Chapter Text
Velma hadn’t meant to worry.
Shaggy disappeared sometimes, missed a meet-up, slept through a morning, got lost in his own head. But never like this. Two days without the pier, without a call, without even Scooby barreling toward her with a slobbery grin.
That wasn’t him.
So, she dressed carefully, even though she told herself it didn’t matter. A soft beige lace trimmed cami tucked in just right, to the orange shorts her mother hated, they were too short, too modern, too Daphne. Velma had rolled her eyes when her mom complained, but she wore them anyway. Daphne had said they looked good. Velma trusted Daphne about fashion, even if she pretended not to.
White platform sandals slapped softly against the pavement as she walked, the summer air thick and humming. Graduation was behind them now, no more bells, no more schedules. Freedom was supposed to feel lighter than this. And ahead of her was Cornell University, her acceptance letter framed on her family's dining wall.
Shaggy’s house loomed quiet.
She knocked once on the blue door. Nothing.
She knocked again, sharper this time, and froze when she heard it a muffled bark from somewhere inside. Scooby. But he didn’t come running. Didn’t scratch at the door. Didn’t whine.
Her stomach tightened.
“Shag?” she called, fingers already curling around the doorknob. She hesitated, her parents would hate this, but she’d been in this house a hundred times before. They’d grown up together. If something was wrong…
She pushed the door open.
The house smelled stale, like sweat and unwashed sheets. Too quiet. No music. No laughter. No clatter from the kitchen.
“Shaggy? It’s me,” she called, her voice echoing up the stairs.
Still nothing.
Velma climbed slowly, every step louder than the last. Scooby should have met her by now. He always did.
She stopped outside Shaggy’s bedroom door and knocked.
“…come in,” came a muffled voice.
Her breath caught.
She opened the door and immediately saw the blankets, one tangled heap, two shapes beneath it. A pair of ears lifted first. Not small anymore. Scooby Doo’s big head turned toward her, eyes soft and tired. “Oh,” Velma said quietly. “Hey there, Scooby.”
He didn’t wag his tail. He just whimpered.
Her chest tightened.
She stepped closer and gently tugged the blanket back. Heat rolled out—sweat-soaked sheets clinging to skin in the middle of summer. Ridiculous, really. Shaggy hated being hot.
Shaggy didn’t look up.
He sat hunched, arms folded tight, chin resting on his forearms, eyes locked on the blanket like it held all the answers he didn’t want to see.
Something cracked inside her.
She reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder through a loose white T-shirt. No wild colors. No patterns. Just plain cotton. That alone scared her.
“Shag,” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing.
She rubbed his shoulder, gentle but insistent. “Shaggy.”
Finally, he lifted his head.
His eyes were brown with the those pretty flecks of green always had been, but now they looked hollow, like something had been scooped out of them and left behind. No spark. No fear. Just… absence. His nose was swollen, giving it a bulbous appearance and redden terribly.
“You’re scaring me,” Velma whispered.
His hair was tangled, damp with sweat, falling into his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Or eaten.
“You hungry?” she asked, grasping for something, anything, that might pull him back.
His gaze flicked past her shoulder. To the desk. Her stomach dropped.
“Is it… on the desk?” she asked quietly.
He blinked once. Then nodded.
Velma turned slowly, dread crawling up her spine. The desk was a mess—books, clothes, old notebooks—but there it was. A single crumpled sheet of paper, half-hidden beneath everything else.
She picked it up.
Unfolded it.
Read.
The world tilted.
Her knees gave out and she collapsed onto the carpet, the paper crushed in her fist, the beige fibers blurring beneath her eyes. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure Shaggy could hear it.
Not them.
Not now.
Not so young.
She turned back to him slowly, like moving might shatter something fragile. One word fell from her lips, broken and disbelieving.
“Drafted.”
Her breath shook. She swallowed hard.
“You’ve been drafted?” The seal was hard to miss the official government seal signed by a judge. She didn’t know what to say.
So, she just looked at him.
At the faint green flecks in his eyes, at the way they refused to meet hers, like if he didn’t look up it might not be real. She waited for him to speak. for anything. A joke. A shrug. A lazy grin and a “like, gotcha” that would make her feel stupid for panicking.
Nothing came.
What were you supposed to say to someone who’d been drafted?
She’d heard about it, of course. Everyone had. But it always felt distant, something that happened to other people, older people. Not Shaggy. Not someone who still smelled like the pier and saltwater and cheap cologne. Not someone who’d only just turned eighteen.
They were barely adults.
God- he had just turned eighteen. How could they look at him and decide he belonged in a war?
Shaggy. The pothead. Everyone knew it, even if no one said it out loud. The boy who laughed too loud, scared too easy, tripped over his own feet on a good day. The boy who yapped all day about love and what his next snack would be. How was he supposed to survive something like that?
Who would protect him?
Who would bring him home? The thought cracked her open.
She didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred and her chest ached. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, holding tight like she could anchor him there. It was hot, too hot, but she felt cold anyway, clammy and unsteady, like the ground had shifted beneath her.
“I’ll be back,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I’ll be back.”