Chapter Text
It’s not fun. It’s never fun at these things.
Heather Chandler knows this, but she goes anyway.
It’s important she does, she tells herself, staring blankly into the fire someone’s started in one of the fraternity’s trashcans. After considering her next move, she takes a cigarette out of her purse and lights it on the flickering tongues of flame. There’s a metaphor in there she’s too physically drained to articulate. Instead, she slides down the wall onto the stone beneath her, as cold and rough as she is.
Sometimes, she needs the reminder that’s what she’s supposed to be.
She needs the reminder that there’s a purpose to her presence at Remington parties. It proves that her influence goes much farther than the concrete walls of Westerburg. It proves that she’s better, that she’s bigger than them and that backwater school. That there’s a reason she’s on top.
There’s a reason that she lets David and all his Neanderthal frat buddies talk to her, give her compliments they both know are empty words, put their hands all over her and –
There’s someone at the entrance of the alleyway.
Heather holds in a shriek – Heather Chandler does not get surprised – As the figure staggers down and collapses next to her.
Their eyes meet. The stranger’s eyes are brown, and so very, unbelievably tired. They speak of years and burdens that she's far too young to have.
“I’d wager this isn’t a proud moment for either of us,” she says, giving a smile so bitter Heather can taste it, “more me than you, true, but still.”
All Heather can bring herself to say is “Red is so not your color.”
The best way she can describe this person, she decides, is ‘time traveler in a recent car accident’. The billowy shirt and silken britches would’ve been high fashion for a servant in the 1700s, if not for all the tears in it, the blood from the cuts crisscrossing over the stranger’s arms and face staining silver fabric a rusty, mottled crimson.
The subject of scrunity frowns, looking at her ripped sleeves like an art critic examines a painting. Then she shakes her head.
“Now, see, I would have thought you’d be working for Him, that this,” she gestures to the alleyway, the trashcan fire, “is just a trap. You’re a chrome-plated queen, not an inch of subtlety ‘bout you. Just like Him. But, from that quip, I’d say you’re not in cahoots. You’re real.”
Heather takes a long drag from her cigarette, hoping the smoke will hide her confusion. God, talking to this girl is like riding a rollercoaster. Dizzying, twisting and turning, swerving from one nonsense statement to another possible compliment. Of course Heather’s real. Whenever she walks into a room, everyone stops to stare. When she locks eyes with someone, they’re enthralled. When she speaks, people trip over themselves to grant her wish. How could she do any of it if she wasn’t real?
Why is she letting a comment by some Revolution-era lunatic get to her like this? She’s Heather Chandler, better than this. Better than her.
“I’m the genuine article, Pageboy. Twenty-four carat solid. Now, unless we have business, you can fuck off back to Fairyland for all I care.”
That last comment (and it’s a piss-weak insult, more of a verbal love tap than a jab) looks like it touched a nerve. The stranger gets this awful, far-away look in her eyes.
“Fine,” her voice is faint, lilting, like she’s reading a storybook, “As you wish. Know this – someone pursues me like hounds after a fox, with no higher purpose than possession, the prize. I seek shelter from the storm, and will reimburse in service.”
“You seem real sure they’ll give up on finding you.”
The stranger shrugs. “His is a fickle sort. He is unending, thus unchanging, and He’ll lose interest in His plaything as He has a hundred times before.”
Chandler looks her up and down, and the stranger shifts uncomfortably under her piercing gaze. No matter how much she dances around the topic like rising ash dances around a fire (Christ, now she’s doing it too), what this weirdo is getting at is that she needs Heather’s help. With escaping God, apparently, if that whole ‘unending’ thing isn’t just figurative. That’s something she can work with, and the challenge is intriguing.
“Well, you’re not a complete lost cause. You got a name?”
“Veronica-” she cuts herself off, and panic briefly washes over her face. Heather chooses to ignore it.
“Well, Veronica. If you want me to help you, the first step is to stop talking like you’re in an 18th century romance novel. Cut down on the flowery bullshit, and I might be able to get what you want. Capiche?”
“…Sorry,” Veronica replies sheepishly, “Force of habit.”
Heather nods, satisfied she has the upper hand. “My car’s nearby. We’ll go around the back. I’m done here, anyway.”
If Veronica notes any sourness in her tone, she says nothing of it.
-
The car ride home is uneventful. Clearly, Veronica’s not from the 1700s, because she seems to know what cars are. From Chandler’s stolen glances through the rear-view mirror, she spends most of her time fiddling around in her pockets or readjusting the rug Heather put over the back seat (a necessary sacrifice if she doesn’t want blood everywhere).
Veronica spends most of the journey up to Heather’s room in uncomfortable silence. Chandler thinks it must be awe – she’s had comments about the size of the house before, and she imagines the same would hold true for someone who doesn’t have one.
“Wait here,” Heather commands, “I’ll get you all the bandages in this house, and hope that’s enough.”
Veronica shakes her head. “No need. I closed up the easy ones in the car. Gimme a sec, I’ll finish it off.” She reaches into her pocket.
“What, you got a sewing kit in there?”
Veronica shakes her head again, and pulls out a pen. It’s an old-timey thing, too – a split metal nib, a barrel of solid wood. The end seems to have been broken off at some point, likely through whatever caused all the rips in fabric and flesh to begin with.
“The arms are the hardest,” she tells Heather, “some of the cuts are pretty wide, and since I need a hand to hold the pen, it won’t work as well.”
“You want me to hold them shut.” Heather says flatly.
“If you could. You don’t have to look at 'em if you get squeamish about that sort of thing.”
Heather does indeed balk at the sight of blood, but Veronica is the last person who needs to know that. “Ugh, please. I’m no wimp. Show me where to put my hands.”
Veronica does so, directing Heather to a large cut on her left arm. Heather gingerly pinches the skin around it, and locks eyes with Veronica.
“Sure you don’t need rubbing alcohol, or anything?” she asks.
“Nope. This’ll be just fine.”
Veronica brandishes her pen, and Heather’s eyes widen when she sees the end is tipped with red.
“What-”
Veronica flicks the pen along the wound, drawing horizontal lines over damaged skin. It knits together with each new stroke, like a zipper, until the injury has completely disappeared. No scars, no nothing.
All Heather can feel is a freezing cold in her stomach as Veronica points to another spot on her upper arm, and Heather moves without thinking. It’s shock, she thinks as Veronica repeats the process, totally justified shock. Of course she knew something was off about this chick from the moment she set eyes on her, what with the outfit and the outdated slang, but this is… something else.
“It’s not the pen, if you’re wondering,” Veronica says matter-of-factly as she switches hands to reach a cut on her right forearm, “it isn’t magic. It just looks pretty. Okay, I’m done.”
Heather draws back, all her energy directed into her hands to keep them from shaking.
“You owe me.”
“I know, I didn’t forget,” Veronica replies. She looks around the room. “Can I sit?”
“I don’t know, can you?” Heather mutters to herself, before pointing to the stool in front of her vanity. “Quick question, do I have to sign this contract in blood? ‘Cause I’m not using your pen.”
“What? No! No, it’s a verbal agreement. I’m no Mephistopheles.”
“What are you, then? I figure a whole bunch of doctors would love to stitch people up by drawing on them.”
“I…” Veronica frowns. “I was human at one point. I dunno if that’s still the case, but I definitely have a soul.”
Heather crosses her arms, unconvinced. Hell, she’s unconvinced that any of this is happening. Maybe something got slipped into her drink (it was probably Chet, it’s always fucking Chet) and she’s not seeing things as they are. Maybe she’s passed out in that alleyway, and this is all a fanciful dream – that she’s safe, at home.
“What exactly can you offer me?”
“I make things. That was my job before, to make things. I can’t do anything made of iron, or anything that’s alive, but the rest is fair game.”
“And these things are real? You’re not just gonna sketch them and give me the picture?”
Veronica looks confused, almost offended. “Then it’s a drawing of the thing. That’s different. I’m not playing you here - three things, anything I can smith for you, in exchange for you keeping me safe.”
Heather smiles sardonically. Three wishes, like in the stories – the third and final one to undo the damage of the first two. What would stop Veronica from twisting them to her own ends?
“Plus one,” Chandler offers, “just to show me you can put your money where your mouth is. Then it’s a deal.”
Veronica considers this for a moment, then nods slightly.
“Well, is that it? Is that all I have to do?”
“Not just yet. I have to think of how to word this,” Veronica says slowly. Then, her eyes widen. “Your name. I never asked your name.”
“Heather.” Veronica didn’t give her last name, so she sees no reason to give hers.
“Huh. Okay.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” Veronica says quickly, “it’s just… I picked you as more of a Rose than a Heather. Doesn’t matter. Let's get the important stuff outta the way.”
Heather stands there stiffly, hands gripping tightly to her upper arms. She doesn’t know what exactly ‘the important stuff’ entails, or whether or not it’ll be painful. For every second Veronica considers her words, Chandler considers throwing her out the window and being done with this weirdness.
She doesn’t. It may have been a mistake.
Veronica’s storybook voice makes a return. “I swear upon my name that I will provide Heather with three favors, plus one of my choosing, that I am able to supply. In exchange, Heather will shield me from those who mean me harm to the best of her ability, so long as my work is not done.” Veronica meets Heather’s steely gaze. “Do you agree to these terms?”
“I do.”
When those two words leave Heather’s mouth, time slows. Her heart flutters in her chest, and she feels lightheaded, lighthearted, like she weighs nothing at all.
Then, Heather sees.
Sees the script, twisted, curling around Veronica’s form like ivy, black and red and gold staining grey-brown skin. Sees the blotted eyes, misshapen pupils, two drops of ink fallen from on high.
Speaking of ink…
Of course, Heather’s brain tells her. That’s how she knew you weren’t hunting her down, that you were human. Because you saw red, red blood, when all she saw was black.
That unreal second ticks over to the next, and everything returns to how it was.
“…You alright?” Veronica asks (and her eyes are brown, her skin is clear, had Heather seen anything at all?), “You looked supremely spooked there for a moment.”
“I’m fine,” is the automatic response. It’s a low hiss, like Chandler’s a cornered animal trying to warn away a threat.
Veronica’s brows knit, and Heather wonders what sort of spell she’s cast to make her usual snapping so transparent. Worse, there’s the possibility that Veronica hasn’t done anything at all, and the fault lies with her.
But Heather Chandler isn’t a failure.
“Black isn’t your color, either.” She huffs. Veronica looks down at her tattered shirt, and swallows. A confirmation that Heather is right.
“Well, I did warn you. Don’t know if I’m human anymore.” Veronica sort of… closes in on herself as she says it. Heather briefly feels something she can’t name clutching in her chest, and, as with most unpleasant sensations, she ignores them. “But, hey, I gotta focus on the positives. I’m out of the woods, and He’s not getting through that gate.”
Heather hums non-committally. She doesn’t really think ‘out of the woods’ is the right metaphor for it. ‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire’ is way more fitting. Veronica, pretty thing that she is, isn’t getting out unscathed from this deal. Not when she’s seen Heather at her worst.
She can’t be weak. No-one can know.
And she certainly doesn’t need a human notepad and a Faustian pact to keep people wrapped around her little finger. She is, after all, Heather Chandler.
She has her ways, and she’ll use all of them to keep this ball in her court.