a body in the garden

This was a mistake.

A lapse in judgement, an error, a grave miscalculation on the part of one Veronica Sawyer. 

It’s dark, and it’s cold, and she’s goddamn plastered. She’s just finished paying a visit to some boys she hardly knows, the ones who wear dark coats like him and drink cheap vodka like him and smoke like him. They’re nice to her, despite everything. They let her buy cigarettes off them, drink cup after cup alongside her, and they never say his name; even if he is the only reason she knows them.

It’s his mother’s birthday.

Her parents think she’s with the Heathers. They thought she could use the distraction, and they were right. She couldn’t stay in her room without glancing at the window every few minutes. She doesn’t even know why she’s so focused on it all in the first place.

The Heathers think she’s at home. She blew off the usual sleepover invite, gave some lame excuse about being too busy studying that they somehow believed. She couldn’t bring herself to go to them with this. 

And here she is, on a street she’s only vaguely familiar with, in far fewer layers than she should have, three sheets to the wind and maybe a little crossfaded. Alone. She kind of feels bad for tricking them all, but she hears him beside her, whispering once again about the wonders of a not-entire-lie. The merits of a long walk in the cold. She rolls her eyes — at him, or herself, she can’t really tell — and slowly realizes her predicament. 

It had still been sunny when she set out, at least enough to keep her indifferent to the chill with only her windbreaker, broken zipper and all. The classic winter curse of the skies going dark by 5PM has come to bite her in the ass, however. Not only has the sun disappeared and taken the illusion of warmth with it, the sky has clouded over and it’s begun to snow. She has no ride. Nowhere she can be that won’t involve some sort of explanation, one far more intricate than she has the capability of crafting right now. 

She had thought of Duke, when the guys offered her a puff of their joint. The bubbly yet sedated energy she had back at Kurt and Ram’s party, extroversion coming to her easily. Veronica had forgotten about the part where she dropped like a sack of rocks and got all scraped up. Walking is way harder than anticipated, and the weather really isn’t helping. It starts to dawn on her, as she stumbles past yet another streetlight.

She doesn’t know why she thought this would help. In fact, it might have made it all worse. 

Drinking was supposed to help her forget, or at least dim the thoughts a little. What she got instead is like tar, a molten pool of thick and sludgy thoughts that seep further into her skin with every step. With each distant rumbling of a motor she expects the light of his motorcycle to suddenly round the corner. Somehow, amid all the rabbit-like apprehension, she almost wants to see him. But she shouldn't, she knows she shouldn't. Not after all the arguing, the manipulation, the bad habits he got her into. Not after he pulled that gun on Kurt and Ram. Not after the police seized a half-finished homemade bomb in a search of his room. 

And yet, she just can't stop herself from missing him — or part of him, at least. She misses his soft side. The side of him that wanted to protect her, that would have dropped everything to come pick her up and take her on a joyride. The side of him that would have held her hand as they walked together, waxing poetic about dominant species extinction and what flavor slushies they should buy the next day. The side of him that got tainted by everything else.

The wind is biting, frigid, and for a moment Veronica wonders if she should get a longer coat, like the one he had. He never seemed cold. She shakes the thought from her mind as quickly as it appeared, willing herself to replace it with something different. 

Something like green cardigans, or bleach blonde hair, or red scrunchies. 

“Try again,” she mumbles to herself, trudging onwards through the snowy abyss, determined to get out of this on her own. She doesn't want to see him, she doesn't want to see them, she wants to be alone. Right? Going to him with her problems only brought him down with her, so it stands to reason that talking to the Heathers is an equally fruitless endeavor.

She can almost imagine Chandler’s incredulous look, Duke’s dry remark, Mac’s worried puppy dog eyes. There’s no way they’d let her live this down. 

She pauses to look at a street sign, not registering the name in the slightest yet still recognizing it. Not thinking about them is almost as hard as walking straight. Dimly, she realizes that maybe she does want to see them. Maybe she wants to listen to their idle chatter, to hear Duke and Mac have one of their midnight laughing fits. Maybe she wants to be drinking with them instead, bumping shoulders and sharing stupid stories with people who actually kind of know her. 

Maybe she wants to… be with her pack. 

He would sneer at that. He would hate them. She can practically feel him breathing down her neck. 

“That pack stuff is bullshit,” he would say. “We don’t need anyone else. We’ll take on the world just you and me.”

Veronica doesn’t want to take on the world. Especially not right now. Besides, other than her driving even Heather goddamn Chandler has kept her safer than he did; physically or socially. And apparently her body got the memo before her brain did, because she finds herself blinking up at the Chandler residence from the end of the driveway. Huh. So that’s why she felt so sure about coming down this road.

She stops to light up a cigarette, trying to steel her nerves for the inevitable volley of questions. Unfortunately for her, she can only stomach a few drags before it starts to make her head spin just a little too much. The nausea threatens to overtake her as she climbs up the asphalt, unsure if it’s really that steep or she’s just far more off balance than she thinks. All the while, she rehearses what she’s going to say. 

She’ll start with a simple greeting, muster all the willpower she can and channel it into sounding sober. Tell them she changed her mind, or she’s finished already, or something . It’ll work. It’ll totally work. 

She rings the doorbell, tries to swipe some of the snow from her jacket, listens to the muffled thump thump thump of someone begrudgingly making their way to the door and finds herself face to face with Heather Duke. Simple greeting, Veronica reminds herself. Play it cool.

“That driveway is killer,” she breathes, squinting hard at the light flooding out from the doorway. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Step one failed. Alright. That’s fine, it’s fine, she’ll manage. Somehow. 

Duke raises an eyebrow at her, takes in the sight of her snow-caked hair and chattering teeth. “Did you… walk here?”

The door falls back a little more, and Chandler pops up beside Duke. “I thought you were busy,” she huffs, eyes narrowed.  

“That’s all you have on?” adds Mac, pulling the door open all the way. “Aren’t you cold?”

God, she could cry. Or kiss them. Probably both, but Veronica figures she should just stick to one or the other. There’s a moment’s consideration of answering all of their questions with brutal honesty, though she has just enough sense to remember that isn’t part of the plan. She can’t even keep up with them all. 

“Very cold,” she shudders, glancing down at her fingertips, just now realizing they’ve gone numb. “May I, uh, join you?”

She’s pulled inside without another word, and sweet Jesus fuck, is it warm. The process of kicking her boots off is far more of a wrestling match than it should be, and she nearly falls over, but eventually she manages. Mac helps her take her coat off, and all three of them are very quiet. A little too quiet, actually. Is she being suspicious? Hell, did she even have a chance after that slip of the tongue earlier?

Mac is the first one to break the silence, taking one of Veronica’s hands in hers, brows upturned in poorly masked concern. “Roni, you’re freezing.”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, turns back to make sure the door is locked. “Sorry. I was out there for a while.”

“How long is a while, Sawyer?” Duke questions, helping Mac corral her up the stairs. 

It’s easier to walk with them on either side of her, just like it’s easier to pretend they haven’t noticed her stumbling. Duke sounds a little grumpier than usual, and it’s making her antsy. Are they mad at her? She doesn’t want to make anybody mad. It doesn’t help that her senses have been somewhat dulled by the inebriation, deciphering their moods is yet another uphill battle she’s found herself facing tonight.

“Aren’t you going to answer her?” Chandler’s voice derails her train of thought in an instant.

Right. Question. Answering questions, playing it cool. “Not too long. I was just… somewhere, a couple streets down. Doing some… stuff. It’s not important.”

One of them starts asking her about something else, and it goes straight over Veronica’s head. She’s too busy taking stock of all the windows. There’s been four, so far. When she catches sight of Chandler’s bed, notices where she is, it’s like getting jabbed with a tranquilizer. She all but crumples to the ground, sits herself down on the floor and lets out a breath she’d been holding far too long. 

“Sorry to barge in like that,” she says, to no one, to all of them. “I, uhm- I just felt like coming over.” She can’t seem to catch her breath, for whatever reason, and there’s this horrible nagging feeling that she’s doing something wrong. A thought strikes her. Her voice comes out small. “I locked the door, right?”

“Alright, bitch,” Chandler growls from somewhere above her. “Spill. What the hell is going on with you?”

After another small bout of silence, Veronica admits, "I'm kind of a little bit really drunk."

“Yeah, I got that.”

“You did? Damn, I thought I was hiding it okay.”

“You reek of vodka,” Chandler snaps.

“And strangers,” grumbles Duke.

“Guys,” Mac reprimands in a whine. Then, a whisper, “Be nice. I think something’s wrong.”

Shit, fuck, she has to change the subject. “No, no,” Veronica insists, donning her best game show host grin. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m cool, it’s cool.” 

Everything is wrong, actually, but she doesn’t want to let them know that. They don’t need to know. She can just cry about it by herself when he slides back down the ladder. 

Her vision swims with gentle yellow, and she blinks a few times to bring the image of Heather Mac into focus. Knelt down in front of her, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, downright angelic. Veronica has to remind herself not to stare. 

Now that she's staying relatively still, the dizziness comes for her in waves. Roiling, subzero vertigo that seems to corrupt every hard-earned breath she takes, pulling away just long enough to have her wondering if it's over before the sea comes crashing back onto her. The saltwater hurts her eyes. She reaches to hold the blanket tighter.

Another voice, exasperated. “I told you she’s a bad liar.” Veronica can’t quite tell who it is, she just knows it isn’t Mac.

Mac is right in front of her, close enough to touch and hundreds of miles away, all at the same time. She looks scared, and it makes Veronica’s chest lurch with guilt. “Really, I’m alright,” she shivers, attempting to convince herself alongside them. “Nothing’s wrong,” she says again, gaze darting to the floor. “He’s not here, nothing’s wrong.”

The fear is replaced with a knowing, downtrodden expression. Mac's voice is gentle, sweet sunshine thawing her frostbitten brain. “He’s not here,” she echoes, calm and steady and maybe a little sad. “It’s just us, Roni.”

The sigh of relief that leaves her is nothing short of heavenly. Veronica hadn’t realized how badly she needed to hear someone else say it. She lets herself tip forward until her forehead hits Mac’s chest, screwing her eyes shut to block out the way the room spins. Citrus melds with the phantom butane, tethering her to shore even as the riptide claws at her. It’s just them, she tells herself. It’s just her, and the Heathers, and they’re chewing her out for being an idiot. Nothing is wrong.

“Who’s not here?”

Veronica nuzzles further in Mac, hides her face with the blanket. She can’t get close enough. “No one,” she answers. “I don’t wanna think about him.”

“But you are,” taunts the unknown voice. She can’t decide who’s more likely to be so forthright about it, between Chandler and Duke, but whoever it is they’re right. She can’t get him out of her fucking head.

She struggles against it, for a minute more, though she’s finally strong-armed into honesty by her blood alcohol content. She’s exhausted from all the walking she’s done today, she’s tired of arguing with herself over it all, and she hasn't stopped shaking yet. “I know,” she relents in a muffled groan. “He won’t leave me alone.”

Someone smooths her hair back, tells her to breathe. No, not just someone. Heather Mac. 

“Were you with him?” Still clueless, possessive edge. That has to be Chandler. She shakes her head.

Breathing, right, breathing is something she’s supposed to be doing. Breathing, and reminding herself where she is, and not saying his name. God, why can’t she keep it together?

"And you thought it would be a good idea to fumble around in the dark until you wound up here?" A neutral, calculating tone. Duke. "In the snow, no less."

As much as she wants to sound defensive, Veronica is putting all of her remaining energy into simply coming up with answers for them. “I knew where I was going. Sort of.”

"Right," Duke sighs, sounding distant. "Dare I ask how much you’ve had to drink?" 

"A lot." She thinks for a moment. "Too much. I thought it would help. I dunno how you do it, Heather." 

They start muttering amongst themselves, finished with their interrogation for now. That’s fine, at least she’s getting her bearings again. Mac is still talking to her, still holding her close and telling her she can relax, that she’s safe. She tries to believe it. Slow and stiff, she pries her head from her hands, peaks up at the girl through her disheveled bangs. She spots a half smile, kind eyes, and quickly busies herself with counting freckles. 

“There you go,” Mac says, soft and reassuring. “You’re okay, see? I’ve got you. Could you show me your hands?” 

Veronica gives her a quizzical look, easing her grip enough for Mac to detach her from the blanket. “Why?” she asks, curiosity momentarily outweighing the muddle of panic. “Are they blue or something?”

“No, silly. You’re warming up a bit now. I’m just... checking if you have any burns.” 

Oh. Oh. “I don’t,” she mumbles, shameful and timid. “You guys noticed ‘em last time.” She debates retreating back into her fortress of warm fluffy solitude, though the dilemma plays out in plain sight on her face.

Mac gives her hands a gentle squeeze. “Try not to worry about it. I’m just glad you’re not hurt.” 

It makes her feel a strange sort of mid-tone between solace and anxiety, like a castaway washing up on shore after getting tossed around in a storm. She stares down at Mac’s fingers intertwined with hers, thinks about what a mess she’s made of things tonight. Unhelpfully, the words come tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them. 

“I think I’m gonna worry about it,” she murmurs, her own voice sounding foreign and far away. “M’sorry for interrupting… whatever it is you guys were doing. You can just pretend I'm not here.” 

Oh yeah, this was a mistake. She drank herself into the frying pan and walked right into the oven. Worse still, neither acknowledging nor rationalizing it is going to keep her from mangling every sentence that leaves her lips. 

“Roni,” Mac sighs, more stern than Veronica’s ever heard her. “I’m not just going to leave you here.” 

“S’okay.” She shrinks in on herself, avoiding the girl’s gaze. “I can handle it myself.”

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe,” Chandler cuts in, tone dripping with all too familiar sarcasm and forcing Veronica’s tunnel vision to widen. 

"Same here," says Duke. "Is this what handling it yourself usually looks like?"

"No." Veronica looks up at them, takes note of Chandler's accusatory glare and Duke's furrowed brows. She racks her brain for her usual freak out routine, tries to come up with a coping strategy that isn't chain smoking or sitting in the corner of her room hyperventilating. “Well, kinda. I take care of myself good enough. I was still kickin’ by the time you guys found me.”  

Mac interrupts before either of them can come up with a retort. “What part of be nice are you two not understanding?” she grumbles, pulling Veronica into a one-sided hug. 

"I am being nice," Chandler quips, pout audible. 

Duke hums. "Positively saint-like."

"Shut up, Heather. She was talking to you, too." 

Through either constant exposure or sheer force of will, Mac ignores their bickering. "Would a distraction help? We were gonna watch a movie." 

Veronica takes a moment to indulge in their proximity, barely managing to hold herself back from scenting all over the girl. It's a dawning, almost overwhelming feeling. She doesn't even know how much of it is earnest thought and how much of it is due to her drunken, hormone addled brain. This is her Omega, and that's her Alpha pestering her Beta, and they're her stupid semi-dysfunctional pack. And they're totally going to rake her over the coals for this whole ordeal in the morning, but maybe that's okay. 

"They're distracting enough," she says, thankful that her dopey smile remains hidden. "But I'm down for a movie. Whose turn is it to pick?" 

Chandler gives another impatient little sigh, watching as they finally pull apart, gaze hawk-like and unrestrained. "I thought you'd have the rotation memorized by now." 

"M'too drunk to do math." Her whiny tone should probably humiliate her, but all Veronica really feels right now is tired and dizzy and maybe a little grateful she knows them. Still, she can't help the mischief bubbling up in her chest. "Mac's right. You aren't being very nice." 

This earns her a scowl from Chandler, and a cute little snort as Duke rushes to hide her laughter behind one of her floppy sleeves. 

"It's Heather's turn," Mac nods towards Duke, a fond smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "But she was gonna pick something scary. I don't know if that's a good idea for you right now." 

Veronica waves off the concern, assures the fretting Omega that a horror movie won't do any harm, and soon finds herself settled between them all on Chandler's comically large bed. She's still half wrapped up in the blanket, still far too tipsy to care what comes out of her mouth. She meant it when she said they were distracting. It's a lot easier to ignore the acidic creep of anxiety with her pack beside her, weird as it is for her to admit.

Mac is on her left, half fascinated and half terrified, gripping one of Duke's hands with both of hers. Duke looks like she's seen this movie a hundred times, but she's still paying close attention, completely unaffected by the jump-scares. And sitting a few inches away on Veronica's other side is Chandler; arms crossed, mouth drawn into a tight line, not paying attention in the slightest. 

Veronica narrows her eyes as she tries to discern which shade of displeasure is currently painted across her Alpha's face. She looks… angry? Suspicious? Lost in thought? That's no good. She made some passing comment about Duke and Mac ganging up on her with their movie choices, but otherwise she's been unusually silent. Knowing Chandler, she's probably brooding over the idea that he even exists. 

It's just what Alpha's do, right? Get angry over every little passing glance or conversation she has? Most of the time, Veronica would find that kind of jealousy childish, but it feels different with Chandler. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the idea of the Mythic Bitch herself huffing and puffing over her, but it's kind of endearing. 

They're trying to give her a distraction, so Veronica figures she may as well return the favor. She half leans, half flops into Chandler's shoulder, and only gets a little sidetracked by the rush of dark wine that greets her. "You really don't need to worry about it, y'know," she says, hopefully only loud enough for Chandler to hear. "He's gone now. I'm all yours." 

She feels the girl stiffen underneath her, though they're interrupted by another yelp from Mac. This time Chandler jumps too, and Veronica chuckles at the string of curses that follows, letting herself slump over so she's pretty much laying in her Alpha's lap.

"Fuck, Heather, why do you watch these if you're such a fucking scaredy cat?" Her voice comes out sort of strained, almost bitter, and entirely unamused. "And you," she adds, staring down at Veronica with the look of a kettle about to boil over. "What's so damn funny, Ronica?"

Instead of answering her, Veronica grins. "I like it when you call me that." 

She's quick to hide her face, rolling over and nuzzling into Chandler's side. At this point, she's too far gone to hold back from scenting. Now that she's actually laid down, it's hitting her just how exhausted she is, how much she's kind of always wanted to curl up at an Alpha's side and feel so comforted by their presence. He never would have let her do this. Chandler is still rigid and reluctant — Veronica can only imagine the indignant face she's making — but at least she hasn't shoved her away. 

They carry on like that for another little while, until Veronica's tired herself out enough that her eyes will barely stay open. And she knows it's her doing, but Chandler seems to have relaxed enough to not mind keeping an arm draped over her. It's stupid, and horrifically embarrassing, but Veronica feels safe like this. 

"You guys are so nice to me," she mumbles into the fabric of Chandler's shirt, not sure if anyone is even hearing her. "I thought you were supposed t'be mean."

She's far too pleased to hear her Alpha's grumbled response. "Shut up and go to sleep, or I'll show you how mean I can be." 

Veronica smiles again, feels herself drifting off as she listens to their distant conversation. And for a moment, everything feels okay.

It's only for a moment.

She has that dream again. The one with the crow flying around her room, squawking and crying endlessly as she tries over and over to reach for it, to grab it, to shut it up. 

As usual, she sits bolt upright, body leaden and lightheaded. Her stomach gives a violent lurch at the abrupt shift, and she scrambles to untangle herself from the mess of limbs and blankets she's woken to. 

Luckily, she manages to stumble her way to the bathroom just in time. As she retches, she hears him behind her.

"Nice job," he says. "Lying to them like that." 

Veronica heaves for breath, tries to clean up her face a little. "I didn't lie.”

His voice is as cool and gruff as ever, even as a mere facsimile. "They're gonna drop you the second they find out about me. You know how superficial those bitches are. They're all about image, and someone like you– like us. You're just a liability." 

She turns the tap on blast to try and drown him out, splashing water over her face and rubbing it dry with one of her sleeves. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, looks away just as quick. "Shut up," she tells him, weak and raspy. "It's your fault I'm like this."

With the icy grip of sobriety comes the infinite sea of thoughts. Also, a headache. 

She didn't say his name, right? What the hell did she even do after they hauled her upstairs? And what is she going to do now? Last night, she felt so sure that this is what she wanted, that she'd be fine with them poking and prodding her for answers if it meant she had that moment's peace of mind. Right now, she kind of wants to dive out the nearest window and never contact them again.

Whatever sleep stained dredges of a plan she had started to cobble together all fall apart when she once again opens a door to find herself facing Heather Duke. She looks grumpy, but then again she always looks grumpy. She seems tired, and a little apprehensive. She looks up at Veronica with bleary eyes, brows knit together in concern, and holds out a glass of water.

"You really shouldn't drink when you're already in a bad mood," she offers, eyeing her up and down. "You look like hell."

Caught off guard, Veronica blurts the first thing that comes to mind. "Feel like it, too," she breathes, averting her gaze. "Sorry if I woke you."

"It's okay." Duke watches her finish the whole glass in a matter of seconds, turns and motions for Veronica to follow her downstairs. "C'mon," she sighs, "you were gonna go for a smoke, weren't you?"

Veronica tiptoes after her without a second thought, taking note of the way she expertly navigates the darkened hallways. She plucks the glass from her hands as they reach the bottom of the staircase, disappearing off to the kitchen as the still disoriented Veronica attempts to reunite her boots. When she reappears, Duke pauses for a moment before pulling out a big red coat that is definitely not hers.

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you lived here with her," Veronica says in a weak puff of laughter, shivering as they step into the cold night air. She lights a cigarette, closes her eyes as the wave of nicotine-laden relief washes over her. 

"I might as well." Duke rolls her eyes, tucks herself further into Chandler's jacket. "I spend way too much time with her." 

Veronica hums absentmindedly, preoccupied with how she might go about avoiding the Alpha for the next few days. They let the silence hang for a couple minutes, but it won't last. Not when Veronica's brain started running in fifth gear the moment she woke up. She has to attempt some kind of damage control, desperate and pathetic as it may be. 

"Listen," she says on an exhale, nerves buzzing. "Is there a way we can do this where you guys don't ask about what happened last night?" 

Duke laughs outright, "You know there isn't." She hesitates when she spots the look on Veronica's face. "Look, I'm not gonna pry. But Heather will. She won't stop until she has you figured out." 

"I know," Veronica groans. "It's a pain in the ass."

"Tell me about it," Duke sighs in agreement. "It's just how she is. She has to know everything, and she's realized you're a mystery to her." She looks as if she's pondering her next words carefully, and when she finally speaks again, it's all soft tone and sharp sentiment. "You're fucked, by the way."

Veronica winces as she finishes the last bit of her cigarette. "How bad?"

"She ranted about it for ten whole minutes while you were comatose in her lap."

The once blurry image of snuggling up to Heather Chandler brings itself into focus, much to Veronica's chagrin. Goddamn pheromones. She vaguely remembers freaking out, being way too cold and way too dizzy all at once, how her own voice sounded so alien. The way she was clinging to Mac like her life depended on it.

"I'm so fucked," she surmises, looking out towards the road. Maybe she could make it back home before sunrise, if she started walking now.

She can feel Duke staring at her, that same cautiously observant stare she's been so afraid of. "You're not thinking about walking back, are you?"

As she turns to meet the girl’s gaze, Veronica spots him behind her. 

"Go on," he taunts, grin wide and wolfy. "Lie to her."

"I-I didnt– I wasn't…" 

Duke cocks her head to the side, and so does he. He settles one of his ghostly hands on the girl's shoulder, slides it down her arm like he knows her, like he's the one being vulnerable with her. It makes Veronica's stomach drop, her blood boil.

"What, you actually care about them?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"C'mon, they're just a means to an end, remember? Stop bullshitting me, Veronica."

"Veronica?" 

Reality crashes into her like a brick to the face. Or, more accurately, a soft touch to her cheek that somehow carries all the weight and cold grit of concrete. She reaches up to grab Duke's wrist, breath caught in her throat.

"Sorry," she all but wheezes, "what were you saying?"

Duke's frown deepens, if such a thing is even possible. "I was saying you're in no state to go off on your own. And you're just proving my point."

"But–"

"But nothing, Sawyer." Duke takes her hand back, unceremoniously throws the door open. "Now get your ass inside so I can make you something to eat." Met with only a dumbfounded stare, she adds, "Before I change my mind."

In a somewhat surprising turn of events, Duke is a really good cook. It's a rare sight, to see her so sure of herself and yet so disheveled at the same time. Hair tied back in a messy ponytail, sleeves rolled haphazardly, a look of intense concentration on her face. Veronica watches as she putters around the kitchen, listens to her humming under her breath.

After another few minutes of blatant gawking and several unsuccessful attempts to plot her escape, Veronica speaks up. "I'm surprised we haven't woken them yet," she notes, tone caught between careful defense and genuine fondness 

"Those two sleep like the dead," Duke shrugs, setting a plate in front of her. "Here. Hopefully it's not too heavy." Then, a quieter, begrudging, "I'll sneak you back to your place when you're done."

Veronica swallows thickly, reminding herself not to talk with her mouth full. "You know Heather will probably kill you for that, right?"  

"No," Duke reaches out to take a bite for herself, seemingly unconcerned. "She'll be too focused on you. Mac, on the other hand, might kill me for this. You owe me, Sawyer. Big time."

"And what could I do to repay you?" she questions, though only after another hearty mouthful.

Duke smiles at her, one of those tiny, almost wry little grins that means she's trying not to show it. "I'm sure you'll think of something."