Work Text:
Heather Duke stares down into the gaping mouth of the open toilet.
Hello again, my old friend.
The gorge rises in her stomach, just a little, at the sight, the siren song of just one more purge ringing seductively in her ears, the suggestion that maybe she’d feel a little less gross if she just…
She hears the door to the washroom open, accompanied by a — despite the last month or so —quiet, almost hesitant, “Hi.”
If she’d been asked six months ago, she would’ve said that the only company she’d tolerate at times like this was Heather and Heather, and she wouldn’t quite have been lying, but she also wouldn’t quite have been telling the truth. Heather Chandler’s regard had felt like the only real thing in the world, the only thing that could make her feel better, even if it so rarely had. Heather hates that a part of her still feels that way, a pulse of something going through her that’s a lot like anger and maybe a little like something less simple.
If she’d been asked three months ago, she’d have said the same thing, but added — reluctantly — that she guessed she could tolerate Veronica being around as well, given that apparently Heather insisted that she go everywhere with them now. Under no circumstances would she ever have admitted that maybe she actually liked having her there, appreciated having someone rub her back while she vomited in a way that Mac would have been too nervous to try and Heather never would have deigned to do.
A part of her still can’t believe she’s here, though, where the person who’s tentatively entered the washroom isn’t Mac or Heather — never again Heather — or even Veronica, but somehow, somehow, Martha. Even more bizarrely, the sight of her, her softness, her curves, doesn’t make Heather feel worse about herself, like that could be her if she takes her eyes off the scales for just a moment.
Somehow, the sight of Martha now makes Heather feel like she can breathe. Just now, just for a moment, before the hellscape that is school truly awakens.
“Good morning,” Heather replies, then winces at how short she sounds, tries to soften her tone by adding, “Any plans for the weekend?” She winces again immediately because hello this is Martha, of course she doesn’t, then winces a third time because that’s the kind of awful thought she’s trying to train herself out of having.
Thankfully, Martha seems to miss all of that because instead of looking at her with disgust, her face brightens instead. “Actually, there was something I was meaning to talk to you about. Have you heard about Dungeons and Dragons? Well, Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, really.”
Heather gives her an extremely sceptical look. “Isn’t that that nerdy demon summoning thing?” She’s fairly sure that she remembers a sermon or two on the dangers of that shit. Also, the only people she knows who play it are the kind of greasy nerds who deserve to get bullied, that make her feel unclean just looking at them, that make her wrinkle her nose just thinking about them.
Maybe she shouldn’t be thinking that way in the newer, kinder Westerberg but sue her.
No one’s perfect.
Martha laughs. Actually out and out laughs. Heather bristles instinctively before realising it’s probably not at her. Probably. “There isn’t any demon worship in D&D. Well, I guess there are demons and probably people that worship them, but they’d be the bad guys. And you wouldn’t see them for a time yet, anyway. And we can leave them out entirely if you want?” She gives Heather a wide-eyed inquisitive look.
Heather shrugs. She’d be a massive raging hypocrite if that was the only lesson she took from church. Not that she isn’t capable of being a massive raging hypocrite when it suits her, but it doesn’t right now.
“Anyway, that’s not the important thing,” Martha continues in a rush. “It’s a game about pretending to be in a fantasy world, with monsters and dragons and knights and princesses, where you’re the hero saving people and winning the day.”
Okay, yeah. Heather is beginning to see the appeal for Martha here. There’s only so many times someone can watch The Princess Bride with her before starting to get an idea of her preferences.
Which still doesn’t make it sound anything resembling fun — or cool — for Heather. She highly doubts there’s a D&D drinking game for a start, which sounds like it’d be the only thing that’d make it bearable. She searches for a way to say that without sounding like she’s saying ‘D&D sucks and so do you for suggesting it,’ but before she can firm up exactly what she is going to say, Martha’s face drops as she seems to get the message anyway.
“That’s alright,” she says, turning away. “I just thought it might be fun, now that I actually have enough friends to play a proper game with.” She gives a one shouldered shrug. “I understand if it’s not your kind of thing.”
Heather’s pride, her anger, has been her most prized possession all through high school, and a large chunk of middle school. Sometimes the only thing that’s kept her going, that allowed her to survive as Heather Chandler’s right hand woman rather than being broken and discarded like so many others. It’s the instinct, the drive, to never admit a weakness in front of another human being because of the sure and certain knowledge it’ll be used against her.
She could never be a Martha — or a Veronica — offering a second chance with nothing to justify it.
But if it means making Martha look like that, all of a sudden her pride seems like the most useless thing in the world.
“I didn’t say no,” she says before Martha can leave.
Martha stops, turns, a quiet kind of hope lighting up her face, as red marks up her cheeks for some reason. “Really?” she asks, like she’s not sure the answer could be yes.
“I didn’t say no,” Heather says again, committing herself to this, for better or worse.
But that’s about all she has in her. She still lets Martha leave, get a few minutes away before she leaves the washroom after her. Hanging around Martha is fine when Veronica is there as well — after she saved the school and blew up her ex at the same time, Veronica’s basically bulletproof as far as the student body is concerned — but that’s very different to just the two of them hanging out together.
The school may have changed, but it hasn’t changed that much, and there’s way too many people who remember the Heathers of old to risk anything else.
The game, when it comes the next day, is… honestly a lot like Heather might have imagined, if she’d ever bothered thinking about what something like this would look like. An overwhelming amount of babble, interspersed with apologies and attempts to reframe things in a way that doesn’t actually provide much in the way of illumination. Thankfully, Veronica is there to cut the basics into bite sized pieces of information that are actually useful; irony and amusement at her and Mac’s expense apparently not optional.
God, if she gets roped into this again — and she can’t believe she’s even contemplating that possibility — she’s definitely going to have to borrow Martha’s books, because there’s no way she’s going to stand Veronica talking down to her like this a second time.
The worst part is that she can’t even be annoyed, not really, because the sheer enthusiasm Martha’s drowning them all in practically overwhelms everything else. It’s enchanting, it’s magnetic, it’s… open and honest and real in a way that Heather can’t even imagine being.
How can someone — anyone, let alone Martha — let herself be like that in front of two of the Heathers?
It’s a level of freedom that Heather can’t even imagine, and she can’t drag her eyes away, even for an instant. She’s not even irritated that she’s fairly sure Veronica is smirking at her, even though she’s certain she will be later.
Finally, Veronica hands her four dice — normal dice, not the weird polyhedrons that Martha and Veronica have scattered around the table — and says, “Roll these, add the three highest and that’ll be your character’s strength.”
Heather rolls her eyes — because, yes, she’d gathered that much — and then the dice. 6,1,6,6. Martha squeals and practically levitates in excitement. “I take it that’s good,” Heather says drolly.
“Just a bit,” Veronica says as Martha bursts out with, “Oh, you’ve got to be a fighter. Or ranger or paladin, I guess, but those will depend on what you roll for your other stats.”
There’s a bit more chatter, but the upshot appears to be that by rolling an 18 for strength, she gets to unlock a secret, special level of strength — as long as she plays a warrior type.
And, really, who can say no to that?
Veronica hands her a spindle shaped die. “Roll this twice. The first time is the tens digit, the second the units.”
Simple enough. “Sixty… four. How good is that?”
“18/64. Pretty darn good,” Veronica says. “You’ll be chopping most things in two with one hit.”
“Actually,” Martha says. “What race is your character going to be? And I’m guessing you’ll be playing a woman.”
Heather blinks. Seems a little weird to ask that right now, but whatever. “Black, I guess?” She can definitely see the attraction of beating the shit out of some white guys, no guilt attached. “And, yes?”
Why wouldn’t her character be?
Martha flushes. “I mean, like human, elf, half-elf, half-orc, dwarf. I wouldn’t go for gnome or halfling with that strength. And it’s important because it limits your maximum strength, and being a woman limits it further. If your character is a human woman, for instance, all you can get is 18/50.”
Heather’s “What?” is distinctly unimpressed.
Veronica’s is just indignant. “You’re honestly going along with that bullshit?” she adds.
“It’s what’s in the book,” Martha says helplessly.
“Oh, come on. This is a game where you can shoot a fireball, but apparently women can’t lift as much as men? That’s a choice, Martha!”
“A choice by greasy nerds whose only chance to get some snatch is to imagine a world where it could happen,” Heather adds.
She catches Veronica’s mouth twitch even if she does shoot Heather a disapproving glance. Heather refuses to regret anything. “Come on, Martha,” is what Veronica actually says. “Fight the power.”
Martha looks trapped, and Heather’s just about to let her off the hook — it’s really not that important to her — when she glances down, whispers, “Fight the power,” with a shy smile, and Veronica whoops.
Then it’s the choice of whether her character is an elf or a human or whatever. Martha opens her book to the right page to give her an idea of what they’re all like, and her eye is immediately drawn to the elf. Slimmer than a human, beautiful, ageless. Not to mention the only woman. It feels like everything she should want. Her character could even be a fighter/magic-user, able to cast spells as well as hit things hard with a sword.
Being an elf seems pretty much perfect.
Which is why she can’t understand the other figure she can’t stop looking at. Half-orcs are thicker, hairier, uglier and no one likes them. She can’t even imagine what being one would be like. Thick flesh slabbed over thicker bones.
It’s pretty much the opposite of what she’s ever wanted to be. Just the thought of being one makes her stomach knot in a way that has her glancing around the room, trying to remember where Martha said the washroom was.
In the end, she practically springs from the table while Martha and Veronica are distracted explaining the whole process to Mac, because, fuck it. She just needs some air.
Some air and maybe some distance.
Coming here was a mistake, no matter how Martha’s sad puppy dog eyes made her feel. For that matter, it was a mistake that they made her feel in the first place.
She makes sure to get up in the way her parents taught her, but that Heather Chandler refined, honed to a razor edge. Not too quickly, without too much purpose, not letting herself give any sign that anything — anything — is wrong. The kind of movement that is just as much shield as simple exercise of muscles.
The kind of movement that one — and only one — person had ever seen through, and she’s dead, so that’s good. Better than good, even.
Perfect.
She heads to the washroom so no one has any reason to ask questions, but after closing the door behind her, she just leans against it. Breathes. Does her best to identify what’s wrong she can expel it, squash it under her foot. Be perfect once again.
It’s only a fucking game, after all.
So she is immensely displeased when there is a knock on the door behind her, a light, tentative tap, a question in morse code.
Maybe it’s Martha. She’s the only one Heather can imagine knocking like that if they just wanted the toilet.
“Heather?” Veronica says, her voice muffled by the door.
Fuck her life. Seriously, just fuck her life.
“What?” she snaps, hoping against hope that she doesn’t sound like she’s pressed up against the door, knowing she can’t move without being completely fucking obvious.
“You know, it’s fine if this just isn’t your kind of thing,” Veronica says gently, as if this is any kind of news to Heather. Like, is she under the impression that Martha held a gun to her head or something?
Which, okay, probably a bad example to use in light of recent events, but still. The point remains.
All of a sudden, she’s over her own ridiculousness. Who cares what imaginary species her character is? Certainly no one here. It’s not like it’s going to be the subject of a lunchtime poll on Monday.
Not that there are going to be any more lunchtime polls, ever again.
“Whatever,” she snaps, then moves away from the door to flush the toilet — even if Veronica knows, she damn well better pretend if she knows what’s good for her — rinses her hands, then opens the door. “Let’s get this over with.”
She doesn’t let herself think about the choice all the way back to the table, but when she opens her mouth, there’s only one option she can think of.
“Half-orc,” she says. “Still Black. Fighter.”
She tries not to think about why that decision feels right.
Martha opens her mouth, pauses for a moment, shrugs. “Sure.”
The rest of her character barely takes any work, thankfully. Mac takes a little longer to do hers. Veronica apparently has a selection of characters she made earlier and chooses one to complement their characters.
It’s all so very.
The game itself is fairly whatever. They’re all teenagers — or the other species equivalent thereof — who get tired of waiting for the useless guards of the local lord to actually do anything about attacks on merchants and outlying shepherds and farmers. Her character’s the town outcast who goes along because the other two are pretty much the only people who’d talk to her. Blah blah blah, they manage to track down and ambush some bandits. Twist, they were actually part of a larger band who were hoping to lure away the guards and attack the village, which might have worked if said guards weren’t so useless. The characters manage to return in time to give warning and hold off the bandits long enough for the villagers to steal the guards’ gear and march up pretending to be reinforcements, getting the bandits to flee in disorder. Well, either that or the freaky shit Mac had done to the dead bandits' corpses. Oh yeah, and the obligatory sequel bait of written orders that imply this is all the plan of a greater mastermind.
Okay, maybe it’s actually kind of fun, even if she’d deny that to her dying day. Her character did, indeed, get to chop a lot of pasty white guys in two, and she even gets to tell all the other teens who’d previously messed with her to go screw themselves.
And, yes, the irony is not lost on her about how enjoyable this all is.
But the thing is… The thing is, after the big victory, Martha carries on a little bit. Gives them all little scenes. And Heather’s is…
There’s a guy that works at the local bar, pretty much the only guy that’ll speak to her character. And he’s totally not her type at all, not big, not strong, definitely not popular. But he’s sweet. And afterwards, he comes up to her, tells her what it felt like to see her stride up to the bandits and protect him, tells her how much he admires her strength, her body, how much bigger than him she is, and how protected he feels and…
It’s really, really not what she goes for, normally, but somehow, in Martha’s soft voice, dropping down a few notes to husky, it is.
She doesn’t know what to make of that, so she stuffs that entire thought process in a box and doesn’t.
She and Mac head out pretty shortly after that. Well, she gets up to go, and since she’s Mac’s ride back, Mac gets up with her. She’s buzzing with an energy she doesn’t quite know what to make of, and getting out of there seems like the best idea available.
That doesn’t stop her from grabbing Martha while Veronica and Mac chat, pulling her out of sight — and hopefully out of earshot — of them.
“That wasn’t so bad,” she says as soon as it is safe. It’s not like she complained or anything — or at least not more than a nominal amount — but it feels important to make sure Martha knows that.
Martha’s face brightens to an almost blinding level, so bright with enthusiasm that it almost hurts to look at. “Really?” she says, bouncing a little. “Do you think you’re be interested in—”
Heather kisses her. It’s over as soon as she realises what she’s done, draws back like Martha’s lips stung her. Which they might well have done, given how much hers are tingling. “Forget that happened,” she barks.
Martha jumps back and immediately starts apologising.
For some reason this is even worse.
“Don’t do that,” she tells Martha irritably. “You should be the one making me apologise. Which I do, or whatever.”
See, she can grow as a person.
Martha stops and just looks at her. It goes on long enough that Heather shuffles uncomfortably and starts to make her exit. “Anyway, see you on—”
“Are you?” Martha interrupts.
Heather blinks. “Going to see you on Monday? Probably.”
“Sorry that you—” Martha stops, blushes bright red before whispering, “kissed me?”
Heather can’t look at Martha, can’t force her eyes anywhere near her. A far too familiar hot, acidic feeling rises in her throat and she lurches away towards the washroom. She’s wrong, she’s ugly, and there’s only one way she’s ever known to fix that.
“Stop,” Martha whispers and Heather jerks to a halt as if it were a shout. “I’m sorry I’m messing this all up.”
She feels raw, oversensitive, vulnerable, but she can’t leave Martha like that, not when it’s not her fault. “You’re not. You’re fine.”
It’s Heather that isn’t. Obviously.
She needs to get out of here, but she can’t. If nothing else, the idea of Veronica confronting her at school, bringing this up in front of everyone almost makes her lose her fragile control over her stomach’s contents right here and now.
There’s a light, fluttering touch on her hand. Heather looks down to see Martha’s hand landing on hers like a nervous bird. “It’s fine if it was a mistake,” Martha says, offering her a sad smile. “It’s not like anyone else wants to kiss me either.”
And that’s just so wrong that Heather has to spin around to face her. “Don’t say that,” she hisses. It’s the other way around, or it should be. Heather’s always been aware of how pretty Martha is, and — once she realised what that meant — used Dumptruck as a knife to carve out that wrongness much like…
The thought makes her want to heave once again.
But she can’t say any of that, can’t even think of how to start even trying, so settles for, “You deserve better than someone who says sorry after kissing you.”
Martha’s face goes blank briefly before it focuses again, and she gives Heather a searching gaze. “I—” She swallows. “I think I can decide that for myself,” she says, so primly that Heather has to laugh. They stand there looking at each other for a moment before Martha leans towards Heather’s cheek.
“May I?” she whispers, so close that her breath whispers against the hairs on Heather’s cheek.
Heather freezes, unable to deny that she wants Martha to, but equally unable to force the words past her lips.
Mac lets out a giggle, suddenly far too close. Heather and Martha both jump and there’s a contact between lips and cheek before they both jump apart. Veronica and Mac wander around the corner together, Veronica’s arm twined around Mac’s waist, then stop, looking at the two of them.
Heather whips her hand down, away from the cheek to which it had been pressed, and gives them her most arch, bitchy look. “Well?” she says. “Are we going?”
Mac and Veronica look at each other. Veronica opens her mouth, but Mac moves smoothly out of her arm and towards Heather. “See you later,” she chirps.
Martha’s still blushing when Heather glances at her, smiling but still with a question in her eyes. Heather… thinks that’s more than enough for now.
Anything else can wait for later. They have time, after all.
“Bye,” she says and heads out to her car with Mac.
There may still be questions, but some things are going to change regardless.
She’s already looking forward to ripping into the first person who looks crosswise at Martha on Monday.
Maybe being a protector won’t be so bad.