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Heather Chandler never expects anyone to stay.
After all, it makes sense- any use people have for her is either as a rung on the ladder of popularity (good luck trying to beat out the demon queen) or as a sex doll. For most people, she was something to blame their anger on or fuck- like some kind of twisted mix of a sex doll and a punching bag. Most of all, she especially doesn't expect Veronica Sawyer to stay after drunken sex. Some people leave quicker than others, so Heather seeing the muddled-up brown hair of her Sawyer at 7:00 A.M. wasn't peculiar. The smarter ones left somewhere around 9 anyway, trying to fool Heather when she first opens her eyes before then to think Oh, he'll stay for once. Heather had gotten used to the charade, she'd gotten used to the sick mind of people who wanted to fool her into thinking he'd stay. She wasn't a dumb blonde by any definition and the people who thought so must've been even dumber than they thought she was.
Heather contemplates the previous night's events, turning her head on the pillow to face away from Veronica. Heather was somewhat of a lightweight, she'd admit. Most parties she drank sparingly, to have enough consciousness to reject any boys. She'd do it with some, still (she had a reputation to uphold), but some deserved her less than others. Boys didn't deserve her in general, but regardless.
Heather had gotten used to the act of fake drinking and acting drunk. She'd done her research, watched enough movies. Heather Duke had told her cinema was a largely unreliable medium as a whole, and that most things in movies were glamorized and exaggerated, but Heather Chandler simply hissed at her to "shut up, Heather" because she just needed to be believable, not reliable. And people always believed movies, no matter how fake they were.
Last night, however, Heather had taken Heather, Heather, and Veronica to a Remington party. The boys were pushier, wilder, and more demanding there. The Remington boys had then pushed her at said party to drink a ridiculous amount of beer(?) from a keg. Before any boy there had a chance to take advantage of have sex with her, Veronica had dragged Heather out on the account that she had a "family vacation" the next morning and she walked Heather out to her Porsche and drove her home. The rest of it remained mostly a blur, but Heather vaguely recounted an increasingly desperate moment where she straddled Veronica and practically begged for it. Veronica had been drunk too, but was the best driver. It was all a mess, and here she was, sleeping right next to Heather, determined to get up at any moment during the next three hours and depart.
☆★☆
Heather turns around to face where Veronica was and finds herself face to face with the wall. Heather expected this, she really did, but sometimes that childish instinct of hope still sticks with her. Heather groans, running a hand through her mussed hair and trying to take everything in. She heard the sound of pans clattering in the kitchen (though it seemed whoever was making the racket was trying to keep quiet), and the smell of something baking. Which is odd, considering it's a Saturday and her parents should be visiting her grandmother at the moment, and they hadn't made breakfast for her since she was eleven and they still had some kind of parental love for her. It's plausible that maybe the maids are hard at work, and they always do their business early on Saturdays so her parents can generously tip them and laugh in that obnoxious, snobby way that all adults with an average net worth about the same as Scrooge McDuck do.
It's all fake shit, but Heather gives it to the maids; they know how to milk it. They know how to work the adults with their lavish houses to get Benjamins in tips. Heather tries to be not completely catty to the maids if she passes them, considering they're skilled at the art of manipulation. Heather can appreciate people like that.
Heather sits up and drums her fingers on the silk sheets of her bed, pressing a hand to her forehead to attempt to process and think about who, exactly, would be the fuck in my kitchen?
Heather takes her robe off the headboard, and throws it on, tying it tightly around her waist. Whoever the fuck was in her kitchen wouldn't get the privilege of seeing her snatch, much less it being covered by lingerie. She gets up, sliding her feet into her slippers to open her bedroom door and go downstairs to find the kitchen invader. It was even more suspicious as she began to hear the whistle of some obscure pop song McNamara would know as she was making her way down the stairs. Heather nearly swung herself into the doorway to the kitchen, only to find-
Veronica.
Still here.
Making pancakes.
In her kitchen.
"Sawyer," Heather started, mouth agape.
Heather couldn't finish, however, due to the sight in front of her. Not because Veronica was making pancakes and still here at 9:00 A.M. in her kitchen, because of what Veronica was wearing.
Veronica was only wearing her lingerie and a dulled-out "KISS THE COOK" apron that hadn't been used in years, and had retreated to a place under the sink. Now, here it was, and wow.
Veronica was pretty, there was no denying that. The Heathers had deduced that ages ago when they had sought her out to become a Heather. Heather even remembers doing Veronica's measurements for a blazer, Mac and Duke hovering around Veronica to measure her as well. Heather had insisted Veronica make her own blazer because Christ on a stick, Heather, it's initiation. For a girl that was decently thin, Veronica had nice curves. Veronica wasn't thick by any standard of the word, but goddamn if she still had curves.
Heather is incredibly glad her years of pretending like nothing ever affects her because she's solid Teflon are coming to use at this very moment. She hadn't noticed Veronica was staring back at her until the sound of her voice snapped her back.
"Are you alright, Heather?"
"Obviously, you pillowcase. I just usually don't anticipate my drunken hookup making me pancakes at-" Heather steals a look at the clock on the oven- "-9:26 A.M. They're usually gone by now, so it's a little peculiar, wouldn't you agree?"
Veronica laughs warmly and flips a pancake. "Heather, Heather, Heather. You're the only person I know who'll be offended by your said drunken hookup making you pancakes."
Heather grumbles and sits down at the dining table. "They better be strawberry, Sawyer."
"Already on it," Veronica crooned, showing the underside of a pancake to Heather.
"Fuck me gently with a crowbar," Heather gasped, as the kitchen once more filled with the melodious sound of Veronica's laugh.
The kitchen stays silent for awhile after that, only being occupied by the sound of the pancakes sizzling on the griddle. Veronica is putting the pancakes on a plate when Heather finally opens her mouth again.
"You're the first one to stay, you know." She absentmindedly drummed her fingers on the table, looking to the side to avoid Veronica's gaze.
Veronica's grabbing another plate and forks when she snaps her head back to face Heather. "Really?"
"Yeah. Usually, the smart ones leave around 9, so when I woke up at 7 I expected you to leave soon enough, but-" Heather's voice drops a few decibels- "-you're still here."
Veronica is grabbing the syrup and making her way to the table when Heather says that, sitting down and dividing the pancakes between their plates evenly.
Veronica looks up at Heather, still looking away and grasps Heather's chin gently. Heather now has to face Veronica and God, is it the worst.
"Heather, I'm always going to be here."
The worst part is how, now, Heather doesn't expect her to leave.
☆★☆