#krystarodrigeuz

The first week of school had been absolutely horrendous, as expected. Homework piled up. Classes dragged. She hid in the bathroom during lunch – because Martha spent her lunch periods in the library volunteering – and listened to her classmates talk shit while they fixed their makeup.

And then the Heathers happened.

“VeroniCA! It doesn’t take that long to make POPCORN!”

Get your ass back in here and cuddle!

Veronica hears her girlfriend’s voice escalate by an estimated two octaves in her head before she returns to the living room, bowl in hand, grinning.

Heather is scowling. Behind her, Heather is helping Heather fix her botched nail job with a practiced hand, drawling, “Calm down, Chandler, don’t have a cow. You don’t need the carbs, anyways.”

“Shut up, Heather,” she bites out, twisting to narrow her eyes at her, but in the past month or so her patented death glares have started to lose their touch. Veronica is privately smug; she knows it’s her fault, and damn, it feels good to have that kind of power.

She plops down on the cushion beside her girlfriend and curls their pinkies together, stifling a smirk at the way Heather’s shoulders relax automatically. It was like taming a lion, dating Heather Chandler, and all of her hard work and observation had paid off.

Heather leans her head against Veronica’s shoulder and sighs, loudly and dramatically. “Tell her to leave,” she demands, but Veronica only reaches up to stroke her hair, smiling.

“You don’t really want her to leave,” she says, faintly exasperated but mostly amused. Heather Duke could be a piece of work sometimes, but she was thoughtful, too, on the inside. Over Heather’s shoulder she watches her carefully painting glitter onto Heather McNamara’s nails, smiling faintly despite her barbed words.

It was strange, even now, remembering the impression she’d had of the Heathers to begin with, because it was so off the mark.

First of all, none of these girls were the least bit threatening. Sure, Heather might occasionally arrange for someone’s tires to be deflated, if they pissed her off enough, and Heather’s cutting remarks were more than enough to make some of their classmates cry on occasion, especially during midterms, but Veronica had everything under control now. She was certain of that.

Another thing she was certain of now was that none of these girls was anything resembling heterosexual. The very idea was enough to make her snort into her drink.

“What movie should we watch next?” Heather gasped, wiggling her toes in excitement. Heather flashed her a glare and grumbled a bit, grabbing her ankles and yanking them back into position in her lap. The polish was bright yellow and it would definitely show against the navy of Heather Chandler’s plush maroon carpet. “I want to watch Rudolph.” She bit her lip, suddenly, and glanced to Veronica. “Um, if you have it?”

Veronica presses her lips chastely to Heather’s honey-colored curls and hides her smile for a moment before nodding, extricating herself so that she can walk over and thumb through the pile of cheesy Christmas movies she’d brought from home, holding up the cassette triumphantly. “Got it!” she reassures, glancing over her shoulder. Heather beams at her, and her fingertips brush Veronica’s leg when she passes and pops the VHS into the player.

This isn’t what she’d envisioned her Christmas Eve to be like, but she’s definitely not complaining.

“Come back,” Heather demands, puffing her cheeks out the way she does when she’s not getting her way. Veronica thinks that if people could see how she acts when the four of them are alone, they’d be a lot less terrified by her. Heather Chandler is a secret cuddler, but more than that, she’s secretly soft.

The number of nasty, abusive boyfriends she’s stared down for girls she hardly even knows is testament to that.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she laughs, falling back into Heather’s lap gracelessly, and feels her cheeks warm as Heather slides her arms possessively around her waist, thumb stroking tenderly at the patch of exposed skin where her t-shirt is riding up. “Miss me?” she murmurs, twisting to look at her. Heather’s eyes are burning.

“Yes,” she snaps, but it’s all for show. She hauls Veronica in for a kiss just as the familiar tune starts to play and Heather McNamara squeals, launching herself onto the couch with them, screeching, “It’s on, it’s on!”

The couch dips again and Veronica hears rather than sees Heather Duke reluctantly following her, settling in on the end of the couch, doubtlessly with her knees curled up against her chest and her chin resting atop them, as she normally did.

Her lips curve against Heather’s. No, this wasn’t what she’d expected when the three of them had approached her in September.