a body in the garden

The air between them is tense.

They watch each other, lock eyes like a pair of feral cats posturing for a fight. Chandler takes a few steps toward her, and Veronica moves to sit against the headboard, praying her flinch is hidden amongst the shifting. 

"And to think," Chandler says, "I've been wasting so much time on everyone else when I could have just talked to your mother." 

“My mom told you? You- you talked to my mom?” she splutters, incredulous. “You know there’s a reason I haven’t exactly introduced you.”

“Please, Veronica. I know how to act civil, I just choose not to.” Her eyes are once again alight with a curious inferno, and her gaze sizzles into Veronica’s skin, searing quicker and deeper than any flame could. “She told me all about him. That boy, Jason.” she steps closer still. “She’s worried about you. She seems nice.”

Shame flows through her, forces bitter words out of her mouth. “What do you want, Heather?”

Chandler sits herself down on the end of Veronica’s bed, movements slow and calculated. She’s far enough away that they’d both have to reach to touch each other, and still the thought of their proximity weighs heavy on Veronica’s shoulders. The memory of Chandler’s skin against hers, the heady aroma of someone familiar. 

Half of her wants to flee in fear, half of her wants to curl up and cry in Chandler’s lap, to beg her forgiveness.

And of all the things she’s scared to hear, of all questions she’s been dreading, she isn’t expecting the cold, simple utterance of, “What did he do to you?”

Time screeches to a halt around her. She thinks about the sound of him crying, the look on Ram’s face as a blank whizzed past his left ear. “Nothing," she answers.

There’s no hope of hiding her flinch when Chandler growls, “Bullshit, Veronica. I had to look through old yearbooks before I finally realized where I'd recognized you from." Left unacknowledged, she continues. “I saw you that day. The nerd with the scarf. You stormed off and he ran out after you.”

"You mean the runt?" Veronica huffs, "I remember that day too, Heather, it's not like you were happy to see me. You didn’t even know my name."

The Alpha remains steadfastly, infuriatingly unphased. "Kurt and Ram said you were crying.”

“Like you haven’t made half the school cry. You’re the Mythic Bitch of Westerberg, it’s what you do.”

“Is that what he called me?”

The admission comes in a grumble, begrudging and muted. “It’s what I called you.”

Chandler exhales through her nose like a bull ready to charge. "Bottom line," she grits, "You look different. You act different. He changed you."

"He-" Her voice catches, blocked by the notion of admitting to it, of saying it out loud and letting herself believe the idea that she was a victim. "He just brought out what was already there."

She can't bring herself to meet the Alpha's eyes, but she can see that her mouth is drawn into a tight, impatient line. 

"Those guys you buy cigarettes from," Chandler bites back. "They told me you only started coming to them after you met him. They also told me you're their best customer."

Sweat rolls down her brow. She feels her voice wavering. "Is there anyone in Sherwood you haven't asked about me?"

"You," Chandler replies, not missing a beat. "So I'll ask again. What did he do to you?"

Her lungs cry out of deprivation despite the pace at which she's breathing. She's trapped. Backed into a corner like a mouse, searching for a way out despite the looming doom in front of her. Maybe it's the abject terror or maybe it's the clear lack of escape from this situation, either way the words spill out before she can stop them. 

"He would climb up to my window at night." 

Despite the mixture of disgust and disbelief painting her features, Chandler merely encourages her. "And?"

"And we'd talk." Veronica stares down at her blanket, trying to put her focus into counting stitches as opposed to what she's saying. What she's seeing behind her eyes. "I would leave it unlocked for him. Sometimes- Sometimes he came in while I was sleeping." That feeling of smallness creeps over her again, and her voice shrinks alongside her. "I didn't mind. Not until I found out about the gun."

Truthfully, the first time he showed up at her window unannounced it scared the living daylights out of her. But even then, she didn't scream. She didn't ask how he knew where she lived, how he knew which window to find her behind. She let him in. 

Over and over and over again, she let him in. 

"I know I was stupid." The words come out half choked, and still she can’t help the cynical smile from overtaking her. “You don’t need to tell me.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, wherein Chandler’s pensive stare only serves to ramp up Veronica’s anxiety. She knows exactly what Chandler thinks of her, what everyone thinks of her. 

She tries to hold herself steady, to sound half as angry as she wants to be. "Don't look at me like that," she scoffs, the bitterness of her confession pooling on her tongue. "Let's just… Let's just get to the part where you tell me never to talk to you guys again."

But of course, Heather Chandler doesn’t bend to anything. She sounds as calm and confident as ever, posing what should be a question but definitely isn't. “Is that where this is going." 

"Don't play dumb with me, Heather. Why wouldn't it be?" Veronica runs a hand through her hair, lets out a quick hiss of pain as her sleeve chafes against her earlier injuries. "It's what always happens. I stick my neck out, people find out about him, they leave. They hate me. They don’t want anything to do with me."

"And that's what you wanted me to protect you from, hm?" 

She finally musters the courage to look Chandler square in the eye, swallows back the twinge of despair as she whispers, "I was an idiot to think it would last."

It's quiet again. Lurching, agonizing quiet. 

Veronica feels the molten shame rolling down her cheeks, and curses herself for being so weak as to cry in front of someone. She’s supposed to be– no, she's destined to be isolated in her misery. The tears are none too gently brushed away, one by one as they escape in spite of her efforts to hold them off.

When she speaks, Chandler's tone is uncharacteristically gentle. Her words, not so much. "Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?"

Veronica blinks up at her, gaze watery and conflicted.

"You think I'm here to ream you out? You think I'm mad at you ?" 

"Is that not what's happening?" She tries to take a breath, to calm herself down, something ; but now that the floodgates are open she just won't stop fucking crying. So she hides her face, pulls her legs to her chest and rests her forehead against her knees. Her voice comes out gravelly, exhausted. Defeated. "I know how this works by now. Nobody cares if he hurt me, they just care that I knew him."

Chandler lets out a sigh, one that could be considered exasperated or even annoyed, if you didn't know her all that well. But Veronica knows her. She knows the way Chandler talks, the way she goes about her little intimidation games, so she takes that sigh for what it is. Hesitation.

She doesn't dare look up.

"How about I phrase it another way," the blonde offers, tone corrected to one of neutrality. Or at least as neutral as a clearly agitated Heather Chandler can possibly sound. "Is that what you want?" she asks, "You want me to kick you to the curb? You want to be on your own again?"

The words are barely audible amidst her stilted breathing. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"Fine." The word comes through audibly grit teeth.

She feels Chandler's weight rise from the bed, and though she's struck with a moment's fear she still doesn't lift her head. She doesn't need to. She knows what's coming.

She can feel the Alpha's presence looming beside her, and though Veronica's long since been enveloped in the air of red wine that lurks between scrutinizing and mollifying, there's a noticeable spike in intensity as their distance lessens. The underlying urge to stay close has somehow only gotten worse, no matter how much cause for suspicion her brain dredges up.

Chandler puts hand on her shoulder– or at least tries to. Her fingertips barely graze Veronica's sleeve before she's shrugged off. Because the touch is tentative, soft , and Heather Chandler isn't soft. Veronica can damn near taste the reluctance.

“Don’t," she croaks upon pulling away. “It’s fine. Don’t force yourself.”

“Look,” says Chandler, low and dangerous. “I came by to make sure your head was still screwed on straight. And now that I know it isn't, I'll play hardball." 

There's a slight shuffling, a familiar sort of clatter, and Veronica peeks out around herself just long enough to spot the single cigarette now placed neatly beside her.

“You want the rest, you know where to find me.”

“And-”

“And if you don’t show, you’ll be the one dealing with Hurricane McNamara.” A scoff. She mutters under her breath, “Believe it or not, she asks more questions than I do.”

Veronica laughs despite herself, though it sounds more like the blubbering tailend of a sob than the pessimistic chuckle she was aiming for. “She’s mad at me too, isn’t she?”

And maybe if Veronica were thinking anywhere close to clearly, she’d notice the hint of melancholy. “It’s almost impressive how stupid you’re being.” 

The floorboards creak their familiar tune of someone walking to the door and Veronica peers up through her wild bangs with the wet, pitiable aura of a pet left out in the rain. She's sure she looks a mess. Ghastly complexion, tear stained face, hair unkempt. It feels like she's ripped open an old wound, like she could feel the scar tissue and muscle fiber tearing beneath her fingernails as she pried the flesh apart and brought her rotten innards to light. It's open, and it's bleeding, and it will never close again.

Still, Heather looks back at her like she always does, like nothing has changed. Sharp stare, flippant expression. She doesn't even blink at the metaphorical blood spattered on her face. 

And to top it all off, she has the audacity to sound perfectly business-as-usual when she says, "See you tomorrow, Ronica." 

She closes the door behind her. 

Veronica tries to ignore the fact that her blankets smell like red wine. 

It turns out a substantial meal is akin to sutures. 

It's not a miracle quickfix or anything, but having breakfast allots her some degree of clear headedness. Still it is far more of a struggle than it should be to choke down the few measly mouthfuls, and she offers a quick plea for normalcy to the powers that be as she pretends not to notice her mother slipping a few more energy bars into her backpack. 

She insists she'll be fine, she has to go back eventually, she can't stay holed up in her room forever. Sentiments she knows are true but are still a pain in the ass to act upon. She promises to call if she isn't feeling well, and swallows back a grimace as her mother pulls her in for a hug, squeezing her around the shoulders. 

The wind is cold again today. She stops at the tree on the corner, the one that’s been there year after year after year. It’s crooked, and its barren branches stretch into the sky above like shaking hands reaching for the water’s surface. It feels novel, somehow. She had to have passed by it at least a hundred times, yet today she notices it. Looks at it. Wonders if it always seemed so desperate.

Some may think it’s hardest in the thick of it, amidst all the confusion and nigh manic levels of mistrust. The slithering coil of panic at its most omnipresent and crushing moment. But being pulled beneath the waves is the easy part, swimming back to shore is what’s difficult. 

Having to parse through which doubts are founded in reality and which are the fabrications of nicotine and bad dreams. Taming her survival instinct, figuring out how worried she even needs to be in the first place. Trying not to slip back into that horrid, all-consuming mindset. Forcing herself to act like a normal human being as she attempts to claw her way back to some semblance of rationality. The sheer laboriousness of it all is daunting. Even the very idea of keeping her head above water is exhausting.

She starts walking a little slower, once the school comes into view on the horizon. Her bag is like lead against her back. The newly regained thinking power has been put to immediate use trying to figure out what's to become of her, where she'll be at lunch, what she'll do tomorrow. 

Some form of extortion is a safe bet, after all the Heathers and blackmail go together like salt and pepper. Then again, if blackmail is the answer then why not use JD as leverage? Why bribe her? Why–

Her phone rings.

Veronica swears it's been going off more in the past few weeks of being with them than it ever did before. This time she answers without even looking, otherwise she may not have answered at all. 

She's met with the sound of music blasting, muffled voices, and then she hears something that makes her heart skip a beat.

"Roni!"

She almost goes weak in the knees. "Mac," she replies all too easily, slowing to a stop. "What's up?" 

Before she can kick herself out for asking such a stupid question in such a casual manner, epiphany strikes and puts a name to the simmering warmth hearing Mac's voice elicits. 

Relief. 

She reminds herself it's been all of two days since they last saw each other, yet the feeling remains. 

"You're coming in today, right?" Mac chirps, and Veronica doesn't need to see her to tell she's probably bouncing up and down with excitement.

"Yeah?"

The audio clips, the music dims and she finds herself on speaker. 

"Where are you, Sawyer?" Duke's voice crackles slightly as the phone is handed off to her, though overall far more energetic than it usually is at this time of day. "You're not out walking with that broken ass coat, are you?" 

"... I'm just down the road from school," answers Veronica, electing to ignore the coat comment and doing her best to contain the instinctual bubbling of suspicion. "Why?"

"Well stay put," Duke orders. "We're coming to– eyes on the road, Heather, Jesus– we're coming to pick you up."

"Why?" She repeats, this time more genuinely bewildered. "I'm, like, five minutes away, you don't need to–"

"Perfect." A third voice, slightly distorted but there's no need to guess who it is. The call cuts out.

She's left with little time to wonder. The sound of the engine comes first, and then Veronica looks up to spot Chandler's Porsche — red, of course — tearing down the street. It pulls to a miraculously smooth stop just across from her, and the driver's side window rolls down.

"Get in, loser," Chandler calls out, snappy and gruff as always. Somehow, that's relieving too.

The back window rolls down to reveal a certifiably bright eyed and bushy tailed Mac, grinning ear to ear. "We're taking the day off!" she beams, eagerness near contagious. "C'mon!"

Chandler rolls her eyes while Mac waves Veronica over the way one might beckon a puppy. She does feel sort of like a shelter dog, pleasantly surprised by its owner's kindness yet paralyzed with past experience. 

She skitters across the street, swayed by ease of recency to stand closer to Chandler instead. "Day off?" she parrots. "You need me to write up a note, I take it?"

"I need you to get in the car," says Chandler, with a tone suggesting she too has been staying up late. "There's coffee to get, places to not be. I'm not waiting around all day."

"Absences are taken care of," Duke pipes up from the passenger's seat. "Stop worrying and get in."

With both of those none too gentle persuasions, Veronica feels she has little choice and awkwardly packs herself into the backseat alongside Heather Mac. 

The moment she gets the door closed the atmosphere blooms to life. Duke heaves a dramatic sigh and says, “Alright, let’s get the fuck out of here,” as she cranks the stereo back up. Chandler replies with a laugh of challenge and takes off so abruptly Veronica regrets her slow uptake on the seatbelt. She catches a glimpse of the Alpha’s smirk in the rearview before Duke turns to greet her with a mischievous grin. 

Still rigid and a little jumpy, she doesn't smile back

The situation starts to sink in — she starts to sink again — but then there's a light, a warmth, a brief moment of touch that tethers Veronica back to earth and reminds her how to breathe.

Mac lays a hand on hers, feather light, looking over to her with a gentle, inquisitive expression as if asking permission to go further. 

"Hi," she murmurs, breathy and thin and just the smallest bit frightened.

"Hi," replies Mac, equally quiet but twice as bright. 

Not a moment's thought goes into the decision to hold the Omega's hand, she just sort of grabs it up in her own and takes a moment to relish in the feeling of human contact, running a thumb over her knuckles. There are a few bandages scattered about her fingertips, unpatterned but still in vivid colors; the kind that Duke keeps in her bag for whenever Mac gets distracted doing homework and winds up with several paper cuts. 

And just like that, everything else is gone from Veronica’s mind. Not a single thought remains other than the one she so foolishly blurts out. “Are you okay?” she asks, ghosting over one of the bandages and furrowing her brows.

Mac laughs, a subdued little sound caught between exasperation and fondness. “I’m fine, Roni.” She gives the girl’s hand a soft squeeze. “If anything, I'm worried about you ."

“I’m- I’m okay,” Veronica assures, habitual deflection rising in her throat. "Really, it's no big deal."

“No big deal?” Duke asks, incredulous, twisting around to face them both. "Heather said you almost ate shit in the hallway."

"I didn't fucking phrase it like that," Chandler barks back, affronted.

Duke gives her this unimpressed sort of look and whips out her phone. "You said, and I quote, Ronica nearly bashed her teeth in on the lockers what do I do?"

"Shut up, Heather." Chandler reaches an arm over to give Duke a light shove. “She doesn’t need to know that.” 

"My point still stands," Duke says, moving right along. "No matter your valiant attempts to minimize it, it's kind of a big fucking deal."

Veronica bristles, unsure how to proceed. Other than her parents, no one's ever made such a fuss over her episodes. No one's cared to ask. So, she opts for what she tells herself each time the dust clears and she finds herself wading through the aftermath.

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before." She holds Mac's hand a little tighter. "I'll get over it."

There's a beat of silence. Duke lets out a whistling sigh. "You know that's, like, the opposite of reassuring, right?"

There's an unmistakable finality in Chandler's voice as she grumbles out a harsh, "Whatever." She makes a hard right, jostling everyone but herself in the process, knuckles nearly white against the steering wheel. "If she wants to be difficult, let her. All I care about is getting some goddamn coffee."

As they slowly creep up to the drive-thru, Veronica is vetoed three separate times in short order after saying she isn't hungry, even with the insistence she already ate. As everyone else gets their meal, they each hand her their sides, piling three different flavors of muffin into her lap alongside the tea that's not-so-mysteriously replaced her order of coffee.

None of them say a word about the exchange, as if it were a normal, everyday occurrence. As if looking out for her is some unspoken agreement not up for debate. As if they couldn't care less about him and just want to make sure she doesn't run herself into the ground again.

She listens to them chat amongst themselves as they're pulled over to eat, idly wonders why her social life hasn't ripped apart at the seams.

They shouldn't be looking at her like she's normal. They shouldn't be treating her like a close friend. Frankly, they shouldn't even be seen with her. And yet here they are, graciously extending her much needed respite from the thousand eyes of Westerberg and keeping her company in the process.

She doesn't understand. 

Surely Chandler has told them by now. Surely they know of her infatuation with him, how her blind affection won her several traumatizing experiences at his hand. 

Surely they know it's all her fault. 

Maybe it's contrapasso, she thinks to herself as Mac encourages her to eat for the fourth time in as many minutes. She does nothing but get herself into trouble, and so they punish her with peace. With the underlying aura of dread, the anticipation, the waiting for the other shoe to drop. Never fully relaxed despite the tranquility of her surroundings, always on the lookout for the next bout of stupidity and danger she'll be tangled up in.

The tea is nice, at least. 

Eventually, Mac convinces her to try one of the muffins. She picks it apart, nibbling at it piece by piece, feeling a little like Persephone with the pomegranate. Though she's swayed from the intensity of the comparison when she catches sight of Mac beaming at her, bright eyes and cheery smile as far a cry from Hades as she could possibly be. 

They lapse into silence, as they get back on the road. Well, Veronica is silent at least, Duke and Mac have started singing along to the stereo and Chandler is humming under her breath; probably under the assumption that none of them will notice.

She lets her eyes slip shut. Regardless of intent, if their goal is to put her at ease then it's working all too well.

"You two go on ahead. We'll catch up."

Veronica turns to face the source of the voice, watching as Chandler and Mac walk off in the opposite direction while Duke heads back toward her.

They've been out and about all day, driving nowhere at a pace more appropriate for emergencies, and they've just come to another stop in search of takeout. Veronica, of course, chose to stay outside and light up. Even after getting them back from Chandler, she only has a few left, but she elects to fret over her low supply at another time. 

She's about halfway through a cigarette when Duke approaches, clad in one of her signature callous expressions. She has her own coat on this time, though aside from the green color it's nearly indistinguishable from Chandler's. Veronica finds herself smiling at the idea of them having a matching set, and she's sure if she took a second look she'd find Mac has the same one.

Before she can comment on it, Duke gives a grave sigh. "We need to talk."

She swallows. Hard. "About?"

"You," Duke replies, a mirror image of Chandler's tone from the other day.

Veronica takes a long, languid drag, already wary of what could follow. "What about me?" 

Duke just looks at her for a moment, a myriad of indecipherable microexpressions playing out on her face before she settles on something caught between soft fabric and rusted wire. 

"If I pulled up your sleeves, would I find anything?"

She takes a step back on instinct, and flicks out her cigarette in a poor attempt to mask it. "Why would you–"

"Don't lie to me, Veronica."

She frowns, looks away. They've been calling her that a lot recently, and for some godforsaken reason she finds herself not liking it. 

"I won't be mad at you." Duke treads lightly, voice low and still. "I won't tell the other two. Just be honest with me."

When Veronica dares a glance back down at her, she looks… worried. Genuinely, unmistakably worried. And it hurts as much it warms the frost from her heart. 

She can't bring herself to say it aloud, so she only nods. 

"Did you take care of them?"

A hesitant, shameful shake of her head.

"Right, so you're gonna do that when you get back home, aren't you?" Duke's tone suggests it's more of a command than a question.

She nods again.

"I need you to say yes, Sawyer."

"Fine," she breathes, hollow and timid. "Yeah, I will."

"Good," Duke says with a huff. "And this whole passing out thing– Not enough sleep? Not eating?"

"All of the above?" Veronica offers with a pathetic little shrug. "Like I said, I'll get over it. I was just being stupid."

Duke hums as if deeply considering the prospect. "You also said it's nothing you haven't dealt with before. Is this something you make a habit of?"

"Not intentionally."

A weighty silence stretches between them, looming overhead, holding them both hostage to this one moment of baited breath. 

Duke breaks it. "Okay," she says, nerves audible, as if she's psyching herself up for courthouse allocution. "I know I wasn't exactly… forthcoming, when our roles were reversed. But if there's anything you wanna ask me, now's your chance."

And maybe she means questions about herself, eye-for-an-eye inquiries that would bring them back to equal ground, but there's only one question on Veronica's mind right now.

Voice small, gaze averted, she asks, "Why is she so angry?"

Clearly caught off guard, Duke fumbles her way through a response. "Wh- angry? You mean Heather?" 

Veronica hums her affirmative. "She got all offended when I thought she was mad at me, but what else am I supposed to think?" She keeps her eyes trained on the pebble she's kicking around, allowing some of the steam of her boiling thoughts to simmer off into the air. "I'm not blind. I see her tense up every time I open my mouth. If she's–" her voice catches on the memory of his raised voice, his hands around her shoulders as he shook her. "If she's so bothered by it, why doesn't she just get rid of me?"

Duke lets out a cynical puff of laughter. "All sunshine and rainbows in that head of yours, huh?"

She inches closer, reaches up to rest a hand on Veronica's back. It's a subtle touch, cautious and light, but still grounding. Veronica leans into it, takes in a shuddering breath and remains quiet in her gratitude, simply relishing in the chamomile coated comfort. 

When she speaks again, Duke sounds like she's halfway between admiration and annoyance. "She's angry because she thinks she could've stopped it."

Though she's well aware of the implication, Veronica questions it anyway. "Stopped what?"

"Him," Duke answers, frowning. "Whatever he did to you."

Shocking herself most of all, Veronica laughs. "Really?" she asks, breathless and incredulous. "What would she have done, steal me away from him?"

"Essentially, yes." Duke pretends not to notice as Veronica wipes at her eyes with one of her coat sleeves. "If I knew, I would have kept him away from her. That's what she said to me the other night, after she talked to you."

She ponders it, for a minute. Indulges in another time, another life, where he had far less of a hold on her. And she manages to paint a nice portrait, through the rosy 20/20 of hindsight. But it's just that. A painting, a glimpse of untold events, created from nought but wishful thinking and the remnants of a hazy dream. 

"I would've liked that," she admits, soft and dreary as evening rain. "But I don't think anything short of- of that whole thing in the parking lot would have changed my mind about him."

"That's what I tried to tell her," sighs Duke. "But as I'm sure you're aware, Heather isn't exactly the best listener."

It strikes her then, what exactly Chandler had said.

"I saw you that day."

Because she'd been listening then. 

"Is that what he called me?”

Hell, she was practically begging to hear what Veronica had to say about him.

“You think I’m mad at you ?”

Somehow, more than all the skin on skin contact and playing with power dynamics, that exchange was the most intimate they've been with each other. 

The words come out before she can stop them, spilling through a hidden smile. "He always hated her."

"And she hates him right back." Duke's phone goes off, and as she checks the incoming message she says, "Can I offer you a final word of advice?"

"Hm?"

"If she didn't want you, she wouldn't keep you." 

Both of them look up at the sound of Mac calling out to them, spotting her waving from her across the lot, Chandler beside her. Duke smiles and Veronica merely stares at the Alpha's distant figure.

Duke catches her gawking, nudges her arm and gives her a mischievous little smirk. "They got real stupid over you, I hope you know."

"They did?"

"Like a couple of dogs tripping over each other for a bone."

They're reunited before Veronica can think to question it further. Mac descends upon them in a flurry of eager greetings and concerns about the temperature, rushing to zip Duke's jacket all the way up. She too makes a comment on Veronica's lack of a zipper, going so far as to turn back to Chandler and insist they get her a functional coat. 

Chandler rolls her eyes but doesn't refuse. She looks Veronica over as she approaches, face neutral, unceremoniously dropping a bag of food into her hands.

"Lunch," she states in a grumble. "Eat it or I'll drop you on the side of the road."

Whether artificially revitalized by the nicotine or just emboldened by what Duke told her, Veronica looks her Alpha in the eye and whispers, "You wouldn't."

Chandler turns away with a huff, hiding her face. "Try me."