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When she hears heels clicking down the steps of the Whyte Wyrm long after last call, Toni knows exactly who it is. Cheryl's always been a dog with a bone.
"I told you, it's closed."
"Yes, I heard you. You can go now."
Toni can hear two sets of feet now rounding the landing that curves around her office booth - the sharp, rapid pace of Cheryl's and the solid thumping of Tabitha's sneakered gait as she stomps to keep up. She tries to meet them at the bottom, but it takes her longer than it once did to lever herself out of her low armchair tucked into a crowded corner.
She doesn't quite make it out before they reach the basement proper.
Cheryl marches to the bar with a quickness, her head whipping around - in search of Toni herself, she's sure - and Tabitha races in front of her, cutting her off from getting further into the floor. She stops just short of putting her hands on Cheryl but she crosses her arms and squares her stance and Toni knows it'll come to blows if Cheryl pushes any further. Cheryl seems to know it too and looks positively ready for it. "Where is she? She's supposed to be here now." Her words come out in a rush, almost tripping over themselves.
"I don't know what you're talking about - the bar is closed."
Cheryl waves her hand at Tabitha like she's a particularly loud fly, far too close to the other woman's face to be anything but provocation. "She's meant to be here. Did she leave early? Was she ill?"
"If that was your business you'd already know. The bar is closed," Tabitha repeats, her tone short and her temper shorter.
Cheryl looks personally affronted, her face twisting into a greek mask of offense. "Of course it's my business. Who even are you?"
Toni hauls herself around the corner, finally, a bit breathless. "Don't be rude, Cheryl. The bar is closed," she huffs, leaning against the wall. Cheryl turns on her, then, face tight with the indignity of being scolded in front of a stranger. The look is surely meant to be more threatening than it actually is and Toni just raises her eyebrow in response, daring her to say something else. Cheryl, wisely, does not. The smugness doesn't show in her voice or face, but it's there all the same when she gives Tabitha her attention. "It's ok, I know her."
That's enough to make Tabitha unclench a little and she turns around, stepping sideways to pointedly cut Cheryl out of their conversation. "I know a lot of people that I don't want bothering me in the middle of the night. Want me to stay?"
"I'm good," Toni assures her, both of them ignoring Cheryl's scoff and the irritated tack tack tack of her sharp heels tapping.
It doesn't endear her to Tate, who looks like she'd much rather throw Cheryl out on her ass. "Drunk shift is almost over. I'll be ready to go after I finish up some stuff for the rest of the third."
"Just let me know when you're good to go," Toni says and Tabitha waves her off, not sparing another glance at Cheryl by the bar before trotting back upstairs to handle the tail end of the late-night rush. The Blossom, in turn, looks at Toni expectantly - waiting for an explanation for something that isn't, in fact, her business. It takes all she has not to give in to Cheryl's mood. "You should be nicer to her," Toni says instead, crossing over to put the bar between them and bracing her arms wide against the edge of it. "She probably buys more syrup than anyone else in this town."
Brown eyes narrow and Cheryl has never, ever, been accused of being subtle. "Who is she?" She asks, her voice sharp. And what is she to you? goes unsaid. The hum in Toni's voice puts her on edge and she ignores the way that Toni pats the bar in front of her in the universal sign for "have a seat".
"You know who she is. She runs Pop's shop. Well, it's her shop now. She sends me people trying to dance off dinner and I send her drunk bikers who'll eat anything you set in front of them. It's a symbiotic relationship," Toni allows, running the fingers of one hand over the pitted bartop.
Cheryl bristles at the word. Relationship. Toni sees her irritation in the way she flexes - throws her hair back, thrusts her chest forward, sits on the stool at the corner of the bar and crosses her legs at the knee to reveal a truly lethal amount of pale thigh between the top of her knee-highs and the hem of her dress. The way Toni rolls her eyes at her doesn't improve Cheryl's dour mood, but she doesn't say anything as the other woman moves down the bar to stand in front of her. The fact that Toni is unaffected by her mood or her actions makes her more frustrated.
Toni lightly slaps the counter in front of her and it works to distract Cheryl momentarily. "I want you to try something; I need an expert opinion," she says, turning to grab a tall, clear glass from a shelf. Cheryl watches her mix a drink - bright red syrup, a dash of powder, all stirred together as she fills it with club soda from the bar nozzle. She tops it with maraschino cherries and a straw.
When she brings the finished drink back to Cheryl she has the bottle of powder with her and sets it on the bar, too. Acid Phosphate, it says in a font reminiscent of snake oil salesman and old western tonics made of quicksilver or cocaine. "It gives the drink a bite without having to cut the flavor with a lemon taste," Toni explains, crossing her arms on the counter and leaning on them in a way that Cheryl finds very distracting. Her loose, black linen crop top might have been almost modest ten years ago but the way she's filled out makes it feel positively sinful to Cheryl.
Cheryl takes the drink to distract herself, holding it under her nose. She doesn't smell liquor, just - "It's a cherry phosphate," she realizes. Toni nods with the fondest grin and Cheryl all but melts for it - she was cross just a moment ago but she can't possibly hold that flame when all she wants to do is press her face to the sweet apples of Toni's cheeks.
Toni bites her lip as she waits for Cheryl to taste. Cheryl does - she'd drink nightshade and rye if Toni only set it before her and asked - and she's rewarded with bubbles and tart cherry on her tongue and that beloved, beatific smile aimed at her. "Good?"
"It's delicious."
Toni exhales like a pressure release valve as if she was genuinely worried. It needles at Cheryl's heart that her opinion means anything to Toni at all. "I've been trying to find a good syrup for a wild cherry phosphate cocktail. I haven't been able to taste test liquors for awhile -" she punctuates her point by leaning back to highlight the bare expanse of her belly, her skirt hanging low on her hips in a way that makes Cheryl very much want to touch it, "- so I've been making syrups myself. I used maple sugar for this one." She leans over more, until Cheryl is concerned that her stomach must be pressed painfully against the bartop. "You do good work over there, Blossom."
There's a pang. A bitter aftertaste. She averts her eyes to the pile of detritus on the bartop corner - a large, skull-shaped jar, an old-fashioned telephone, a mix of wood and tin and glass bowls filled with all manner of things. Her fingers move to touch the contents of the wooden dish - beads and buttons and matchbooks and loose coins.
"Ugh, I don't know what to do with this stuff," Toni groans. If she notices Cheryl's aversion, she doesn't comment on it. Instead, she pokes at the contents of a frosted glass bowl. It seems to be mostly half-burnt votive candles and loose bits of folded receipts. She sees a paper flower mixed in. "Every time I leave for a day, I come back and Sweet Pea's turned it into some kind of shrine," she says, waving over Cheryl's shoulder. Cheryl pushes off the bar with one foot, swiveling the stool until she can see it. The painting. Hanging at point of pride, lit from above like a museum piece amidst the graffiti and faded posters plastered to the walls. She feels another pang, like her ribs are pressing against the bruise on her heart. "It's fucking weird," Toni says, half amused and half confused.
It's perfect, Cheryl thinks. The idea appeals; a homegrown saint - an autochthonous goddess - who accepts her tithes in good works. She regards the offerings with new eyes, fingers playing over the smooth surface of a glass snake-eye marble. "You kept it," she states; asks.
Toni's mouth purses and her brow furrows. "Of course I did. Cheryl, you made that for me. What did you think I'd do with it?"
She hadn't thought about it at all. It had hurt too much.
Again, Toni doesn't push. She was always gentler than Cheryl deserved that way. Her fingers reach into the wooden bowl, brushing against Cheryl's own, and fish out several coins to deposit into the skull tip jar. "I like the ones who use it as a comment box though," she says, kindly brushing past Cheryl's emotional hiccup once more. She draws one scrap of note out, unfolding and flattening it between her fingertips. "'Please, Serpentina, I'm begging you to get a decent whiskey'," she quotes with a laugh bubbling in her throat. She tosses it aside lightly, leaning down on her arms once more. "Most of them are complaining about what's on tap."
"Ungrateful," Cheryl snipes toothlessly.
The other woman laughs and it's lovely. "It's fair though. I've been focusing on the cocktail menu a lot, but this is still the Whyte Wyrm. Can't neglect the basics." Her nails rap against the lacquered wood in a staccato. "But you didn't come here to talk about the decor or the menu."
The reminder snaps Cheryl's spine straight. She may be weak to Toni's feminine wiles, but she did come here with a purpose. "My River Vixens."
"Riverdale's cheer squad," Toni corrects, incorrectly.
"My Vixens," Cheryl repeats with self-righteous fervor.
Toni eyes her warily. "If you want the name changed-"
"Of course not," she snaps. "A rose by any other name is still my legacy!"
On the other side of the bar, Toni stands up straight and crosses her arms under her chest. Cheryl studiously looks nowhere but her face - she doesn't think Toni has ever looked so close to angry at her before.
"If you want to talk about being involved, we can do that, Cheryl. I'd love that. But I need to make this very clear. These are kids, not conscripts. They came to me to restart the squad. They put together their own auditions, filled out the team by themselves. They've been running their own practices, teaching themselves routines off of Viewtube, they've decided that they want to be competitive, and they're putting together plans for fundraisers to help hire a coach - all on their own. They are not minions you can boss around or dolls you can play with until you get bored."
It feels like a slap in the face. "Is that what you think of me?"
"Of course not," Toni sighs with mounting exhaustion. "But these kids are my priority. If you want to be involved, they have to be your priority too."
Cheryl pouts, stung. "I've always done the best for my Vixens."
"I know that. Cheryl, I was there. I'm just saying… these girls don't want to be just a dance squad. They want to compete, nationally. And, honestly? I kind of need them to." Toni sighs again, rubbing her forehead as if she can smooth the stress away before propping her head on her palm and staring down at the countertop. "I invested a lot of money into them that the school can't afford to waste. I can't tell them that. But, Cher… I'm really counting on them. Bringing back the football team was probably a safer bet, but these girls were willing to put the work in and they deserved it. And, yeah, I was kind of biased. I loved being on the Vixens." She laughs, choked and tight, and lifts her head to look Cheryl in the eyes again. "Do you get it?"
Cheryl thinks she does. It's clear she's shouldering the burden of Riverdale's future and it's a heavy one. "If you want more funding, you need only ask," she offers. Toni shakes her head, jaw clenched.
"You aren't an ATM, Cheryl. You've given so much already, but this isn't a problem I can keep throwing money at. We just needed enough to stop the hemorrhaging. If we're going to survive long-term, Riverdale needs to prove it's a town with a culture worth preserving. And what better way to do that than with a cheer squad? We are the town with pep, after all." She says it with a playful flourish, waving her hands in a pantomime of a cheer routine. But there's an undercurrent of desperation that bleeds through until Toni sinks into her hands again, resting heavily on the bartop.
Cheryl longs to reach out and hold her. She'd do anything to lift this weight from her. "It might just be cheaper to have Hiram killed," she says, holding her glass with both hands and sipping idly to keep herself from grabbing tight to her golden idol and never letting go. Toni laughs - a bark of surprise that makes Cheryl feel full on the knowledge that she can still do this one thing right.
"Wouldn't be as satisfying, though," Toni says, with soft eyes all on her.
Cheryl smacks her lips in thought. "Hmm. Debatable." She tries not to look directly at those soft eyes. It might blind her, like staring into an eclipse.
A hand rests itself against her own and Cheryl very nearly can't stand how easy it is for Toni to touch and how very much her body misses it. Toni's kind, patient hand cups the back of her own, and loving fingers stroke once against her wrist before settling onto her skin. The contrast of cold glass and warm flesh makes her shiver. "I can call you this week. About coming and sitting in on a practice."
Cheryl clears her throat. She's fighting against herself, wanting to throw Toni's hands off her before she cracks right down the middle and also to stay perfectly still so that maybe her touch will hold her together. "That… that won't be necessary."
Toni's grip squeezes her wrist and Cheryl finds herself amused by the playful suspicion in her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She clears her throat again, straightening up so she at least looks like she isn't about to fly apart at the slightest sign of affection like some sad stray. "I promise that I won't attempt to pull a Ms. Pearbottom on them."
Toni frowns in confusion. "Are you talking about Ms. Appleyard?"
Cheryl sips her drink, bored. "Doesn't ring a bell."
"You're ridiculous," Toni praises, so fond that Cheryl can't keep the ghost of a smile from emerging at the corner of her mouth. "And it sounds to me like you plan on barging into my school and just don't want me to be there."
"Your school, hmm?"
The other woman shrugs, one hand shifting to drape over the top of her belly. "Someone has to take responsibility for it."
And if that isn't Toni Topaz to a T - taking on burdens that were never hers to bear. A true martyr - she'd loathe that look on anyone else but Toni has always worn it very well.
"I'll call you when I arrive at practice," Cheryl attempts to compromise.
"My schedule is packed, Cheryl, work with me here," Toni asks, stroking her wrist gently. Feminine wiles, Cheryl curses, and Toni smirks with the knowledge of exactly what she's doing.
She huffs and puffs and blusters and capitulates - she was never going to do anything else. "I will call you the day before," she allows, finally. "I intend to visit the maples, so it probably won't be until midweek."
"How's that going?"
She's sure Toni doesn't mean for it to be a mortar shell of a question, but it feels like one still. "It goes," she dissembles. "We've managed to stay in the black, through all this."
"I heard you were expanding," Toni probes, for once not letting Cheryl evade so easily.
That doesn't stop her from trying. "Keeping tabs on me, are you?" It's no less than Cheryl herself has done, and they both know it.
"I know a few people who do seasonal work at the maple farm. Apparently, you came into some new land and started planting a year or two back."
Cheryl curls the fingers of her free hand into a fist, furious all anew. "Then you already know it was an abject failure, so why are we talking about it?"
Her tone is cruel, sharp, but Toni takes it in stride. "It sounded like it was going really well until the fire."
"Another accident in the long line that started with my birth. I've decided to let the forest reclaim that failure," she snaps, pulling her hands into her lap and gripping them until they burn from the constricted blood. "It was hubris that led me to try to expand the Blossom lands we stole."
"Cher, you hire a lot of people in this town. Probably more than anyplace else, maybe even more than Hiram's prison. That's not nothing. Just because it didn't work out doesn't mean it was wrong to try," Cheryl twists her face away, as if not being able to see Toni could also deafen her to the forgiveness she offers. "Hiram wanted that land," Toni says.
Cheryl scoffs. "I went over the footage from the security cabin myself. It was a freak accident."
"There are no coincidences in Riverdale, Cheryl. I'd bet my stake in this place that Hiram did it," Toni says with all the confidence of Cassandra. "You can't blame yourself for it, even if it was just an accident. I'm really proud of you for trying."
The pronouncement couldn't have hurt more if Toni had smashed her over the head with a bottle of subpar whiskey at the same time. She feels she may die from this kindness.
Toni comes around the bar, taking her time. She approaches like one would a skittish doe, reaching out to cup Cheryl's cheek and kiss her sweetly on the forehead. "It's late, Cher. We both need sleep."
"You shouldn't drive home," Cheryl says. "I'll call you a car."
Toni smiles and strokes her thumb against pale, slightly clammy skin. "Tab is gonna drive me home, Fangs'll bring me to get my bike in the morning. Would you like to kiss me goodnight?" The question blindsides her and it shows. Toni smiles with all her perfect teeth and it disarms the rapidly growing panic inside Cheryl easily. She still can't bring herself to do it though, turning away and shaking her head shamefully. "Ok. It's a standing offer."
"A dangerous game, Toni Topaz," Cheryl says, trying her best to be light and not as scared as her quivering insides reveal her to be.
The other woman, her smile regal and sly, only laughs. "I'm not afraid of you, Cheryl Blossom. Now get out of my bar." That gentle hand gives her an affectionate squeeze, softening her words.
Cheryl moves to do as she's bid as Toni slips away, back to her office.
The painting is there when she turns around, right at the bottom of the stairs, and she's overcome with a strange humor as she observes it and the discarded offerings nearby. She digs in her bag for a slip of paper - an old receipt for an emergency bottle of acetone - and presses a kiss to it. There is a prayer - a formless thing; a pact with all the devils that follow her - and she tucks her sacrifice into the little tin dish by the phone.
Upstairs she sees the Tate who now owns Pop's behind the till, closing up a bill on a lone table of three in a corner booth. She wants to leave, but not more than she wants to do right by Toni. So she musters up her resources and marches over, face impassive as Tabitha Tate looks her up and down and squares off. "I want to apologize for how I acted. I was… I am sorry."
The look she gets is a considering one. "Ok. No hard feelings," Tabitha says carefully. Cheryl doesn't know how sincere it is but… no one can say she didn't try.
She turns to leave and through the glass she sees Toni's bike - abandoned for the night. It makes her pause. "And thank you," she starts. Tabitha looks at her, a bit suspicious. "For watching out for Toni."
"She's my friend," Tabitha replies, as if that's all there is to it. Cheryl supposes it is. It's the closest to an accord she suspects they'll come, this night.
There is nothing else for them to say, so she leaves. The door tinkles merrily behind her.