Chapter Text
Veronica Sawyer was never quick to describe herself as a courageous person. That word was used for someone who didn't actively ignore reviews of her own writing, or who was once kicked out of the local bar for being too drunk at 2 PM on a Tuesday. A courageous person didn't just abandon her current job and coworkers without a phone call or email and decide to drive cross country to some haunted house out of spite.
Regardless, she was certain that the payoff would be spectacular. She couldn't afford it to be anything different than perfect.
As to why she wanted to stay at this haunted house to write a book that is near-destined to fail, she doesn't know why. All she does know is that after a quick search online of ‘most haunted buildings in North America', and here she was. Technically, it wasn't even considered that creepy in her mind, it was only ranked number #8 on the site.
This fact did nothing to appease her mother.
Despite the odds, Veronica uses the last of what little savings she has left, arms herself to the teeth with vodka and cigarettes, and begins the drive to the Westerberg Mansion, last officially lived in (according to the internet) in 1889. If anything, this managed to make her mother even more worried, as ‘there's no way that a house that old could have any sort of luxuries. What about pâté?'
Heather had just laughed a little until she realized that Veronica was serious. It's not a conversation anyone would particularly like to dwell on.
Driving cross country from Seattle to Ohio is, believe it or not, fairly boring. By the time she's halfway to her destination, she's seen countless McDonald's, drank an obscene amount of coffee, and slept in her car a total of four times. Five, if you didn't count the fact that it was day and she was stuck in three-hour traffic.
To help conquer the boredom she was certain that she wouldn't have to face, Veronica decides to actually do some research on the place. It's not particularly comforting, but then again, she's lived in discomfort her entire life for various reasons and with various people, so what's one more?
"The Westerberg Mansion is considered one of the most haunted houses in the United States. People who live there never survive for long, as their body is either found dead by the edge of the woods or at the front of the local police station. Authorities say that the victims always appear to have killed themselves in various ways, despite some reportedly not showing any symptoms of suicidal ideation before going. Locals claim that the place is filled with ghosts, however, authorities are quick to disregard those beliefs, instead urging citizens to talk to a professional about how they may be feeling, as well as avoiding the Westerberg Mansion. So far, since the explosion of 1889, over 50 people have lost their lives."
God, if Heather could see her now.
Another thing about driving cross country, Veronica soon realizes, is that the combination of coffee, a hatred of speed limits, and the suffocating fear that this damned book will be all she has left will get you pulled over. Of course this would happen twenty minutes after she enters Ohio.
There's a knocking on her car window, and she jumps, focuses on the officer on the other side of the glass instead of her own self-destruction. She lowers the window while shuffling some cigarettes around in an attempt to find the registration that she doesn't even know if she has.
"License and registration, miss."
She lets out a laugh, voice hoarse. "Haven't been called that in a while."
She has the vague notion that maybe somewhere she could be used in a ‘No Smoking' campaign.
"Ronnie?"
Oh fuck no.
"Haven't been called that in a while, either. How are you, Kurt?" She says, turning to face her old high school sweetheart, smile neatly plastered on her face. She hands him her license and registration that had been shoved away in the glove compartment, ignoring the way his hands brush against hers.
She lets her eyes wander as he processes the fact that she's actually here. He's finally grown a proper beard, not the sorry excuse of one he had when they were just kids. He looks older than she thought he'd be, and there's a tan line on his hand where a wedding ring should lay.
Who knew that Kurt had the capacity to settle down with a person, Veronica muses, even if it was only temporary.
The man of the hour meets her gaze, clearly trying to decide how to act in front of her. She can practically see the cogs turning in his head, and she finds little pleasure in imagining what outcome he'll pick.
Option 1) Appear as though she's just another person he's pulled over or Option B) Behave like the same old asshole that had thought he deserved a blowjob for simply existing.
He goes for a meld of the two, shuffling in a way that would have been charming if he wasn't a high school has been. "I'm alright, Ronnie. It's uh, it's nice to see you."
"It's nice to see you too, Kurt."
They stare at each other in a manner that would have been natural had their last exchange not consisted of him screaming obscenities and her punching him in the face. The glare of his badge hits her straight in the eyes, the words Officer Kelly becoming an imprint in her head.
When the fuck did Kurt Kelly become more successful than her?
"So, uh, does this mean you're moving back? Me and the rest of the guys really missed having you around. We all thought that you left for good, you know?"
She averts his gaze, the conversation getting far too close to the past than what she's comfortable with.
"Kurt, I'd love to talk more, but I just want to know if I'm going to be getting a ticket or not."
"Veronica, you were going 40 miles above the speed limit, you're-" He stops himself, slowly leans in and rests his hand on the roof of her car. "Are you okay? You uh, you don't look so good."
And damn anyone who says she should have gotten over him faster.
She forces the smile back onto her face, teeth gritted. She may still have an ounce of affection for him when he's not acting like an absolute asshole, but that doesn't excuse the fact that he's the one asking the question. Not Heather.
"I'm fine."
Kurt, to his credit, doesn't seem convinced. He does nothing about it, merely nodding, the memory of a furious Veronica Sawyer giving him more anxiety than he cares to admit.
"Okay."
She huffs out a sigh, chipping away at her already ruined nail polish. "So? Am I getting a ticket?"
"Wouldn't be right to give one to my prom date."
"Right. What's the catch, Kurt?"
He manages to look hurt- as if he wasn't the one who practically invented getting what he wanted.
"No catch, Ronnie. Just uh, if you're staying in town for a bit, you're always welcome at the Letterman. Me and the guys would really appreciate it."
Fuck.
She shifts away from him a tad, digs her nails into her jeans.
He continues, seemingly unaware of her ever-present discomfort. "Do you know if Heather's coming too? Or Mac? They usually followed you around everywhere."
"They're not coming."
Silence again.
"So," she starts up, "I should get going if I want to beat the traffic."
Kurt lifts his head, gazes at the empty road ahead. "Right."
"Right."
"Well, it sure was good to see you again, Ronnie." He gives her one last lingering stare before heading back to his police car.
She looks back at him through the rearview mirror, the thought that she could have been married to that version of Kurt making her tense up for reasons she'll never say. Nevertheless, he gets in the car, turns on the engine, and leaves without a parting glance.
Once Veronica is sure he's driven away, certain she'll never have to see him again, does she start up her car and drive.
And if anyone ever asks, the crescent-shaped marks on her thigh was just some freak accident.