Chapter Text
Not so long ago, everything was under control.
It was an art form Heather had perfected over the years, precisely dictating every aspect of her life, building a reputation that not one person in Sherwood would question. Everything was carefully calculated, every move she made in perfect alignment with her goals. Every sacrifice she made was worth it, so long as she remained at the top of the metaphorical totem pole, the apex predator in a large and unpredictable food chain.
And then she met Veronica Sawyer.
Since then, nothing in her life had made sense.
It felt like Veronica had turned her inside out, forced her to question every rule she'd once held sacred. Suddenly she was taking risks. Making concessions.
Playing nice .
It was disgusting.
Veronica Sawyer had made her weak. And that was one thing, above all else, that was completely inexcusable, because nobody survives high school by being weak. Nobody survives life that way. It was like her dad always said: the world is cut throat, eat or be eaten. And Heather Chandler wasn't waiting around to become anyone's prey.
At least that's what she's been telling herself, sitting in a secluded spot at the far end of the parking lot, urging herself to get out of the car and face the music.
She could go in there and turn this around. All she'd have to do is get ahead of the rumors, pin the whole thing on Veronica and let her take the fall. It worked with Rachel Carter, it could work again.
Except…
Except Veronica wasn't Rachel. Rachel Carter was a regrettable, drunken one-night fling. A momentary lapse in judgment. Her first time exploring the terrifying desires that used to keep her awake at night, horrified her parents might somehow read her mind.
But Rachel never made her heart race.
Rachel never had her body thrumming with so much feeling and desire that she wasn't sure how her skin could contain it.
She was just a girl, the first she dared take a risk on, and she'd repaid her by bragging about it to the whole school. So all in all, Heather wasn't all that guilty about turning it all back around on her, didn't really feel an ounce of regret at burning her to the ground. That bitch got what she deserved.
But Veronica…
Heather's brow wrinkled in annoyance as she spat a curse into the air. She already knew she could never do that to Veronica. Even thinking about the pain it would inflict, the look of hurt and betrayal in her eyes, was enough to make her feel sick.
So fucking weak.
She was almost embarrassed that morning, when she fastened the necklace Veronica gave her around her neck, despite everything that had happened. And she was more humiliated when the thought that it matched the one Veronica would be wearing made her feel stupidly warm and content.
It was all wrong. She wasn't supposed to be like this.
And it was all Veronica's fault.
All of it – the whole state of her life. Everything was a mess now, everything she'd worked and sacrificed for, ruined in one night.
Truth be told, going to class was the very last thing Heather wanted to do. She'd considered not going in at all. She could have been sick for at least a week. Or hell, she could have demanded her parents transfer her to some other school entirely.
But that would have been admitting defeat, running away with her tail between her legs like a fucking coward.
So there she was, waiting it out in the parking lot, ready to walk the gallows.
The morning bell rang almost five minutes ago already. She watched as everybody filtered into the building like everything was still normal, as if the world was still spinning on its normal axis and not spinning wildly out of control. She gripped the steering wheel, with shaking hands and sweaty palms, turning the decision over in her head, trying hard to focus over the dull, sickly pounding of her heart.
What if everyone knows?
It was the one thought that resounded loud and clear, the one that had her wanting to turn the keys in the ignition and break several traffic laws all the way home.
But she couldn't. She may have been many things – demon queen and mythic bitch included, she was well aware what people called her, whispering amongst themselves in the hallways – but one thing nobody would ever call her is a coward.
She took one last look in the mirror, rearranging any stray hairs that had fallen out of place on the drive there, then shut the car door with a frustrated thud.
She walked tall and proud, hoping the click, click, click of her heels would drown out the punching rhythm of her heart. (It didn't). The sound followed her through empty halls, growing faster and faster the closer she got to her classroom door. Before she knew it, she was stood outside, hand paused outstretched, hovering above the steel handle. She cursed the way her fingers trembled, the way her tongue sat dry and heavy in her parched mouth, the way the fear felt about ready to consume her.
When she finally turned the handle, she could only hope her face belied the acute terror lancing through her. She greeted the room with an impassive mask, and waited for her whole life to cave in and bury her alive.
It was Veronica she saw first. She couldn't help it. Her eyes would always find Veronica first in a room, whether she wanted them to or not. Sawyer was magnetic, and god damn her if the force of the attraction wasn't enough to almost make her knees buckle.
Veronica stared back at her, all wide brown eyes and a surprised expression that slowly morphed into something sad and fearful. But it wasn't Veronica's sadness that hollowed out Heather's stomach, it was the wretched shred of hope that still shone from her like a naive beacon, so obvious and pathetic. And it only made Heather's affection for her grow. Because how the hell does Veronica Sawyer do it? How does she have this endless supply of faith in her, that Heather might still be someone worth sticking around no matter what awful shit she does?
Heather had always had a rather high opinion of herself when it comes to relationships – obviously she was a million miles out of any boy at this school's league and they all knew it. But Veronica? Heather still wasn't sure what she did to make Veronica care about her, but sometimes, in her more vulnerable moments, she was honest enough to admit she didn't deserve it.
Veronica probably knew it too. But she went and kept caring anyway.
Fucker.
How dare she make Heather feel so… so much?
It was only when she forced herself to look away that she met Duke’s gaze instead, and the reality of the situation set in once more. Duke's eyes darted between her and Veronica with a smug, all knowing grin. It was as sinister as Heather had ever seen her look – an expression usually reserved for whatever unfortunate loser they were making fun of that day. And now it was reserved for her.
She was sure Veronica would want to call this a teaching moment, spouting some bullshit about the golden rule, treat others as you'd want to be treated, blah fucking blah.
Maybe she had a point; the sneering was much less fun on the receiving side of things. The anxiety, the discomfort, the aching sting of every one of her worst insecurities being laid out for all to see. Heather had dished it out more times than she can count. So maybe this was what she deserved.
Her fists clenched in anticipation of her comeuppance, nails digging deep into the flesh of her palms until the first beads of blood started to well there. She waited for it. The sniggering. The whispers that would tear her apart. The word “dyke” muttered behind a cough, intentionally loud enough for her to hear.
They never came.
Everyone but Veronica, Duke and McNamara stared at her blankly, with the same mixture of fear and reverence they always did.
“Miss Chandler, you're late,” Ms Fleming states with a long-suffering sigh.
Normally, Heather would have some kind of retort ready, something sharp and cutting, but with just enough plausible deniability to get away with it. This time, she said nothing, still half reeling in uncertainty as she made her way to her usual seat – a suddenly precarious looking empty chair, placed between Veronica and Duke’s desks.
She avoided both of their gazes as she sat, focused on remaining cool and impassive. Appearances, after all, were everything. Which is why she kept her hands locked tight, fisted beneath her desk so nobody could see the way they were still shaking.
So fucking weak.
She was mid-way through mentally chastising herself when a flicker of red caught Heather's eye. Her scrunchie. Her fucking scrunchie wrapped around Duke's bony little wrist, as if she had any right to wear it. A fantasy suddenly took hold, involving ripping it from Duke’s arm and shoving it down her throat until she threw it up with her breakfast.
Her fists clenched tighter.
Before she could do anything rash and stupidly violent, Veronica’s hand reached out to her, pressing a small, folded piece of paper onto the side of her desk.
‘Are you ok?’
The words were written in Veronica's familiar scrawl, the same one Heather had seen her fill page upon page of her diary with (wearing that stupid, sexy little monocle). Not that Veronica had ever let her read it, but that hadn't stopped Heather from wondering. So many times she'd been desperate to see what Veronica was writing. She wondered if she'd see her own name in bold, sloping font.
What would Veronica say about her? Were there devil horns next to her name, or was it surrounded by delicate little hearts?
Both, maybe, knowing Veronica.
For exactly five seconds, Heather dared to glance up and meet her eyes. She hated how grounded they made her feel, how instantly the rigid tension of her shoulders eased under Veronica's meaningful gaze. She hated how the moment seemed to stretch on, even as the logical part of her brain screamed at her to just ‘ look away you idiot, this is what got you into this mess in the first place!’
This thing between them is the root of all her problems. She shouldn't be melting all because Veronica fucking Sawyer looked at her . Especially not when she could still feel Duke’s eyes burning into the back of her head, no doubt with that ugly, smug grin still plastered to her lips.
Heather's eyes darted away quickly, as she clenched her fist until the paper in her palm had been crumpled into an insignificant ball, and the sloped letters of Veronica's concern had disappeared from view. She didn't need to look again to see that Veronica was hurt, the same way she didn't need to glance at Duke to see that she was delighted.
Some things, Heather just knows.
The rest of the class passed the same way, with Heather feeling like a ticking bomb, just waiting for a spark to ignite. In the past, she'd just find some pathetic nobody to take all her frustrations out on. She'd make some poor sap suffer like she did, make them feel just a little worse about themselves, so she could feel a little better. Superior. Above it all.
It usually worked, until she started hanging around Veronica and one disappointed look from her would make all this useless guilt flood in. So now what was she supposed to do? Just sit there feeling miserable? Just keep waiting, terrified out of her mind, for the moment Duke decided to drop the bomb and ruin her whole life?
God, Sawyer really did a number on her.
When the bell finally rang again, she was so tense the sound was almost enough to make her jump. She didn't – thank God, she'd been humiliated enough recently – but the sudden jolt of shock still made her heart leap into her throat.
“So Heather, what did your little note say?” Duke barely held her smirk back as she said it, making a show of packing her notebook away like the question was in any way innocent. “Are you two passing love letters?”
Fuck. This is it.
The moment the other shoe finally dropped.
Heather's whole body somehow tensed even more, her muscles wound so tight they could snap at any second.
Then Duke's smirk curled into an innocent laugh – the bitch was enjoying all this way too much.
“Jeez relax, I'm kidding,” she said, eyes glinting dangerously. “Obviously.”
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
The words sat on the tip of Heather's tongue, as biting as ever. But Duke was already smirking again, like she knew Heather wouldn't form the words. Couldn't. Not while Duke had her finger hovering over the nuclear button that would obliterate Heather's whole life.
“Maybe you need to work on your delivery,” she said instead, internally raging at the way Duke’s mouth quirked in amusement.
“I'll keep that in mind.”
With a flick of the wrist, Duke confidently summoned McNamara like she was bringing a sad little puppy to heel, and took the lead out of class – an act of insubordination so outrageous that a girl wearing the ugliest overalls ever actually released an audible gasp.
Heather stormed out after her, head held high, doing her best to ignore the way Veronica called out after her. She barely made it past the first few lockers before she finally caved.
“What?” The word was sniped sharply through gritted teeth, eyes darting all around them to make sure nobody was paying too much attention. “What do you want, Veronica?”
Heather hated the way the hurt in Veronica's eyes made her heart ache.
“I just wanted to check you're ok. Everything happened so fast last night, I-”
“I'm fine,” Heather snapped, cutting off whatever heartfelt understanding Veronica was hoping to offer. It was too much right now. She couldn't cope with kindness and understanding. She couldn't cope with wanting Veronica to kiss her and tell her everything would be ok.
God, I'm fucking pathetic .
“Heather-”
“Would you just stop! I can't be seen with you right now.”
Veronica recoiled like she'd been slapped. “Why can't you just talk to me? I know everything's messed up right now but-”
“You don't know anything!”
The look Veronica gives her is one of hurt, as the tiny shred of hope she held in her eyes before slowly burned away. “Heather, please don't do this. Don't just shut me out, you don't have to-”
“What, be a raging bitch? I do, actually. Haven't you heard? I'm the demon queen of Westerberg High.” The sardonic grin Heather offered was interrupted by Duke laughing at something Kurt said across the hall, red scrunchie seeming to shine like a beacon on her wrist. Right. What was it they used to say when a monarch was toppled? The queen is dead, long live the queen. “Or, I used to be, at least. Before you-”
“Before I what?”
Heather rolled her eyes. As if the answer to that wasn't obvious. “God, you're such a pillowcase.”
“Before I ruined everything for you?”
A clenched jaw is all that saved Heather from blurting out the truth.
No, you idiot! Before you made me fall in love with you. She almost fucking said it. Out loud. In school. Like a brainless moron. What the hell was happening to her? What had this girl reduced her to?
Heather folded her arms, like it might stop her falling apart. “I'm not talking about this. Especially not here.”
“Does that mean we can talk about it somewhere else?”
Heather didn't get a chance to answer, because of course Jason Dean decides to insert himself where he doesn't belong. Quelle fucking suprise.
Something blue and all too familiar sat bunched up in his hand, and the words that accompanied it left a sickly feeling welled deep in Heather's stomach. “Hey, you left this in my room.”
It landed like a punch to the gut.
Veronica's eyes sprung wide as she ripped her blazer out of JD’s hand. “That's not-”
She looked back at heather like the picture of panic, stumbling over her words of explanation.
Heather was already seeing red.
“Did you fuck him?” The words spilled out before Heather could even think about it, her heart sinking so fast she couldn't even bring herself to be embarrassed at the way her voice broke over the words.
JD smirks. “Not that it's any of your business, but-”
“If I wanted the opinion of one of the Lost Boys, I would have asked you, freak.”
The words are biting, but JD only smiles again, smug and insanely punchable if you asked Heather.
Veronica stepped between them. “Heather, nothing happened! I swear!”
Nothing happened. But you went to him, Heather thought. Nothing happened but he's the one you went to for comfort.
JD was watching them both with a crease between his brow, and that smug smile still on his lips. There was nothing but abject hatred in his eyes every time they landed on Heather.
It made Heather want to scream.
Fuck, it shouldn't have hurt that much. But it burned so fiercely Heather could almost feel the sting of tears. She scrunched her eyes tight, refusing to do anything as pathetic as cry.
Instead, she forced a venomous grin. “You know, maybe you two are perfect for each other. A naive loser and a gun-toting psycho. You could be Sherwood's shitty answer to Bonnie and fucking Clyde.”
“Heather, please-”
“Just stay the fuck away from me, Veronica.”
When the words left her mouth, Heather was near certain she meant them. But even as she stormed off, she still couldn't quite help but feel a flash of disappointment at not hearing Veronica's footsteps following after her.
________________
“Heather, get over here!”
God, as if this endlessly shitty day couldn't get any worse. She was angry. Upset. Absolutely terrified and feeling on the verge of tears. And now Heather Duke was summoning her like an unloved dog, expected to bark and heel on command. Not fucking likely.
“Excuse me? Did you get dropped on your head this morning?”
Duke raised her brows. “No, but I did learn something interesting. If you don't wanna get any closer I could shout it over to you, if you don't mind everyone overhearing, that is…”
Not for the first time that day, Heather considered homicide. What sweet bliss it would have been, to wrap her hands around Duke's throat and squeeze.
She walked over to where Duke was lounging against a locker, with Mac looking awkward and guilty beside her.
“What do you want, Heather?” It was a pointless question, in hindsight. Heather already knew what Duke wanted: to lord her newfound power over her like a tyrant.
“I just want the same thing you always wanted,” Heather shrugs innocently, toying with the scrunchie on her wrist. “Obedience. Now be a good little dog, and beg me not ruin your sad little lesbian life.”
The word made her cringe – the reaction only made Duke smile.
“You must be stupider than you look if you think I'm gonna bow down to the girl who once ironed my whole wardrobe on command,” Heather spat, all rage and no forethought.
The immediate fury in Duke’s eyes was enough to make her regret it; this girl held the nuclear codes, and here Heather was daring her to push the big red button. What was that thing about pride coming before a fall?
And Heather had more pride than anyone.
“Big mistake,” Duke growled, before collecting herself with a deep breath. “You're lucky I'm a merciful ruler. A little groveling and I might decide to forget that.”
Groveling. Heather couldn't help the sharp, bitter laugh that escaped her.
She was not fucking groveling.
“You think I'm gonna beg?”
“Mhmm. I hear Veronica likes it when you do.” The words were too loud. Too careless. And the smirk on Duke's face said it was entirely intentional. Heather tensed as a few heads turned their way, suddenly curious at the showdown happening in front of them.
A bead of sweat trickled along the back of Heather’s neck, but her jaw remained clenched and steadfast. It would be easy, she supposed, to apologize. To make a show of begging for clemency and follow behind her new queen, timid and dutiful. Duke had done it for years.
But that was the difference between them.
No matter what ammunition Duke held against her, Heather wasn't about to prostrate herself before anyone.
Heather Chandler did not bow.
“You know what, Heather? You can keep the scrunchie. Here, you can even have my fucking blazer, since you're so desperate to be me,” Heather said as she tore the jacket off and stuffed it against Duke’s chest. “Enjoy your little stint at the top. We’ll see how long you can stay there.”
She turned on her heel, feeling suddenly vulnerable and naked without the symbols of her power, but she maintained a straight back and confident stride all the same. She had to. She couldn't waver, not now. Not even if Duke shouted the truth out to everyone in earshot.
Not even if it ruined her.
“Oh, Heather!” Duke called, loud enough to cut through the din of the hallway – loud enough to get everyone's attention.
Heather waited for the inevitable.
“Don't bother sitting with us at lunch today,” Duke declared. “There might be space for you at the losers’ table. I think you'd fit in well there.”
All eyes turned to Heather, shocked wide above gaping mouths. It was all she could do to ignore them. With gritted teeth and as much dignity as remained to her, she stormed off without a word.
For the rest of the day, whispers followed her. Confusion and gossip: the queen toppled, a new head bitch in charge, the whole social hierarchy in flux. But not one person mentioned Veronica, nor did she have any disgusting slurs spat at her in class, so at the very least it seemed Duke was keeping that particular bombshell for another day.
It was odd. Duke had everything she needed to bury Heather once and for all. But she was hesitating.
Or planning something.
Either way, Heather didn't know what to make of it.
At lunch, Duke was smirking at her the moment she entered the cafeteria.
Bitch.
Heather stood with her lunch tray, uncertain for a moment. She'd never had to think about sitting arrangements. Not for years. But her usual table was already taken by her newfound arch nemesis, and the only other option was… not an option at all.
Veronica’s gaze was pleading. Sit with us. Don't shut me out. Please sit with me.
But her little geek friends still looked at her with a mixture of fear and distrust. And worse… pity.
So Heather made for a random table, currently hosting a few nerds from the math club, who all glanced up at her in awe.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Move!”
They scattered like terrified mice, leaving the table free for her to set down her lunch. She was aware people were staring. And not for the reasons they usually did. Today they were staring at the mighty Heather Chandler, eating lunch alone.
Not that it mattered. She didn't need anyone anyway.
________________
By the time she got home to an empty house, Heather was ready to bury herself under her bed covers and never come up for air again. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to plot several murders so extreme she ended up on one of those dumb crime documentaries that played at 3am.
But crying was for helpless little idiots who had no control over their lives. That couldn't be her.
She refused.
Even when the sight of The Princess Bride on her bedside table made a sob bubble up in her throat, she bit it back, adamant it would never escape her lips. Her fingers traced the cover, her heart immediately yearning to be back in that moment before everything went to shit; Veronica would be by her side, beautiful and serene, offering her birthday gifts with an awkward, shy smile.
They would share a kiss, not the hungry, lustful kisses they often shared, but something warm and intense, that left her head feeling light and floaty.
How the hell had everything changed so much since then?
Some inexplicable urge prompted her to hug the book to her chest. A substitute, maybe, for the one who gave it to her. But it wasn't enough. She needed to take it in. To read the words like Veronica wanted her to, as if that might make Heather miss her any less.
She thumbed each page delicately, beginning the story of Buttercup and her farm boy Westley. Veronica was right, it was already lighter than the other books she usually read, lacking the doom and gloom that used to make her feel just a little less alone.
Instead, she was sinking into the beginning of a love story. Cute, she supposed. But nothing special.
Not until a small passage of words stole the breath from her lungs:
“I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said 'Farm Boy do this' you thought I was answering 'As you wish' but that's only because you were hearing wrong. 'I love you' was what it was, but you never heard, and you never heard.”
The book dropped from her hands, landing on the bedcovers with a barely perceptible thud.
Heather wasn't paying attention. Her fingers were already searching for the pendant still hanging from her neck. The finely carved eagle stared back at her, golden wings outstretched as if soaring through the air in mid-flight. It shook a little between her fingertips, as she turned it to reveal the inscription on the back.
As you wish.
Heather's heart hammered in her chest.
As you wish.
As you wish.
As you wish.
She read it over and over, feeling traitorous, wet tears stinging her eyes.
As you wish , Veronica had had inscribed. And it meant ‘I love you’.
The sob Heather had bit back before bubbled up once more, finally spilling from her lips. The tears she'd been stubbornly fighting rolled down her cheeks, like something entirely foreign to her. She hadn't cried since she was a child, young and weak and vulnerable.
And now they wouldn't stop.
She wasn't even really sure what she was crying for, but the sobs kept wracking her ribs all the same.
Love. What was she supposed to do with love?
Nobody loved her.
They feared her. They admired her. They wanted and resented and expected and touched and grabbed and coveted, all the time, over and over. But love?
Not even her parents were capable of that.
But of course, Veronica Sawyer had to go and turn her world upside down. Again! She was like a tornado, tearing through Heather's life, whisking Heather off her feet and leaving everything a mess. And more than anything, Heather just wished she was with her.
Then the window creaked.
For a moment, as her breath caught, she thought her wordless prayer had been answered.
Veronica. The word echoed in her brain, as Heather's chest tightened in hope and anticipation.
But then the window slid open, and a black clad figure climbed inside, and Heather's hope was replaced by fear.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Heather demanded, trying to sound authoritative even as she scrambled to her feet, vulnerable and afraid.
The figure stared back at her with the same smug, hateful expression he'd regarded her with at school. His eyes were dark and heavy. Empty, almost. She thought that was the part that scared her the most.
Until he reached into the back of his waistband, trenchcoat shifting and flaring, and pulled out something metal that glinted in the light.
Something like shock slowed Heather’s brain to a standstill. Then he raised his hand. Finally, Heather registered that she was staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Greetings and salutations.”