid, and Heather nearly let her eyes flutter shut as the syrupy words washed over her. "Parties aren't really my thing, you know? But I think you made it a little more bearable."

When Veronica leaned in, Heather did shut her eyes, anticipating a second kiss, but it never came. A light breath against Heather's face, and then Veronica was striding away, looking ten times more confident then when Heather approached her. Heather watched her go with her jaw nearly open. What the hell had just happened? And was it bad that she was disappointed in the lack of another kiss? Her eyes roamed over Veronica's body as she walked out the door without looking back. 

"What the fuck." Heather muttered to herself as she pushed off the wall, reaching for a nearby bottle of gin to hopefully burn the memory away. Gin was nowhere near the top of her list for spirits, but she'd prefer anything in her mouth at the moment than the traces of Veronica. She let the liquid run down her throat, sputtering slightly as she slammed the bottle back down. Lost in thoughts that all revolved around a certain Sawyer, she didn't hear Heather McNamara come up to her until she tapped her on the shoulder. Chandler nearly jumped.

"Did I just see Veronica?" McNamara asked curiously, swaying to the bass bumping in the party. "Where'd she go? I wanna say hi." She pouted. Thankfully, she seemed oblivious to the kiss, or maybe she was too drunk to put together another question. Though that was how McNamara usually acted.

Chandler sighed, eyeing the latter. "She left. Guess she couldn't handle a real party." She gestures loosely to the people around them, many making out enthusiastically, doing shots (off the table and each other), or gyrating against each other to a beat. "This party blows. Tell Heather that I'm leaving."

She could see McNamara open her mouth to ask something else, but she brushed past her, heading for the door as well. She tried to keep her usual confident stride, the one that made people dive out of her way, but the alcohol was like a weighted blanket over her senses. She nearly stumbled over the rug, and by the time she reached the door, Veronica was nowhere to be seen. Probably walking home like the dork she was.

Heather gritted her teeth to keep from cursing out into the open night. She stalked over to her car, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary before staring the engine. By some miracle, she didn't get pulled over for drunk driving, and the roads were fairly empty, it being almost one in the morning at this point. Pulling into her expansive driveway, Heather sighed and rested her head against the steering wheel, still feeling the cocktail of anxiety, alcohol, and something she couldn't quite place swirling in her stomach.

Now, lying in her wide pink bed, Heather found the third of the feelings slightly alleviated as she touched herself. She knew ever since she lost her virginity that most men weren't up to standards with pleasing her, and she'd learned how to do it herself, noting what did and didn't feel good. It wasn't scandalous for her to do so, it wasn't abnormal. Dirty blonde hair splayed against the pillow her head was propped up on, she slid her fingers into herself as usual, sighing softly. She felt the hints of her climax in the typical amount of time. The only difference tonight was as she squirmed and pressed her fingers up against the spot she knew would make her come, she whined out Veronica's name.

Chapter Text

Third period, Monday. English class. Not Heather's favorite, nor her least favorite, but there's always some dumb shmuck who'll let her copy off his homework or quiz. However, she's spent the majority of today's lesson staring at Veronica Sawyer. The stupid bitch who keeps pretending that Heather doesn't exist, which she finds outrageous. She's Heather Chandler, she commands respect, fear, awe, the works. And yet Veronica seems perfectly content to doodle on her paper while the teacher waxes on about The Grapes of Wrath and the infinite wisdom that Steinbeck contained

As for Heather, the only grapes of wrath she knows about was the pounding in her head as she woke up on Saturday, disoriented, dampness between her legs and realized what had occurred the night before. She'd kissed Veronica Sawyer. Their lips had touched, and not just for a second. She was basically a social outcast, worse than Martha Dumptruck or the band geeks. Veronica had to have told somebody at this point. She could practically see the headlines in Westerburg High's paper (if they would ever print something other than cafeteria food and student of the month): HEATHER CHANDLER IS A LESBIAN!

And yet when she walked into school there were no judging looks or harsh whispers hidden behind hands. No, everyone cowed in her gaze like usual. As Heather walked the halls between classes, she knew that nothing had changed, especially as Duke and McNamara sidled up next to her with their usual subservience. Even as the two yapped about which freshman had a hideous outfit or which teacher was actually a pedophile, Chandler found herself distracted in thoughts about Veronica. Why hadn't she blabbed, for one? Was it pity? Did she just get drunk really easily and forget completely? Though the reason she kept quiet as a mystery, there was always the possibility that she'd dangle it above Chandler's head for eternity.

Heather Chandler was not one to be blackmailed, threatened or played. And so even though Veronica's seemingly innocent disposition continued, Heather found herself boring holes into the back of her head. So much intensity in the blonde's gaze that she was surprised Veronica didn't feel the heat singeing her perfect black locks. Heather's glower was dampened, however, by the thought of how her hair must feel if she ran her fingers through it. They looked soft, the ends resting on her shoulders, the perfect length for tugging-

If anyone were watching at that moment, they would've seen Heather's glare double tenfold. She wasn't one to give up, even in a battle against herself, and she continued to stare daggers into Veronica until the bell rang, signaling the start of lunch. A collective mutter of relief went up among the students, all of which had been praying for the school to blow up or the ceiling to fall on them for the last hour. Heather, however, had her laser beam focused on Veronica, who walked blithely out the door in the same manner she did out of the frat party. Uncaring, like there was nothing behind her worth looking back at.

Heather tried to follow Veronica surreptitiously, wondering how she could get her alone before Veronica sat down with the other Heathers for lunch. Thankfully, Veronica turned a corner into the bathroom, and Heather waited a few seconds before following her inside. The smell of mold and a coconut scent of perfume someone had probably sprayed in an attempt to mask the stench hit Heather in the face as she opened the door, which creaked painfully. "Veronica?" Her voice was quiet as she stepped gingerly into the bathroom, aware of the wet toilet paper and dirt clinging to the tiles.

As soon as she was fully inside the bathroom, Veronica, who had been standing silently by the wall on the other side of the door, slammed it shut and kept it closed with one hand. "Heather, can we talk?"

Heather, who had been taking off guard by the loud slam and the sight of Veronica's face peering intently into hers, let out a yelp loud enough that Veronica's hand flew up and clasped her mouth. Heather's eyes widened in indignation at the silencing and bit Veronica's hand for lack of better choices. Of course a part of her brain wondered how it would feel to her Veronica's hand overing her mouth for other reasons, but Heather shook it off. This was not the right time or place.

"Ow! You bitch." Veronica immediately released her with a frustrated look on her face. "Look, we need to talk about last night." She examined her palm, which Heather had clamped her teeth down on. Not hard enough to break skin, but there were perfect little crescents that were turning pink. 

"What is there to talk about? I was black out drunk and I'm pretty sure we both regret it." Heather spat out. It was the truth if not stretched. She was drunk, but not quite so much that she wasn't in full capacity of her body. And while she regretted it for the sake of her reputation, a nasty part of her brain was reveling in it. Forcing her to replay the moment over and over again, sprouting new scenarios, each more lustful than the next.

And she absolutely did not want to talk about how she'd literally groaned Veronica's name when pleasing herself. Veronica didn't need to know, not now, or ever. 

"Please, Heather, you and I both know you're lying. It was really fucking hot when we kissed, and I think we should do it again." Veronica shrugged, as if it were no big deal. Heather felt the familiar rage beginning to bubble over like water in a teapot before Veronica flashed a smooth grin and Heather felt herself relax slightly like a cool compress was pressed to her forehead. It was outrageous how quickly Veronica could calm her temper.

"Of course you would say that." Heather muttered, voice beginning to crescendo again. "But think about me. If anyone ever heard about this, I'd be-"

Veronica pressed her hand to Heather's mouth again, albeit more gently. "Please, Heather. Just one kiss." Heather wondered why Veronica was so confident in thinking Heather would agree. Was it because Heather was the one who had initiated the kiss last night? Was Veronica just infinitely more comfortable with herself and what she wanted? She leaned backwards the few inches until her back was pressed to the door. Veronica's face fell slightly, her confidence faltering. Heather could tell Veronica thought she was about to dismiss her and leave.

Heather pushed Veronica's hand off her mouth. "Let's get something straight. I'm not a dyke, or a lesbian. And this isn't-ugh."  And then Heather kissed her. She didn't hold Veronica's hand, that kind of sappy shit was for babies, but her fingers encircled Veronica's wrist as their lips met for the second time in 24 hours. Veronica, pleasantly surprised, began to push Heather against the door and kiss her with more vigor. When Veronica bit down lightly on Heather's lip, she took the hint and parted her lips to allow Veronica's tongue into her mouth.  

She tasted just as sweet as always, and Heather felt an odd sensation like a lighting strike in the pit of her stomach as Veronica's hands cupped her jaw, holding her face in place. Kissing boys was pointless to her, why do so when it was clear they just wanted to screw? Besides, it was an awful type of foreplay. Kissing Veronica, she found, was making the ache between her thighs intensify. She let out a sound that might have been considered a whimper, and Veronica took this as a good sign, apparently, because she began to kiss Heather so fiercely that she felt the air being sucked out of her lungs. Only when Heather tugged urgently at the lapels of Veronica's blue blazer did she relent.

While Heather floundered for air, Veronica bent down slightly (Heather absolutely despised the fact that Veronica was taller than her, and made a note to wear her highest heels around her) and whispered, "that was fun. See you at lunch."

Heather moved numbly out of the way as Veronica opened the bathroom door and sauntered out, leaving a panting and red-as-her-blazer Heather staring in her wake.

Chapter Text

Both of the other Heathers and Veronica were already sitting at their designated lunch table when Chandler arrived. After taking time in the bathroom mirror to smooth down her hair and scream at a freshman who dared to enter in her presence (said freshman stuttered something about needing to pee and left), she was feeling considerably more like herself. McNamara was chattering to Duke, who was staring morosely at her lunch tray of mac 'n cheese and chocolate milk. Veronica lifted her eyes toward her, a silent laugh, and Chandler hated herself for how attractive she looked through her lashes. Whatever, two could play that game. If Veronica expected her to be blushing like a schoolgirl in front of everyone, she was sorely mistaken.

She sat down next to McNamara, opposite the other two girls, dropping her plastic lunch tray with a loud slap that pronounced her presence. "Hey, Heather. Where were you?" Duke asked, green eyes narrowing in a way akin to a ferret. She poked through her mac 'n cheese with a plastic fork, impaling a single piece on the prongs and bringing it to her mouth. "You just had English, I saw you leaving Mr. Reed's class."

Chandler was silent for a moment as the attention of all three girls fixated on her. Not that she shied away from the spotlight, she reveled in it, but something about the knowing gleam in Veronica's gaze rubbed her the wrong way. "I had to use to bathroom." She said curtly, tearing her carton of milk open with her nails. She offered no further explanation as Veronica's Cheshire-cat grin grew wider. The urge to dump the chocolate milk over her head was growing stronger, and Heather's grip on the paper carton tightened. 

Heather McNamara's brown eyes brightened, "oh, but I thought I saw-" 

"Heather, Kurt Kelly is totally staring at you right now," Veronica whisper-shouted, winking at the girl in yellow, nudging her chin to behind McNamara to the jocks' table. The latter tried and failed to look behind her at the quarterback subtly. "What? He is?" 

Chandler was not sure why Veronica had stepped in, but she was pissed. She didn't need anyone to look after her, especially not Veronica. Was it really that big of a deal that they had kissed a second time? It was certainly a fluke, nothing that required hiding. Nothing between them had changed, so Chandler had no idea why Veronica was being so chivalrous and- annoying. It was the opposite of hot how Veronica bit her lip to contain a satisfied smile, meeting Chandler's eyes. She glowered as fiercely as she could, her heartbeat suddenly accelerating. From rage, of course.

Duke tentatively took another bite of the congealed cheese and elbow pasta as McNamara slumped back down with her arms crossed. "What was I saying before?"

"No idea." Chandler said flatly, moving her mac 'n cheese around in the paper bowl, wishing she could stab the fork throat Veronica's pretty throat instead. Ugh- even murderous thoughts led to her wondering how Veronica's pulse would feel if she traced it with her tongue.

"Ooh! Veronica, I have to take you shopping!" McNamara squealed after failing to recall her earlier question, spark returning as she grabbed Veronica's hands. "You can't look like you did at the party last week, really, it was really bad." She beamed at the brunette despite her cutting words, "trust me, it's going to be so much fun!"

Veronica had the good sense to look worried, and Chandler would've laughed if she hadn't felt a smidge of annoyance at the way McNamara's hands were interlocked with Veronica's. The urge to swat their hands apart and scoff at them for acting like tween girls was strong, but by the way Duke's mouth was twisted in contemplation, she decided not to risk it. Duke was not as mindless at others approximated her to be, Chandler knew, despite every reprimand she barked at her. 

"We've all got gym last period. Let's just skip and go to the mall." She suggested instead, and heard Veronica's exhale of relief, something that confused her yet again. Heather Chandler wasn't someone to take comfort in. Duke and McNamara were significantly more at ease around her than the rest of the student body, but it wasn't like they wore matching friendship bracelets and linked arms when walking. Yet, there was a piece of her that was satisfied in knowing that Veronica felt safer around her, that reveled in the knowledge. 

The rest of the lunch passed in comfortable, snarky as always conversation. As they ripped down girls who would probably burst into tears if they heard what was being said, Chandler sensed Veronica's discomfort when Martha Dumptruck was brought up by Duke, paired with an insult to her weight, but she said nothing. McNamara kept turning around a few more times in hopes of catching Kurt's eye, Duke taunting her mercilessly about it, and Chandler wondered aloud how much saturated fat was in the lunch food. Duke turned a pale green, and she kept her mouth closed after that, no more food or commentary passing through.

Veronica nudged her foot, and mouthed thank you to which Chandler rolled her eyes, trying not to seem pleased at the girl's appreciation. It wasn't like she did it for Veronica, anyway, Duke just needed to put put back in her place sometimes. Duke looked suspiciously between the two of them. Her gaze was accusing, probably scoping Veronica as a potential threat. 

By the end of lunch, Chandler almost forgot what had occurred less than an hour earlier. The taste of Veronica's lips on hers was washed away by the expired sweetness of milk and a firm reapplication of her cherry-red lipstick. She moved through the rest of her classes, distributing glares and backhanded compliment when necessary. When the bell to the penultimate period rang, she slipped out the door, into her car, and was greeted with Veronica lolling in the passenger seat. She opened her mouth to rebuke her about being a fucking stalker when Duke's voice cut through as she strode over.

"That's my seat." She said coldly, nodding to Veronica, "sit in the back with Heather." McNamara had already hopped into the backseat already, looking worried at the potential argument between the two.

"It's fine, Heather." Chandler gave her a bored look, not sure why she wasn't taking Duke's side. She always sat next to Chandler when they took joyrides in her sleek red Porsche, and McNamara sat in the middle seat of the back (so she could see both of them at the same time, she explained). "Let's motor before Mrs. Fleming writes us up." She revved the engine lightly to accentuate her point, turning her focus forward as Duke shut her mouth with a snap and yanked the rear door open.  

Holding back a scoff the over dramatics, Chandler streaked out of the parking lot and towards to the Tri-County Mall, where nothing but clothes and shoes awaited them.

Chapter Text

"Does this dress make me look fat?" Duke worried as she pressed her hands to her midsection, wearing a short green dress that left nothing to imagination as it seemed to be shrink-wrapped around her body. The girl's usually scathing eyes were squinted in worry and self-loathing as McNamara, peering over her shoulder to look in the mirror, told her that it looked super sexy on her, no, really, she looked great. Veronica and Chandler, also watching from their seat in the dressing room, were situated on opposite ends of the bench. Chandler could tell Veronica was uncomfortable, Duke had previously stripped down to her undergarments with not a hint of introversion. It wasn't a new concept for any of the Heathers, and personally Chandler believed that if people were so comfortable in swimsuits there was really no difference.

Veronica, adorably, had even averted her eyes until the dress was zipped up, staring at her Mary Janes instead while fidgeting one leg. It was ironic, how this girl who was clearly attracted to girls (or at least Chandler), who practically manhandled her in the bathroom (though she certainly wasn't complaining, as much as she hated herself for it) could be so shy. 

Chandler observed Duke, not saying a word as the girl turned to the side to criticize each and every angle. Duke was pretty, she supposed, she wasn't as ugly as some of the creatures at Westerburg High, but when she looked at Duke, she felt nothing akin to the way Veronica made her feel. Especially in that bathroom. She blushed slightly, trying to push it out of her mind. As soon as Veronica sat down on the rickety wooden bench, she'd made sure to perch herself as far away as possible in case Veronica tried anything. The farther away they sat, the easier it was to put the thoughts of Veronica's tongue lashing in her mouth. And the sounds she'd emitted made Chandler downright ashamed of herself, possibly for the first time in her high school career.

Duke, with a sour expression on her face, unzipped the dress and angrily chucked in on the ground, slipping back into her clothes while muttering about finding something more 'flattering'. As she stalked out of the dressing room, leaving the curtain swishing behind her, McNamara hurried after her, her soothing words fading as their heels clicked away.

Heather was perfectly fine pretending to check her nails and pretending the girl next to her didn't exist before Veronica had slid herself closer. She was thankful Veronica didn't try to kiss her, because it would've been impossible to resist the voodoo she must've used to entice Heather so strongly. She debated checking Veronica's bag for a little doll in a red blazer and dirty blonde hair in case she had put some sort of witchcraft spell over her. Which was ridiculous, but not much less believable than the fact that Heather Chandler was incredibly and outrageously attracted to Veronica Sawyer. 

She was reminded of this fact as Veronica's knee touched hers, and she nearly looked up to the ceiling for some higher force that must be doing this to her. Knees, for one, were not attractive. Legs were not attractive. She'd never had sex with a guy and thought midway through, wow, he has nice legs. So why was the feel of Veronica's skin against hers so electrifying? As Veronica's leg aligned fully with Heather's, respective skirts doing little to cover either of them. 

"Quit it, Sawyer." Heather hissed, trying for her usual distant tone. She tried to remember how her You are so beneath me expression looked, except she wondered how it would feel for Veronica to actually be beneath her. Her brown eyes wide so Heather could see the whites, begging for mercy, writhing. The best she could come up with was a halfhearted glare that wouldn't have frightened a kindergartener into nap time. 

Veronica's lips quirked in a frown, "Back to being a bitch so soon? After you stuck your tongue down my throat?" The casualness of the words nearly made Heather slap her, because Heather and Heather could be outside the curtains right this moment, snooping in on this highly indecent conversation.

"Firstly, shut the fuck up. You were the one who was- why are we even having this conversation? It was a one-and-done." She snapped, crossing her arms and squaring her shoulders. Something about Veronica's proximity made her feel less like a mythic bitch and more like a live wire. A live wire of anger, that is, not horniness or confusion or any of the other emotions she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Technically, we kissed twice. And both times you were the one who made the first move." Veronica leaned in, slow, her eyes dissecting Heather's expression. What she saw didn't scare her, and she pressed on. "How about this time, I kiss you?" 

"What about you leave me the fuck alone?" Heather mumbled with no bite behind it. She stood up, the heat flooding through her entire body suddenly too much to bear. Pointedly turning away from Veronica, she faced the mirror, fixating on her hair. Scanning for imaginary flaws and bumps in her ponytail, the silence stretched on.

Then Veronica was up and behind her, watching the two in the mirror in a way similar to how McNamara had peered at Duke's reflection while trying on the previous dress. Except there was nothing platonic in the way Veronica's gaze traveled down Heather's body, and despite her multiple layers of clothing, Heather felt a shiver down her spine. Especially as Veronica tilted her head ever so slightly, murmuring in Heather's ear. "Red really is your color." She tugged lightly on the red scrunchie holding her hair in place. "Especially this. Because it makes it easy for me to do this."

Her lips came down on Heather's neck, gentle, leaving kisses as her lips made little pops each time they lifted from her skin. Heather's head nearly lolled back as she watched the pair in the mirror, embarrassed with how her reflection looked so wanton, so pliant. She was Heather Chandler, she was made of steel and diamond and she cut through girls and boys like paper. "Veronica.." the next words out of her mouth were stop it but she couldn't manage more than a croak as Veronica's lips grazed across the juncture of her jaw and neck.

"You..." She tried again, hoping to finish her sentence with dyke or freak or slut but finding it quite impossible as Veronica's hands rested on Heather's hips and her mouth moved against her neck, teeth scraping over the skin she never knew to be so sensitive.

The loud chattering of voices as Heather and Heather argued outside about which shade of green would look better snapped them both out of their hypnosis, and Veronica quickly planted one last kiss on Heather's cheek before sitting back down on the bench, leaving her standing frozen in front of the mirror like a mannequin as the two strolled back in with dresses piled on McNamara's arms.

The two were too distracted in their clothing choices to notice the tension simmering, especially as Duke finally found a dress that satisfied her self-hatred and McNamara convinced Veronica to try on a navy blue one that was nowhere near slutty but most certainly out of her comfort zone. (Chandler averted her eyes, she didn't trust herself not to stare when Veronica changed). In fact, she looked at the brunette about a half-dozen times throughout the entire shopping spree, and spoke mainly to Duke (though most of her words consisted of 'Shut up, Heather'.)

As the hours dragged on, it seemed that every lingerie store had brought out pieces that would specifically make Heather wonder how Veronica would look in them. And Veronica did try on lingerie, to Duke's insistence and Chandler's displeasure. "Now that you're actually hot, guys are going to want to screw you. You have to have matching sets to make you look more..." she waved a hand generally around Veronica's body, "fuckable." Leave it to the redhead to make compliments sound like criticism.

The first thought in Heather's head after the spending was done and each girl's arms were weighed down by bags was that was torture. Frankly, it was ridiculous that shopping could even be considered torture when it was Heather's first and only hobby. (Croquette and terrorizing the student body didn't count.) But after the other Heathers and Veronica clambered out of her car at their designated houses, she heaved a sigh of relief.

Quietly walked into her house. Carefully shut the door. Set down her bags on the plush rug. 

And screamed into her pillow.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, it was a long night for Heather, as she tossed in her rumpled sheets, the feel of Veronica's lips burning their way across her neck unforgettable. In a fit of desperation, her hand snaked between her legs again, and she found herself fully imagining it was Veronica doing it for her. Her dark eyes locked on Heather's, brown hair brushing across Heather's shoulders as she leaned over the blonde, mouth twisted in a triumphant grin as she watched Heather's lips part in a quiet moan. Cooing to her as Heather finally reached the peak of ecstasy and stammered out Veronica's name. As soon as the waves of her orgasm receded, the sound of her ragged breaths filling the room, she was hit with a tsunami of shame. What the hell was she doing at two in the morning? Getting off to a girl? Disgusting.

She extracted her hand from where it was clamped between her dampened legs and sat up, feeling traces of sweat run down her neck. Her wrist was cramping at the angle she'd twisted her fingers in her eagerness, and she glared at the hand like it was an independent being who'd caused this, the root of all her problems. Making her way unsteadily to the bathroom, she made quick work of cleaning herself up before collapsing into the bed and falling into a fitful state of rest.

The next day at school had no reason to be out of the ordinary, but Heather swore each time her eyes met Veronica's the girl was staring straight into her soul. She made a mental note to check for security cameras in her room, because Veronica's expression made her afraid she'd somehow seen everything that'd occurred that previous night. Perhaps she was God, anything was possible if Heather Chandler was a lesbian.

She cringe slightly at the use of the word, even in her head. It seemed so vulgar and- wrong. There was no way she wasn't straight. There was too much evidence against it, wasn't there? She made a little checklist in her head. If she'd written it out (which she would never, she wasn't itching to be caught) it would've been titled Why I am Not Gay, underlined several times in a red ink pen. 

One: She fucked guys on multiple occasions. There, the first and only point she needed. It was clear she liked guys. Except she never explicitly enjoyed the act, a voice inside her whispered as she tried to shove it down. Yes, she'd enjoyed reaping the benefits, enjoyed holding her sexual power over their heads like a puppeteer, but she'd never found sex exciting or intense. With the first few guys, she was a little more reluctant to give up a piece of herself. Baring herself to them felt like being vulnerable, and she hated being vulnerable. But as time went on, she convinced herself it was a small price to pay weighed against the gain. Numbed herself to their ravenous gazes as their hands and eyes caressed her skin, pretending to enjoy it as her body wracked in false fits of pleasure. It was a business transaction to her, not so much for the hunk she was with. Oftentimes they really believed that she was enjoying it, and she could almost laugh in their faces at how proud they were. Do none of you really know how to pleasure a woman? she wanted to scream at them collectively. 

The conceptual list filled angry red scribbles as she realized she'd veered off the subject. 

Anyway, there were infinite other reasons why she was straight.

Two: She... 

Heather's gaze darkened as she struggled to find more reasons, flailing in her mind like a drowning woman for a life rope. She was... she had... what the fuck, why was she blanking out? Thankfully, the shrillness of the bell pulled her out of her mulling, and she erased the list from her mind, certain there were plenty of reasons she couldn't think of, and anyway, she was definitely not gay, so there was really no sense to make a list at all. As she stormed out of the class, heels snapping aggressively the floor, the crowds instinctively parted. Another perk of being the all-feared Heather Chandler. Another reason why she had to maintain the facade of straightness. She could imagine the jeers and lewd comments lest her nasty secret be discovered. Unfortunately, the parting of the Red Sea (or rather the Sea by the Red) it made it easy for a certain someone to follow after her unobstructed path.

Making her way through a secluded hallway, Heather found herself being pushed into an empty classroom, immediately whirling around to face her opponent, who she'd knew from the signature smell of perfume. It wasn't anything sweet and floral like McNamara's, or sharp and mint scented like Duke's. And it wasn't like Heather's perfume, which was spicy and almost overpowering. Veronica's perfume was subtle, almost masculine, and seeped into Heather's nose before she could do anything about it.

"What do you want?" She snarled. Though at this stage, Veronica surely thought she was a pillowcase. A toothless dog. All bark, no bite. Well, just because she couldn't chomp her jaws on Veronica's neck didn't mean she couldn't be a bitch.

"Another kiss?" Her tone of voice was so goddamn hopeful as Veronica gazed at Heather with shining eyes. "I don't think we got to finish what we started in the dressing room."

And immediately Heather's mind was taking the path of memories of the dressing room, to the kiss, to fingering herself yet again for relief. She hoped the redness appearing on her face looked like fury. "Listen, you little perv, I'm not gonna fall for that again. Desperate much?" She said the last part in a mocking voice, tilting her head at Veronica with more confidence than she felt.

She could tell the words landed their mark, but Veronica hid it relatively well. She must've been taking lessons from Duke. "Aw, you don't want me to kiss you again?" Her gaze was impassive for a second before she took a step forward, her heels clicking gently. Heather matched her step, taking one back. This dance continued, with Heather staring her down the entire time, refusing to show apprehension as the back of her knees hit the edge of a desk. Veronica moved forward one last time, stopping so the distance between her lips and Heather's nose was reduced to a few pitiful inches.

Though the usual unwelcome reactions surfaced due to the little game, (lust, anxiety, feelings she dared not name) there was a turbulent feeling in her stomach as Veronica's lips hovered. Not now, not here, not again. She wanted her to stop, but when had what a girl wanted stopped anyone? The best way to play the game was to pretend that every outcome was what she wanted. Pretend that she was in control, until she actually was. It'd worked so far in her favor. She tipped her chin up and hid the tremble in her lip.

Veronica's gaze darted from Heather's eyes to her hands, which were balled into fists and partially hidden by the cuffs of her blazer. The knuckles were snow white from how hard she dug her fingers into her palms. A flash of recognition behind her ebony eyes, and she stepped smoothly back until Heather had enough room to remember how to breathe again. Veronica's eyes were alight, but now with regret, a wordless I'm sorry in every blink. And she really did look sorry, twisting her hands in front of her as the arrogant aura from before receded.

The silence was holding its breath, the walls of the classroom seem to straighten their posture. Heather could tell Veronica was ready for Heather to... do whatever she did. But she didn't. She looked Veronica up and down, before saying quietly, "later."

Before Veronica or Heather herself could completely figure out what she meant, Heather slipped out the door, this time not being the one left speechless in a quiet room.

Chapter Text

"How... very." Heather tried not to grimace as she watched Veronica mix Diet Coke and a Big Gulp together, stirring the plastic straw until the brown and red were blended into a pukey shade of, well, puke. This wasn't exactly her idea of a fun time, especially when all she expected was a repeat of the bathroom, followed by them splitting to their respective ways. Veronica, on the other hand, seems to enjoy stringing Heather along on a leash, dragging her to the Snappy Snack Shack and introducing her to a horrific drink combination like she was supposed to applaud or something.

"Come on, Heather, don't knock it until you try it." Veronica sucked on the straw, lips tilted in a smile. Her unhurried manner made Heather's teeth grind. What was this, some shabby idea of a date? Heather crunched her BBQ cornnuts, the only acceptable snack in her opinion. And it was always her opinion over everything, so why was Veronica still inhaling that disheartening mix of shaved ice and carbonated drink? It was ridiculous how attractive Veronica was, even when she wasn't trying. Heather's beauty came from intimidation, her signature lipstick as striking as blood, her outfits, hair and shoes impeccably synchronized. When Veronica joined the Heathers, there was an adjustment period for her in which she was introduced to the art of makeup and clothing and everything that gives a girl joy according to Duke. Now, though, Heather found there was something simple about her pale skin and pitch hair, her slim jaw and sculpted face.

"Geez, Heather, stare much?" Veronica teased as Heather realized she'd been gawking at her for far too long. Her face needed to stop flushing in the most inconvenient times. It was unbecoming of her. She pushed off the counter she was leaning on and gave her the usual queen-of-hell stare, which didn't seem to faze Veronica. She raised an eyebrow and stared back, much to Heather's annoyance. She was missing Westerburg's football game for this? (Kurt and Ram had nearly throw a tantrum. Come onnn Heather, it would be so righteous to see you cheering on the sidelines. She wasn't quite sure they hadn't mixed her and McNamara up.) She hadn't been planning to stay here so long, anyway, she had expected this to last a total of five minutes. 

"I'm only here for one reason, Veronica, and it isn't watching you slurp down that drink." She hissed, crossing her arms petulantly. "I don't really want to be seen in a slummy Snack Shack. Think of my reputation." Her eyebrows furrowed as she spoke. Yes, she was annoyed. She wouldn't go so far to say sexually frustrated, that would imply that she wanted to have sex with Veronica, and she most certainly did not. The crossed out list popped up in her head in a cartoonish fashion, and she scowled.

Veronica rolled her eyes like Heather was the one being unreasonable. "Yeah, I know." She ambled down the aisles of junk food, reaching a corner of expired marshmallow covered in a thin layer of dust. Heather wrinkled her nose, were they really about to make out here? Her disgust must've been clear, because Veronica muttered something about prissy bitch and pulled her out of the back door by grabbing her wrist lightly. It was suspiciously close to hand-holding, which was for pussies, but she hated how she loved the careful way Veronica handled her, like a princess. She practically was a princess if not queen of the school and deserved such treatment from everyone, so why did it make her throat close up? 

"Wow, Veronica, what a view. You really know how to pick a spot." She drawled, hoping to knock the girl down a couple of pegs. She had no idea where all if Veronica’s newfound cockiness had come from. Well, she did know, but she would rather pretend she didn't. Thinking about their lips melding together was dangerous. She bit the last corn nut between her teeth like a skull of a baby bird, relishing the crunch. Strutting over to the nearest trashcan, she flicked the wrapper into it, frowning as Veronica watched with amusement. "What?"

"Nothin, just didn't take you as a 'save the turtles' kind of girl." Veronica had that stupid smile on her face, illuminated by the dim street light, that made Heather simultaneously want to punch her in the face and... no, that was it, no hormonal urges here, move along. She sidled up to Heather again, stopping a foot away to test the waters.

"Firstly, moron, that's with plastic, like bags. And this place is already a wreck, I don't want it to look any worse if we're going to be kissing." Heather toed the ground with distaste, bubblegum stuck to the pavement and cracks snaking across the ground in various places. It wasn't the most impressive scene, but at least there was nobody around. That was key. If she was going to continue kissing Veronica- which she wouldn't, this was the final go, it would better have been more private than Area 51.

"Hm." Veronica took a long, thoughtful pull of her slushy, wincing a moment later as she clutched her skull. "Ugh, brain freeze." The plastic cup squeaked as her fingers clenched into it, face tightened in discomfort. 

Frowning in concern, Heather's hand reached to press on the side of Veronica's head, hoping it was warm enough to soothe. "You're such a loser, Sawyer." She brushed her fingers lightly across Veronica's forehead to test if it was cold- it wasn't. She was pretty sure that wasn’t how it worked, but her fingers stayed there anyway. "The drink's not going to run off." Though she might if Veronica didn’t get at it soon. She took the Big Gulp out of Veronica's grip with her other hand and chucked it into the trashcan, hoping that was enough of a hint for Veronica to stop sucking on the straw and maybe start sucking on Heather's tongue instead. 

Veronica un-squinted her eyes and looked at Heather. Really looked, and Heather wondered if she was allergic to the brunette by how quickly her face flamed in their proximity. She removed her hand from Veronica's forehead. "Does it still hurt?" She asked quietly, to fill the deafening silence. Her hand, now lying at her side, itched to pull her fingers through Veronica's hair, feel its softness and twist into the locks and tug her closer.

Veronica didn't answer, but pressed her lips to Heather's. Now was the first time she could really enjoy the kiss. They were both sober (unless you counted the ridiculous amount of sugar in the slushy on Veronica's part), they were no longer on school grounds surrounded by hyenas, and it was dead quiet. Which also meant they could hear every noise as their lips smashed together in a kiss no less hungry than the other two. Heather gasped each time their lips parted for air, her competitive streak stopping her from pulling away first. Veronica's lips tasted like Coke and cherry, and they were ice-cold, but Heather found herself pressing into Veronica's mouth anyway. 

Heather wondered how her mouth tasted on Veronica's as the kiss grew more reverent. Shit, what if she tasted like salted corn nuts? By the ravenous way Veronica was kissing her, it wasn't likely. Hands tangled themselves into Heather's blonde curls, and usually she would've protested, swatted them away. Unless she was going all the way with a guy, she didn't like them fucking up her hair or makeup. But Veronica's hands cradled the back of her head, thumbs stroking through her hair, and she found the action endearing, not callous. She responded by pressing one hand to the small of Veronica's back and the other to grasp her chin. Just to be a little more in control.

Despite Heather's fierceness, Veronica was still clearly taking the lead, and she walked Heather backwards until her shoulders brushed at the wall of the Snack Shack, pressing herself fully against the blonde. It was glorious, and the heat and passion and the little pants Veronica made as she tried to suffocate Heather with her tongue made her weak in the knees. To gain a little authority, Heather's painted red nails pricked into the soft skin under Veronica's jaw, earning a groan. A sound so beautiful Heather found herself running her nails down Veronica's neck while wondering what other noises she would've made in different circumstances. Her nails stopped at the collar of her blazer, her pointer finger tracing the thin material of the blouse underneath.

When they finally broke apart, Heather was on the verge of passing out. Her head swam, and she was glad to have the wall at her back as she was aware of a high-pitched ringing in her ears. Veronica breathed out an incredulous laugh, doing that absurdly hot thing where she pulled her hands through her hair, giving it more volume. Heather's eyes tracked her moments lazily as she tilted her head back, closing her eyes.

Another moment of joint heavy breathing, and then: "So tell me, Heather, does Diet Coke and cherry slushy taste good after all?"

"Fuck you."

Chapter Text

The rest of the week carried on in blissful order. Heather was the usual amount of bitchy, Veronica was as awfully caring to Martha Dumptruck as Heather allowed, Duke and McNamara... she barely noticed them at times. The only time she paid them full attention was when the snide chiming in from Duke forced Chandler to rise up and kick her down. In the lunchroom, in the halls, in her Porsche, their words filled her ears, and she automatically added cruel commentary, but at the end of the day, she had Veronica on the brain. Veronica was the most interesting out of them, anyway. An enigma.

The most abnormal thing about Veronica was her straightforward attitude. Heather wasn't for bullshitting either, but she didn't go about it the same way. Heather was carefully casual, letting things slip when she wanted, mulling her words over before she spit them out. Veronica just... said whatever, whether it made her look like an idiot or not. Heather had been decrypting code for so long she had nearly forgotten how to read words printed on paper. She didn't know if she liked it or not. Sometimes she didn't prefer the truth staring her straight in the face. (The list of her alleged straightness which stopped after 1. was a good example.)

It was Friday, and they had just canceled invites for one of the cheerleaders Kimberly's birthday. According to McNamara, who'd trod over to lunch with such a beastly expression that even Duke was alarmed, she didn't let McNamara get any practice in as a flyer, guaranteeing she couldn't be on top of the pyramid for Kurt's next game. Chandler stopped listening after "she did it on purpose" and demanded all their invitations before tearing them up into neat little squares.

She had debated adding a cutting message before shoving them into Kimberly's locker, perhaps something about the girl's nonexistent boobs, but Veronica plucked the pen out of her hand before she finished writing the first sentence. When they toss you in the air you come down like a piece of paper- And gave Heather a meaningful look. A pleading look like Mrs. Flemming might have given her. Whatever. If the Heathers didn't go, most of the guests would follow suit. Now, they sat in Chandler's bedroom, surrounded by magazines and makeup.

"These yellows would look good on you, Heather." Duke nudged McNamara as they sat cross legged on the plush carpet, picking out colors of nail polish from Chandler's collection. She held up three minusculey different pigments, yolk, sunrise, and daisy, and McNamara tilted her head, contemplating.

"Yeah, Heather, but I'm feeling, like, really pale. Maybe I'll go with this one." McNamara picked the lightest shade and placed a few tissues down before cracking the bottle open and applying thin layers to her nails. She and Duke sat propped against the side of the bed, her brows pinched in concentration as she evenly coated each finger. Chandler and Veronica, conveniently, were sitting on the bed, Veronica's stockinged feet kicking slowly as she lay on her stomach, Heather doing her makeup. It wasn't for the reason that she got to cup Veronica's face in her hand or hold eye contact, no, Veronica simply needed to freshen up. It had nothing to do with the fact that Heather hadn't been given any one-on-one attention for half a week, and she was feeling restless.

"So, Veronica, how's it going with Jessie James?" Duke asked suddenly, breaking through the silence as each girl concentrated on their cosmetics. "Yeah, does he talk like a city slicker? With his trench coat and all?" McNamara added, looking up as she finished her left hand and moved on to her right, blowing on her nails gently. 

Chandler stiffened slightly before continuing to apply Veronica's lipstick. Because the girl still hadn't bought any seductive red shades, and Heather couldn't stand those lips going to waste with their droll tint. "Got a little someone you'd like to tell us about, Veronica?" She asked sweetly, though her grip on Veronica's face tightened ever so slightly. Not so much that either girl sitting on the floor, now paying Veronica attention, could tell, but enough that Veronica's eyes narrowed with a silent fuck off.

She pulled her head out of Chandler's hand to speak to the others. "It's fine. JD's nice, I mean, he's smart and everything." Was she blushing? "We don't really talk that much, though."

"Pu-lease, Veronica, he's so into you. He was staring at you all through lunch." Duke said insistently. So much so that Chandler wondered if she was playing her own game here, trying to divide her and Veronica with this little revelation. Either way, it didn't matter. Chandler now regretted facing Veronica at lunch rather than by her side, because she had apparently missed some rat in a coat making eyes at Veronica. Who did he think he was? She was a Heather now, he didn't deserve a minute of her day.

"Whatever, Heather, I thought we were going to have a girl's night." McNamara said quickly after seeing Chandler's face cloud with the implications of a storm. Chandler let her face relax, giving the other blonde a sharp nod.

"Whatever. Not like I care who she bones." The mood relaxed after that, and the conversation flowed on, into jocks and cheating and clothes and girls who were wannabe Heathers. Chandler had locked onto this little piece of information like a dog with a bone, however. She waited patiently as hours passed with no further mention of this boy JD.  As soon as McNamara's mother honked from outside and she skipped off, followed by Duke, Heather faced Veronica, who lay on the bed, hands folded on her stomach as she waited for her nails to dry.

Heather had done her best work with Veronica. The impeccable makeup, flawless nails of blue with the edges rimmed red (she couldn't help herself), she took a moment to admire the brunette. Her eyes dimmed momentarily from their all-seeing glare before she demanded, "So, JD, huh?" Her tone wasn't even trying to be nonchalant. Heather scooted forward until she was sitting over Veronica on the girl's left, knees tucked under her as one hand pressed into the bed, allowing Heather to loom over her.

"Yeah, what about him?" Veronica frowned, like she was disappointed but unsurprised about where this was going. Heather knew from that sentence that Veronica wasn't going down without a fight. Her tone made Heather's blood boil, as it often did in many different ways around her.

"What about him-" Heather let out a sharp laugh. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am. Come on, you've got a whole posse of guys that hang all over you, and you're bitter because I've got one?"

"Not my problem if they're rightfully obsessed. But you , you were blushing. What the fuck was that about?" Heather shrugged, dismissively, before pinning Veronica with her stare again. Perhaps her logic was a bit flawed, but something about Veronica turned off the rational parts of her brain. (See: their first kiss. And second.)

"I wasn't blushing , I was just surprised. Besides, you blush around me, it's not like you spend late nights mooning over me."

Heather felt hot at how unconsciously close Veronica had hit the mark. How she had, in fact, spent her time in this very bed with her hand pressed between her thighs and her back arched off of these very sheets. Though bed spreads could be washed and needs could be relieved, there was something that hit her about how pretty Veronica looked while lying there. So open and helpless that it made Heather want to rip her open with her claws. Or spread her open...

 "Shut up, Sawyer. Do you want me to give you a little reminder of why I tolerate you? Because you don't fuck around with guys that look like they walked out of Grease. You're not stupid." She said, almost plaintively. One hand leaned down to touch Veronica's hair, fluffing it a bit with her fingers. Heather cocked her head as she fiddled with the black strands, wondering if Veronica understood the insinuation behind her words. You're too good for him. Veronica was so pretty, god, it wasn't much of a surprise that some chump was trying to pull a move with her. Still, it was unforgivable. Heather would've locked Veronica in her room and saved her all to herself like some exotic dessert. Platonically, of course. She wound her fingers through Veronica's hair, gently.

Veronica reached up to thread her fingers with Heather's, but she wasn't having it. She grabbed Veronica's hand and forced it back down. "You'll ruin your nails." She smirked at the girl evilly, watching her eyes widen and narrow in protest. Heather felt the usual rush of power that she did when she found a new victim to torment in school. Finally, she had Veronica in her strings, and she wasn't letting her go. Veronica may have started off strong, but she'd see who was really in charge. She leaned over tantalizingly, aware that their blazers had long been hung on the coat racks and her blouse was unbuttoned a few.

"Come on, Heather, don't." Veronica's voice was deceivingly soft, and Heather analyzed her expression to determine what she was disagreeing with. When she confirmed that Veronica was simply frustrated with her lack of mobility, her wicked grin grew. She shuffled on her knees closer until her upper thigh touched Veronica's side, and placed her free hand on Veronica's collar before leaning down to kiss her.

The kiss was no less intense than always, but Heather pulled lightly at Veronica's hair as the brunette tried to place her hands on each side of Heather's face, slide them into the blonde curls. Veronica let out a whine of frustration? Arousal? Heather wasn't sure, but what a delicious sound it was. Her other hand led Veronica’s back to the bed. "Control yourself, Veronica. I’m not going to redo your nails if you fuck them up." She lifted her head to look at Veronica, who looked incredibly hot and bothered as she lay there on the bed like she was lying in a coffin. Heather's expression became thoughtful before she swung her left leg over Veronica's hips and sank down until she was sitting on her lower abdomen. "Hands. Here." She took Veronica's wrists in each hand and chuckled as she dumbly complied, placing a hand on each side of Heather's skirt.

The kiss continued, as Veronica's fingers trailed down to the end of Heather's skirt, hooking underneath it after a brief pause when Heather muttered assent against her lips. Their lips moved like they had done countless times before, tongues dancing in perfect rhythm. Veronica's hands traced her bare thighs with such veneration that Heather shivered and pulled Veronica's locks by the roots and sighed into her mouth. Soon their lips were moving lazily against each other, and then barely touching, as Heather became increasingly fixated on a different aspect of the situation. She was practically straddling Veronica, after all. Pushing against Veronica gently, she groaned at the slight friction.

"Heather?"

Both girls stiffened. Heather quickly clambered off of Veronica, straightening her hair and doing up a button or two of her blouse before answering, "yes, mom?"

Veronica's eyes brightened and she wanted to slap the girl for how naive she was being. Like there would be some nice little moment when Heather's family circle and friend circle collided. Oh, Veronica would get to meet her matriarch, all right, but she wouldn't like it in the slightest. 

Heather swung herself off the bed and opened the door. Heather immediately straightened her shoulders, then wished she hadn't. Her posture was already commendable, being the Wicked Witch of the Westerburg, and now Veronica would be even further on guard. "Hey, mom." Thin-haired and sharp-eyed, her mom prowled in, her heels knocking mutely against the carpet. In her hands was a plate of three apple slices, and a stick of celery. The absolutely rejuvenating snack was set down with poised precision on her bedside stand. 

It felt so wrong, talking to her mother while the girl she'd currently been kissing and possibly going further than kissing was in the room. She could hear Veronica behind her, hopping off the bed to stand next to Heather.

"Don't 'hey mom' me, Heather. I thought I raised you better than that." The older woman tsked, her pale blue eyes growing even colder until the air in the room turned brittle like ice. "You have to stop having your friends over at the most inconvenient times. Besides, this one doesn't look very... put together." The way her mom talked, like Veronica wasn't even in the room, like she had a right to look down on her, made Heather's blood pressure rise. She glanced back to Veronica, who was currently making herself as inconceivable as possible. Her blouse was rumpled from their kiss, her eyes sheepish as she shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. It reminded her in a way of Martha Dumptruck, trying to shrink into the crowd when she was being taunted, usually by a Heather or jock.

"Though you don't look so pretty yourself, do you?" A quick glance at Heather's subtly rumpled form, her lack of makeup. In helping the other Heathers, she'd disregarded her own appearance. But she was still pretty , wasn't she? Was there so much of a difference? She felt humiliated, like her mother had torn every strip of clothing off and pointed out each flaw. But when her mother's eyes shifted to Veronica in repulsion again, she had enough. 

"Mom, don't. She's-"

"Heather Chandler." This time the tone was completely devoid of anything but quiet fury. The tone that made Heather flinch. The kind of tone that she had constantly cut herself on when she was a child, craving her mother's arms when she ran to her, wishing to be scooped up and held. It's hard to be cradled, however, by something that isn't there, and even worse when the hands cradling you are made of blades. That was before she realized that a knife will always draw blood, no matter how much you love it. Loved.

Thankfully, the knife made rare appearances in her life, but she felt her scars ache whenever it did.

"Fine. Mother. Veronica's just leaving, anyway." Heather ground out.

A bleak silence. "Fine. But next time she should leave with those other girls, what were their names again?" Heather's eyes were downcast, so she heard but didn't see the door slam, and they were alone again.

She could nearly feel herself shaking with rage, but it was the wound inside that was eating her alive. " They're Heather Duke and Heather McNamara, you fucking piece of- shit! " she snarled as she picked up the plate from the bedside table and hurled it at the wall, making a satisfying shattering noise. The apples and celery dropped to the floor among the porcelain shards. Then went McNamara's pale yellow nail polish, not making a dent. The bottle cracked open on impact, however, and the sunshine yellow leaked out onto the carpet, pooling in stains that would never come out. Heather was panting, not in exertion, but because her heart refused to stop pounding so goddamn fast.

Veronica's hand found her shoulder, and Heather nearly jerked away. But the smallest part of her heart, the one which wasn't inflamed red and ugly and rotted, screamed in protest.

"Heather, I'm sorry." The tone was too gentle, too placating, and Heather didn't deserve it. She just wanted to die in peace. Humiliated to her bones, she pushed Veronica away now and strode to the end of the room, examining the sticky polish on the carpet with blank eyes. 

"Just- go. I just told mo- my mother that you would. Or did you not hear?" She asked curtly. She didn't want to face Veronica now, when she was so weak. She wanted Veronica to forget this day completely, to see that Heather was invincible, not some cowering little kid against her mother's wrath. She was Heather fucking Chandler, and she was on the verge of a breakdown. It was a juxtaposition of her very being. 

"Heather, please. Don't." Veronica followed her again standing behind her, and Heather could've screamed. She just wanted to be left alone, to burn into oblivion, scorch Veronica with her so she’d know her place. She felt the familiar shield warp around her like barbed wire, keeping her at arm's length. Her shoulders hunched inwards protectively. But somehow, Veronica kept going. "You don't have to explain. You don't have to do anything, just don't-" It was too much. Heather almost laughed, did Veronica really think she could help?

"You pity me. Don't even fucking lie." Her words was laced with venom, each one. At least now Veronica knew where the poison came from. The roots. "Just go. I don't want to see you right now."

Veronica's face fell, and Heather hated herself more. Her nails cut into her palms until she felt them break skin. "Okay. Okay, I'll see you at school. I..." She leaned over, kissed Heather's cheek, and the blonde let her, standing stiffly as Veronica pulled away. For a second, she thought Veronica was going to say something more, by the way her lips formed the start of another sentence. But all she said was, "see you on Monday." A quick touch to her hand, the towel thrown over the wire, and her presence receded.

Then she was gone, and Heather started breaking things again.

Chapter Text

Heather threw a mostly empty perfume bottle from her vanity onto the ground. Her mother had bought it for her as an absentminded birthday present a few months ago. From Paris. She can't stand any hint of her mother, she'd trod it into powdered glass if she could. She surveyed the room for the next object to inflict her rage on.

The bed, originally flawlessly made, was wrinkled in a vague Veronica-shape. The vanity was piled with all types of cosmetics, her closet overflowing with clothes. All her blazers were red. All her dresses were slutty. She wasn't always like this, or maybe she was. In the crack between the wall and her dresser hid a picture. Perfectly vibrant, coated in a layer of dust, not having not seen the light of day for years.

She was five, or maybe six. She wasn't a slut or a snatch or a Heather. She was just, Heather. And she was beautiful in the way a child is innocent. Her grey eyes were bigger in her face, curls wild. There was no sign of a red scrunchy. She wore striped socks and her favorite sweater, purple with yellow buttons. She smiled, baring all her teeth as her left hand made a clumsy thumbs up and her other looped around Martha Dunnstock's arm. Best friends. School pictures, kindergarten. The typical ugly blue background as the children cheesed. Her teacher, Mrs. Phillips. The only one, ironically, that noticed. She was a kindergarten teacher, for fuck's sake, and she noticed whenever Heather came to school with her eyes red because her hair too tight in her braid. Her mother hated her hair. Too big, she said, out of control. 

After that, Heather made sure nobody would ever tell. She was always a good actress.

But being a good actress means being a good liar, and she was lying to herself, every day, when she put on her mile-wide shoulder pads and knee-high stockings and kissed boys that she'd rather tell to go fuck themselves, which they probably did after. She laughed behind her hands or out loud when Martha Dumptruck took a spill in the hallway, courtesy of Ram and Kurt. Giving Martha a cruel look before sauntering over to Ram to peck him on the cheek. Oh, and the forged note of his that she'd made Veronica write, a little trophy of hers, was stuffed somewhere in her backpack. Martha had chucked it out, she'd watched her do so, before surreptitiously fishing it from the bin. The meticulous handwriting, the look on Martha's face when she fled the cafe, had given her a rush. But looking at the note didn't bring Heather joy. It was folded into quarters, but she'd smoothed it out before crumpling it again. She didn't even know why she kept it.

Her iconic red scrunchy, she had several spread all around to guarantee she'd always have one on hand. A symbol of her power. It wrapped around her hair as she went to bed, exhausted from a day of lies. It held her hair back when she puked in the bathroom because a guy had been too rough. A friend was supposed to do that, but Duke couldn't stand vomit save her own, and McNamara was too delicate.

The width of the band allowed her to wrap it around her voluminous hair twice. Thrice if she was wearing it half-up. It was a symbol of her power, hanging casually on her wrist. After each snappy comment, she turned away, not wasting her time a moment longer, and the red scrunchy burned into each victim's tearstained gaze. 

Magazines, some worse than others. Still tossed all over the place, as they'd been flipped through casually as the girls talked. Featuring body tips and advice and how to know whether a guy was into you or not. Heather didn't need that shit anymore. Still, contents she'd painstakingly cut out from her first adult magazines were still folded neatly and tucked away. Stuffed into her closet because her mother would slap her if she saw. How to make a guy want you, How to kiss with tongue, How to taste good (down there), How to lose ten pounds in a week or less. Well. Her mother would encourage the last one, at least. How Heather had idolized those magazines, taken their words as gospel, until she had the whole act down pat and a bat of her eye had guys scurrying to her side. Had them flaunting the fact that she chose them to sleep with, how good it was.

A drawing, doodled on one of her old notebooks. Before she became Queen Megabitch and things like drawing and art were so incredibly beneath her. An absentminded drawing of her childhood stuffed animal, a bunny, beige and bright eyed as she had been. Until it had been "accidentally" put in the dryer. You were too old for it, anyway. Her mother had tsked. Bonnie the bunny, with floppy ears and a plush pink nose. Nobody knew of the name except for her. Things were only special until they weren't secret. Bonnie was perhaps the only one that stayed by her side until the end of its existence. It exploded in the face of the heat and left soft cotton over the clothes like fresh snow. 

She couldn't remember the last time she felt snow on her skin. She hadn't rolled around, made forts, packed snowballs, for years. She hadn't been a child for years. There was no holiday spirit around the Chandler household. Nobody strung lights or sang carols, but the temperature was always glacial whenever her mother was in the room. Her gaze was disapproving, stinging worse than the palm of her hand. Physical pain Heather could accept, if not understand, but the struggle for her mother's approval was far more degrading.

A dog barked in the distance, audible through her bedroom window. When she was ten, she'd begged for a Saint Bernard for Christmas. Her father, actually home for once, had gifted her a white kitten. Her mother got her a treadmill. She hated them both. And the presents as well. She'd never liked cats, they reminded her too much of herself. She named it Bonnie and ignored its existence until it ran away one day from an "accidentally" unlocked the cat door. Heather always liked to think she was doing it a favor. Nobody noticed.

She flung her junior year almanac from her shelf at the wall, and it made a sharp banging noise. She had every yearbook since middle school lined up. As the years went by, Heather's smile became more picture perfect, teeth no longer flashing. Instead, her red lips curved into a taunting, seductive smiling, beckoning at the photographer. Her eyes didn't shine, they gleamed like twin blades tempered with rage, shadowed under mascara'd lashes. Her hair behaved itself, tamed down from the scruffy look. Nobody cared enough to see.

Out of steam, Heather quietly picked up her broken not-so-valuables and threw them in the trash can. She was done with her explosion. The heat had simmered away into vapor. She sat down on her bed and folded a pillow around her midsection. She was so, so tired. "Veronica." Her eyes unfocused on the door, the gold knob winking. The space Veronica had occupied. She bit the inside of her lip until the tang of blood filled her mouth. Nobody heard her.

Chapter Text

It's Monday and Heather Chandler is perfect again. The thing is, nobody realizes she never was. She gives and gives until she's hollow. Gives handjobs at parties for the bragging rights, gives eye candy to her awestruck peers as she struts around campus, gives security to McNamara through her unmoving attitude. The fire inside her crackles, scorching some and warming others, but nobody realizes it's burning out. Her makeup is flawless and it is her shield. Hiding sunken undereyes and masking the paleness of her cheeks with rouge. Her clothes are another layer of security. The shoes that make her taller than she is and the blazers and skirts that repel eyes trying to undress her. Sometimes she's sick of it, but who is she kidding? She built this shitty castle for herself, now she has to live in it.

Veronica doesn't speak until she's spoken to during lunch, and it's Duke that actually initiates a conversation about whether Veronica's worn that dress they bought at the mall yet, and if she's going to be a social recluse she better just return it and spend the money on a new monocle or something. Veronica has plenty of bite in response and Heather's relieved that Veronica wasn't one more thing Heather ruined.

There's an odd silence between Chandler and Veronica when they walk around to ask the question of the day, and Heather finds herself actually eager to get to Betty Finn so she can look down her nose at the girl instead of stealing glances at Veronica every time the brunette turns her head. And god, her hair is so pretty. Silk and side-parted with layers like feathers. It falls perfectly into place, and Heather has a weird thought that her mother should've liked Veronica, because her hair is so beautiful. Veronica's modest, she's polite, she's smart. She should not be Heather's friend. She should be Betty Fin's friend, they deserve each other. Moon-eyed girls with springs in their steps.

"Question of the day, Betty." Veronica starts, clipboard raising as she waves a greeting. The whole table looks up, straightening their shoulders and giving wary or adoring looks at them, specifically Heather. She's reminded for a second of her with her mother and then hates the comparison. Besides, she's nothing like her. Heather glances down at the paper in Veronica's hands, a silly question about French Fry Fridays or Taco Tuesdays. Something that doesn't matter, not really. 

"Would you rather kill your mother or your best friend?" Heather interrupts briskly, taking the clipboard from Veronica and rapping the pen against it in a no-nonsense way. Betty Finn's jaw drops and her eyes grow wider behind her glasses. Heather's face is deadpan, as if she were asking whether she prefers odd or even numbers. She's not sure what possessed her to ask it, but she definitely knows what her answer would be. Her mother, or Veronica? Wait, Veronica wasn't her best friend. She hoped not, at least.

Veronica pulls her outside in cafe, and the doors swing shut behind them. It's almost a relief, because now she can do what's she's been planning to. Cut Veronica off, a clean sever. She can't hold people close to her that actually know her, because it's not safe.

The hallway is empty. The checkered tiles are littered with pieces of paper and gum, and Heather knows this because she's staring at the ground. "Heather, what's your damage?" She rolls her eyes in response and brings her eyes to Veronica's, and she looks exasperated, confused. Heather wonders whether Veronica remembered Friday at all. Maybe she has short-term memory loss, and that's why she's handling this so indelicately. Veronica looks increasingly agitated and grips Heather gently by the shoulders. "You okay?"

Maybe she can see the vacant space between Heather's eyes, like there's a layer of ice behind them, and then nothing. Her head swims, because yesterday night she went to another party, alone this time, and fucked a guy. Rather, he fucked her, and now her throat aches whenever she swallows. Heather hasn't cried in years, but something's fighting its way up her esophagus. She breathes through her nose and lets it out, but it doesn't help, and what comes out is a spew of vomit and not words. She throws up over the floor, narrowly missing Veronica's black boots.

Veronica's frozen, and Heather thinks maybe she'll push the doors open again and declare that Heather Chandler just vomited up peas and a hot dog and chocolate milk all over the blue and white tiles. If anybody would like to come see the mythic bitch's barf. Her body shudders with waves of nausea and she feels so pathetically weak. Does Duke really do this to herself every day? It's awful, and her throat is raw and her stomach burns. Veronica guides Heather away with one arm supporting the blonde, and Heather wouldn't have stopped her if she was about to bring her to the roof and push her off. 

They end up in the nearest bathroom, Heather leaning heavily on the sink as Veronica uses a wet paper towel and swipes away the last bits of lipstick and upchuck from Heather's mouth. Heather wishes she could feel Veronica's warm skin against hers again, and hates herself for it. There's too much wrong with her and her life to want that kind of comfort. Her elbows nearly buckle and she nearly cracks a tooth on the faucet but steadies herself in time. She looks at the mirror and wishes she hadn't. Veronica, some sort of blue-clad angel, glowing in the fluorescent lights, wiping Heather's lips, and she's all white-knuckled and dead eyed.

Veronica's guiding her to the biggest stall, to the closed toilet lid and sitting her down. It smells awful, but no worse than her vomit or her breath. Heather sits like a statue and she doesn't know how long it's been until the lunch bell rings. A yell from outside, "What the fuck, someone threw up here!" Reinforced with more statements of disgust so loud she can hear them loud and clear through the walls.

Her lip wobbles and she heaves a breath and Veronica shifts, alert, probably thinking she's about to throw up again. She takes shallower breaths, calming down, but she's aware of hands smoothing through her blonde hair, gathering the curls, ready to keep it back if she were to hurl again. She's had enough. Heather's been weak for her once, and now she's on the cusp of crying and Veronica's seeing her like this again. It's three strikes, and she's out. Suddenly Heather's not grateful at all, and she wishes it were McNamara in the bathroom stall with her, cowering and covering her ears from the retching, or Duke, because she'd pretend it wasn't happening. Neither of them would care and that's what she wants.

"Get the fuck away from me." She manages as she stands up and pushes herself away. Her knees knock together and she fights for balance. "And get out of my stall." Her voice wavers and Veronica's face falls. For a moment Heather thinks she's going to say no, but after a few seconds of Veronica's pleading eyes on her as she stares back with nothing, her shoulders slump visibly. Veronica slips out of the stall, Heather watches through the crack in the stall door as her shoes click quietly out of the bathroom.

She's partially aware of how stupid she is. She's a selfish person, and Veronica thinks she's not, and she has to teach her a lesson. Who does she think she is, anyway, worming her way in so close? You can enjoy the sun's rays as much as she wants, but what kind of idiot would try to touch it?

When Veronica leaves, she slumps back down on the seat and shivers. She's so cold.

Chapter Text

It was a craving, an addiction. She was afraid she would relapse into Veronica Sawyer. 

She kept her distance, always positioning herself between Heather and Heather, or dragging Ram at her feet, the jock practically drooling over her. Letting his lips mingle with hers for everyone to see, playfully pushing him way when his hands wandered too far. She was terrifying, seductive, and had everyone kissing her boots, so every play of hers screamed. 

Behind the scenes, however, she found herself fumbling for her lines. It was hard not to look at Veronica, to not think about her. She was beautiful, that was undeniable. Her wide eyes, symmetrical face and congenitally pleasing features drew the attention of countless leering guys. So did her, ahem, assets, but she didn’t want to let herself get caught up in thoughts of Veronica’s boobs.She subtly put a stop to the creeps with the help of Kurt and Ram (she wasn't about to let Veronica be accosted or some shit, she wasn't evil). Still, Veronica plagued her mind.

Sweet, Hollywood features like she was meant to play the love interest in a soap opera. It seemed Heather had been watching her more closely than either of them realized. She'd picked up on her nervous habits: absently tapping one foot or fiddling with a pen, and signs of happiness: biting her lips, flicking her eyes sideways. Adorable, in a naïve way. 

Heather didn't let herself get too caught up in it. 

It was like weaning off a drug. She carefully avoided Veronica for the next few days, distancing herself as much as she could without arousing suspicion. Heather and Heather must've noticed, but Duke must not have given a shit, as long as she was henchman # 2 again. She was always at Chandler's side, eyes scanning for potential targets, eager to curry favor. Every now and then, a particularly awful comment would make Chandler giggle maliciously, and Duke would beam like a kid with a kindergarten project. She fed on Chandler's praise, possibly more than the minuscule amount of food she was eating. (Heather made a note to further shame Duke until she was forced to eat. This was becoming a real problem.)

Veronica seeing Heather's finger falter on the gun had been unacceptable. Now, she ruled with an iron fist, one pistol socket to shatter Veronica's skull, should she try any funny business. It didn't seem to be the case. Veronica kept her distance, drifting into the background with McNamara. She sat quietly, she kept her head down, and McNamara was more than happy to pair up with her. Even so, she could practically feel the longing looks Veronica shot her way like a siren call. She batted it away, batting her lashes at Ram, who responded satisfactorily, jutting out his chin and leaning by her locker like a high school musical. He was another form of protection, more than just a muscleman. He was proof of her influence. She was perfect, she was concocted, and she felt layers harden like clay over herself.

And it was working. It was working.

Until it didn't. It was a Friday, some spoiled-brat private school's house, and she was ready to drink and fuck her way through the night. She was on her fourth shot and second blowjob when the door cracked open and Veronica stood like an avenging angel over Heather and blowjob receiver. In a way, she felt relieved. The guy hadn't even given her time to put up her hair before he'd yanked led her way into a guest bedroom and started undoing his belt buckle, looking at her expectantly. She nearly rolled her eyes as his blatant desperation. God forbid a girl have a little dignity.

"Heather, can we talk?" Veronica's voice was high, and among the thumping bass and buzzing of the partygoers, she sounded far away. Heather would've spat out a no, but the mood between blowjob guy, who'd hastily recovered his pants, had already been ruined. She gave the guy a quietly disappointed look, as if she'd just been dying to eat his tiny dick, before sauntering out. Veronica's footsteps were muffled by the carpet, and it was only until they entered the huge bathroom that her heels began to echo lightly. 

Heather waited a few seconds, a bomb ticking patiently. The suspense had to build a little before she exploded. She was seething inside. What was Veronica's damage? Heather'd kill her, she'd shove her face into the toilet, she'd exile her from the Heathers and Westerburg itself, she'd....

The thud of Veronica's knees hitting the ground snapped her out of her inner monologue. Veronica was wearing a black dress that dipped well below her collarbones, and gave Heather a lovely view that she was absolutely not ready for. Her lips twitched, eager to verbally tear the girl limb from limb, but she wondered fairly how it would feel the rasp her tongue over Veronica's throat... further down, past her neckline, and then... no, snap the fuck out of it. She was aware of Veronica's eyes on her now, kneeling like a priestess worshipping her god.

"Heather," she took a breath, as if about to delve underwater, "I'm sorry. Okay? I shouldn't have pushed, I should've given you time and space when after your mo-" she hesitated, retested her words. "I was just worried about you, okay? And I know I shouldn't have been, because you can handle yourself and I know you hate when people look down on you. I'm sorry for caring, if that's what you really want to hear, but I do care about you. And not just because we've been almost-sort-of hooking up or anything. I know you're not evil, Heather, and I just want you to be happy, in your fucked-up, tyrannical way. So if you really want me to leave you alone, that's fine. I'm not trying to undermine you, and I'm not trying to destroy you. God- I just miss you. So if you want me to pretend nothing ever happened between us, that's fine. I just want my friend back."

The little speech was more than Heather had expected, especially the parts that were trying to appeal to her soft side. She couldn't say the girl wasn't brave. An idiot, yes, but brave. Still, she had a reputation to uphold, and she wasn't about to let some bruised knees and big eyes worm her way back into her favor. "Really? That's all you got?" She said softly, letting nothing show on her face. An empresses, waiting for more gifts from a suitor that had nothing more to give.

Veronica swallowed visibly. "Heather.." she started again, and Heather wondered if she was about to go on another tirade. Her head pounded, and she pressed the knuckle of her thumb against the bridge of her nose. 

"I don't want to hear it, Veronica. You made your choices." She shrugged, though the sight of Veronica inching closer on her knees was doing something to her. She wasn't sure what, but there was a heaviness in her lower abdomen that had nothing to do with vodka. Her stomach clenched and she hoped Veronica couldn't see, though the dress she wears is skintight, like red paint. The brunette looked despondent, eyes cast down and posture slightly hunched. Indications that she's defeated. Ready to be trodden on and stepped over.

Heather supposed there's a time in every monarch's reign where they feel a twist of pity for all they've done. Innocents executed, peoples conquered, suitors rejected. She did not. Camaraderie was not her style. But her hand didn't yet reach for the axe, not when Veronica's neck is already bent over the execution block. The silence was too loud as she awaited her own demise. It was pathetic, and it doesn't suit her. She liked Veronica when she was strong. But yet...

"Beg." Heather swore her own voice nearly echoed in the room. Veronica blinked up at her, mouth opening in the start of a question, and spotted the look in Heather's eyes. Her pupils were dilated, hungry, yes, but not for power. There was no thirst for revenge in her eyes as she cocked her head expectantly, like she called a dog to come. Her hands folded firmly across her chest to punctuate the statement.

An addict always regresses. The fly is always drawn to the honey. And the honey tasted so sweet when Veronica shuffled closer, as if Heather might shy away like some spooked creature if she were to move too fast. Veronica's hands darted forward, and she clasped the back of Heather's calves as she straightened to stand on her knees. Her head came up to Heather's hips, salaciously close to… never mind. Long lashes shaded over Veronica's face, her dark brows lowered. It was lust, none of the cottony subservience she'd had before. Heather felt naked, like her eyes were sharp enough to slice her clothes off and pool them at the ground. The world faded away to this bathroom, where the marble counter pressed into Heather's back and a dark angel sat prettily perched between her legs.

Heather felt a chill up her spine when Veronica's hands slid smoothly up her thighs. She'd fantasized of this countless times, but somehow, it was even better than she could've imagined. The dulled golden lighting made Veronica's hair glimmer like it was infused with obsidian. Heather felt as if in a trance as she wound her fingers through the heavenly locks, enjoying the softness between her fingertips. Perhaps if she took one last, heavy hit, she'd be able to quit for good. She had to believe that, because the other prospect is much more complicated.

Veronica's fingers reached the seam of her dress and hesitated, tracing circles with her thumbs. Heather read her face, picking out any signs of reluctance, any reason to push her away. Veronica bit down tartly on her lower lip, her eyes glued to the apex of Heather's thighs. She'd had been wrong, Heather thought dimly. It wasn't just lust, it was reverence, awe. She felt seen, and she felt the all-too-familiar ache, pushing her hips forward slightly. A fumble, she realized a moment later, as Veronica's lips curved into her signature grin and she smoothly pulled the dress up to rest on her hipbones.

Heather felt an exhale of breath on her inner thighs as Veronica hooked the red lace panties with her index finger, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Really got a theme, huh?" She smirked, and Heather could've slapped her had the humor not vanished almost immediately as Veronica pressed her thumb into the patch of dampness forming on the thin cloth. "Fuck, Heather." Her voice was low in timbre and eyes hooded as she pressed Heather's legs slightly further apart. Heather has to restrain herself from groaning, and tightened her grip on Veronica's hair in response. The brunette let out a hum as her pointer finger snuck under the fabric.

The comforting lull of alcohol and arousal flooded her veins as she anticipated the first touch, the first stroke, the first electrifying curl of Veronica's fingers.

The door banged open and nearly hit Veronica in the back. Immediately, Heather leapt up, horror coursing through her body. She hadn't locked the door. She was a fucking moron, and now she was going to pay the price. An outcast, a dyke, a freak, that was her future, laid out clearly as roadkill on a highway. Her hands yanked the dress back down, she side-stepped so Veronica's hands fell off of her body. She whipped around to face the person who'd barged in, while Veronica, genuinely startled, continued kneeling, frozen like a deer in headlights.

The intruder was quite drunk, apparently, because he immediately made his way to the toilet and began to piss without a look back, swaying on his feet. Heather could've screamed. She wanted to tear her hair out or cut the twat's dick off, but she only led Veronica out of the bathroom with a steel grip on her wrist. Veronica was still halfway in shock, muttering something about that hurts and jeez, Heather, stop walking so fast. They slipped out the wide double-doors and into the chilly night, and all Heather could think about was the pure terror she felt when they'd been caught, and how it was absolutely worth the look on Veronica's face seconds before. Her thoughts were blaring like foghorns, and she didn't like what she was hearing.

The adrenaline rush faded alongside the fear, leaving her feeling cold and unsteady. No longer floating, she teetered on her feet, frowning in concentration as the world tipped gently, and Veronica's brows furrowed as she pieced it out. "Shit, you're drunk." She huffed out, alarm clouding her features. "And I almost-" 

Heather's grip tightens even further on Veronica's forearm. "I would've wanted it either way." She said firmly, slowly, making sure to annunciate each word. Veronica has to know she means it. After a moment of silence, Veronica nodded, still wary. She's a good person, Heather realized, with a tinge of annoyance. Worthy of her exoneration.

The forgiveness of a queen wasn't always decreed in flowing scripts alongside trumpeteers. It was often the dip of a chin, or flicking dismissal of a finger. Though she really would've preferred Veronica's fingers to her own when she got home later that night, writhing alone in the vastness of her bed.

She made sure to lock the door.

Chapter Text

It's Monday morning, and Heather Chandler feels... alright. It's hard to put her finger on it, but she'd been just as thirsty for Veronica's apology as Veronica had been for her forgiveness. When she think back to it, that night in the bathroom, the heavily sheen of Veronica's skin, the fleeting touch of her fingers, assumed a dreamlike quality.
Having no contact with Veronica besides her landline, which she would rather die than call, she was halfway to being a mental patient. She wanted to shake Veronica by the shoulders and convince herself it was real. 

School was bearable, and she found herself more mild than usual, even deciding to ignore the freshman who bumped into her in the hallway. Mostly because the expression on the girl's face suggested she might faint from pure fear.  
She sat down calmly during lunch, having snagged the last salad. Though the cold mix of lettuce and cucumbers looked less than appetizing, the opinion of suspiciously greasy beans or burgers was even less so. Veronica was already sitting down, looking less kicked than last week. Which, Heather realized with a twist of something unfamiliar, was her fault.

Duke was (surprise, surprise) picking at her beans with a fork and knife. She cut one in half, watched the grease spread across the tray, and grimaced. McNamara was tearing bits off the burger bun, while Veronica shared the same demise as Duke. She brought a spoonful of beans to her lips, wrinkled her nose and set it down. "Jesus, what did they put in this, Vaseline?" She muttered.

Heather lightly picked off a piece of her salad and chucked it onto Veronica's tray. "Stop whining, Veronica. Use that face of yours and get some guy to trade lunches with you. I'm sure he'll wet his pants for your approval." She said blandly, and Veronica smiled shyly with the implied compliment. She pinched the lettuce between her thumb and forefinger. 

"Thanks, Heather." She crunched it enthusiastically, oblivious to the narrowed eyes she was receiving from Duke.

She was clutching her plastic silverware with white knuckles, looking ready to slice and dice something other than the legumes sitting uneaten on her plate. McNamara nibbled on her bread, unaware or avoiding the unexpected tension which was sizzling, unlike the uncooked meat patties. Her fingers turned it to bite off neat segments all around, leaving a circle.

"So..." Veronica said carefully, testing the waters. Heather expected something insipid to come out of her kissable mouth, but she nudged McNamara, "Be right back. I'm going to scam someone out of his lunch."

Heather's face darkened with a scowl. So that was how it was. She should've known better than expect Veronica to forgive and forget. Still, she could've sworn by the look in Veronica's eyes when she sat at her feet, gazing so dreamily at her thighs...

She was stronger than most guys at this school, at least, who forgot all save their own name when screwing. To be fair, they hadn't technically screwed yet (so there was a chance of Heather still getting into heaven, she assumed).

If they did, would Veronica just as sharp and assertive as she did when challenging her authority? Would she be willing to put on another show of remorse, give Heather big eyes and murmured apologies into her skin-

Heather nearly bit her own tongue. She was nowhere near a prude, but it felt so wrong to have these thoughts with Duke sitting right next to her.

Just in case the girl in green was a mindreader, she began to think about the periodic table. She got as far as helium before Veronica was up, the chair squeaking cheerfully to announce her departure. McNamara smiled gleefully in anticipation.

She should've been relieved. The cause of all her indecent fantasies, which were slowly decomposing her list of straightness, was no longer in her vicinity. But she found starting a conversation with Duke shallow and useless, something she'd never considered previously.

Yes, Duke was fun to have around, her equally bitchy counterpart. But instead of seeking out a fresh victim to prod apart, her eyes hunted for Veronica, who had walked over to the football team- no, she had passed their table without a second glance, and- for fuck's sake, Jason Dean, of all people?

It was painfully obvious to Heather only that Veronica was just trying to grind her gears. She stabbed her fork through a slice of tomato, seeds and juice oozing out from underneath its skin. She pretended it was Jason Dean's jugular instead.
Oh, he was playing mysterious, one hand stretched behind his head as he spoke to Veronica, eyes squinted in a way that looked quite asinine. Heather's fork screeched on the metal tray, the mutilated tomato ran through with the prongs. She stared at the distorted reflection and composed her face into as neutral an expression she could muster.

Veronica returned with a muffin and a triumphant grin. The expression of exuberance only intensified at the look on Heather's face- perhaps she wasn't as poker faced as she'd hoped. Silence ensued. Veronica tipped her face toward McNamara's, and in a confidential murmur that Heather was sure was a tad too loud on purpose- "Well, he didn't wet his pants, for sure, but he did ask me out."

McNamara gasped a little too jovially for Heather's taste and asked for the details. Veronica was too happy to fill her in, her chin tilted slyly as she shrugged, tossing a look back at the future felon. Heather seethed. How dare she? Was this some elementary tactic to arouse jealousy? It was not working. She was embarrassed for Veronica, actually, Heather was above such sentiments. 

"We’re going to a movie." Veronica announced. “And slushees.” Her dark eyes shifted to Heather’s like it was some inside joke.

A new list came into existence in Heather's head: Ways to Get Rid of a Body.

Chapter Text

Locker room, gym class. Heather refused to run, of course. Anyone who had the urge to make like a rat on a treadmill was pathetic. Still, she took time to fix her curls, meticulously looping the red scrunchy through her hair. McNamara and Veronica were embarrassingly excited for the fucking date with Jesse James. You would've thought McNamara was her pimp or something. She took a little extra time to apply her lipstick in the mirror to snag the entire conversation. God, did they yap.

"Seriously, I'm so happy for you, Veronica. I mean, you didn't show any interest in boys for so long, it was-" McNamara's gushing was interrupted by the snideness in Chandler's tone. 

"Yes, it's so cute, Ronnie." Heather noticed Veronica's brow furrow at that, in annoyance, or perhaps confusion. She turned, lips lined red like murder, and her tone as smooth as wax. "I mean, it's adorable that you're doing charity work. The needy-" a not so subtle look to Veronica's clothes as if they weren't doing things to her, "helping the needy."

If Duke was here, she would've laughed. But she'd turned like a chameleon into the color of her blazer and made for the bathroom a few minutes ago. McNamara gave her a look of surprise, which subsequently pissed her off. What, was she not insulting Veronica enough? Did McNamara develop some sort of viewpoint on Heather and Veronica? Was being mean being abnormal?

Oh, what the fuck. McNamara was the sweetest of them all, Heather suspected she still had her child-of-god complex. That was all.

For one very dangerous moment she debated flirting with McNamara, just to keep Veronica on her toes. Her eyes scanned down the blonde girl's form, a curve to her lips as she debated whether it was worth seeing Veronica turn fifty shades of red. For one moment, she took her eyes off Veronica-she'd hadn't looked away and hardly even blinked- and onto McNamara. If Veronica could play dirty, so could she.

Veronica, unfortunately, had already caught on. Damn that bitch and her paranoid, astute little nerd brain. She crossed her arms and tipped her head back in a way that made Heather simultaneously want to strangle her and trace her lips across her jaw- okay, enough. "What is your damage, Heather?" 

Heather knew this wasn't just about the previous commentary. She hadn't fully apologized for her actions after the... misconduct with her mother, or the "get out of my stall" or stoically ignoring Veronica, but for fuck's sake, did she looked like Mother Teresa? She thought the moment Veronica got between her legs she'd be compliant. And Veronica was certainly acting brain dead, but not for her. Come on, she'd have to be in a vegetative state to accept a date with that fugly black trench coat. What, was he going to pull a bird out of the sleeve, too?

Heather scoffed. "What's yours?" McNamara was slinking away, muttering something about checking on Heather, who was surely reintroducing her breakfast to the toilet.

Veronica's hair dipped as she shook her head. Bangs like dark feathers nearly fell into her face, and Heather suppressed the urge to push them back. Or pull them out by the roots. She was feeling two contrasting emotions around Veronica, per usual. One, fuck Veronica. Secondly, fuck Veronica. "I asked first." Veronica's childish response paired with an annoyed press of her lips.

Lipstick. Veronica was wearing lipstick. Heather's eyes caught on it, a ripe pink that gleamed like she'd bit into a tart cherry. Hm, there was an innuendo there. She'd enjoy thinking about it later.

"Nothing, I'm just glad you finally realized you liked guys." Heather's response was unhurried, her tone was both dry and scathing, like hot sand against her throat. Okay, maybe she was being a self-hating lesbian- no. She was not a lesbian. She just hated them. Lesbians were freakish. 

Right.

Veronica didn't rise to it at first. Her tongue rolled against the inside of her cheek, she tilted her head, though Heather noticed the subtle glance to the door- nobody else was around, but she knew what it'd sound like. What the implications were. For a moment, she felt a twang of something akin to remorse. She wasn't being fair. But she didn't rise to the top of the food chain for being gracious.

“What would you know about liking anyone, Heather? You don’t let people get close enough to like them." 

God damn, Veronica, who had taught her to be so astute? (She had.)

Heather found herself at a loss. What was she supposed to say to that? Was it really such a bad thing, to be distant? She doubted Genghis Khan sat around drinking tea with the Polish or whoever the fuck he conquered. When you're at the top, every outstretched hand might be trying to pull you down. 

"I think you've got your head shoved up your ass." She said flippantly, and before the insult could even sink in, she was leaning forward and grabbing the lapels of Veronica's blazer. "I almost let you fuck me in the bathroom. I forgave you after every fuckup. Do you think I would've lowered myself to that level for anyone?" She hissed. She noted a flush on Veronica's cheeks and felt a brief sense of satisfaction. At least she was getting to her. "And what's my reward? It's sitting in English class, pretending to be a pirate." Not her greatest line, but she was a bit distracted. Lips of a cherry stained color beckoned to her.

"Gee, Heather, I wonder. What if I don't like these on and offs? JD's nice, consistently, unlike someone I know. One second you're accusing me of not liking guys, and the next you're trying to tear my clothes off." A wry smirk, and Heather could've slapped her.

She had been clutching Veronica's blazer rather tightly, but before she let go, she saw the challenge in Veronica's eyes. Would she conform to Veronica's accusations? Those gorgeous eyes seemed to taunt her with their know-it-all gleam.

The entire reason for this encounter came back to her. Jesse James. Veronica, without a doubt, could not go on a date with him. Her social stock would plummet. The Heathers' reputation would be tarnished by rubbing elbows with that vagabond.

It was easy to convince herself she was doing this in everyone's interests when she slammed her lips into Veronica's. The way Veronica pressed against her, parted her lips immediately, wiped her mind clean like a whiteboard. The list of alleged straightness or lack thereof, the concern that she was snogging a girl in the gym locker room, became secondary to the wild pleasure of kissing Veronica Sawyer. She pressed her hips into Veronica's and groaned as Veronica broke the kiss to trace her lips along Heather's jaw. If anyone had entered the room within those few minutes, they would've seen the two pressed against the lockers like they were trying to align their atoms and pass through each other.

Acutely, Heather was still aware of her surroundings. So when Veronica nosed down to her collarbone, Heather grabbed her face between her fingers, nearly chuckling at the petulance written there. "For someone with bone structure like yours, you're pathetically desperate. I mean, Jesse James, of all the social pariahs." She panted, and Veronica narrowed her eyes. Her lips were pursed together in Heather's hold in a way she found most adorable. It made it easier to talk to Veronica like a little puppy.

"Come on, forget your date, Veronica. Or go. And wish the whole time he was me." Her thumb traced over Veronica's lips, removing the blended pigments of their lipstick. She thought that'd be the end of it, but no, after sticking her tongue down Heather's throat, Veronica still had something to say.

"I have to say, Heather, jealousy is a good color on you." Her eyes flicked from Heather's expression, down to her lips, and back up. "Maybe I'll shut him down.. maybe I won't. Isn't it so fun not knowing what I'll do next?" She swept out the door.

Son of a bitch.

Heather was reapplying her lipstick when McNamara bounced back in. "Heather's doing okay, I gave her a piece of my granola bar. I don't know if she'll eat it, though." Her brown eyes were half-dreamy as usual. She tilted her head for a moment, like a curious St. Bernard, and seemed to question something. "We're in the second stall. Could you ask Veronica to write us a hall pass?"

Heather cleared her throat. "Right, when I see her."

McNamara smiled slightly, the way she did when she was thinking of a joke. Usually one not as jocular or spiteful as the other Heathers'. She turned on her heel and left, and Heather watched her with brows furrowed. What was so funny?

(Perhaps it was the fact that McNamara noticed a tint to Heather's cheeks when she mentioned Veronica's name. Or the fact that something must've happened for her to have to put on lipstick again. Perhaps it was even the waxy smudge on the underside of Heather's jaw, the color of a cherry.)