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sprnklersplashes · 5 years ago

Text

not beyond repair (15/?)

AO3

Seven months earlier.

JD bites on his nail, like the action is going to stop the seemingly bottomless pit that’s forming in his stomach. He scoffs at himself, hidden from view in the backseat. He’s being stupid. It’s just another foster home. Just another foster home which he can handle, and apparently, can handle him this time around. Handle him and all his baggage.

Except it’s not just another foster home. It’s another foster home in Sherwood, Ohio. The last place he saw his dad. The last place he had a real home… he guesses. He doesn’t go as far as saying a real family because the only thing that bonded him and his father together was the blood in their veins. DNA, numbers and letters that mean nothing to him and never did. But still. The car drives past his-their-old house and he can’t help but shrink down in his seat. In the front yard, he sees a little girl with pigtails trying and failing to make a tricycle move forwards, her mom hanging sheets out on the line. Not a care in the world. When that kid goes to bed, her mom’s probably going to be tucking her in and reading her bedtime stories and telling her she loves her. They’re the antithesis of what was there before them.

If those walls could talk, what would they say? The story of a little kid making dinner for his dad and a fridge with more booze than actual food in it. For a moment, he feels like he’s there, back in the kitchen, standing on a chair to reach the stove, money he’s earned sitting on the counter. He gasps before he can stop himself and tears his eyes away from the window, blocking it out. He imagines the past behind him, dissolving into the exhaust fumes, and it helps. Sort of.

“Are you okay, Jason?” He nods weakly, mumbling a half-response. His social worker nods in the front seat, but she’s unconvinced, as per usual. He can bullshit foster moms and owners of group homes and other nosy/concerned kids, but not her. Never her.

There were endless arguments about sending him here. Some with him in the room and some behind closed doors with him pressing his ear to the wall. He even did that trick with an empty glass. The same phrases kept coming up and going around, like those little toy trains the kids in his home played with, endlessly circling around the same tracks. “His father” “an unhealthy environment” “bring back memories” “he’s made a lot of progress”. He could rhyme them off the same way he could rhyme off his favourite poetry.

But then his social worker Aimee piped up, calm as the morning sea “well, Jason has told me he enjoyed Sherwood”. And behind the door, JD had pumped his fist in victory. “He said he had even made his friends there. Maybe going back to a familiar setting will be good for him.”

And that’s the other thing. Sherwood, Ohio isn’t just where he had last seen his father… it was where he had last seen Miss Veronica Sawyer. The girl who had kissed him in the playground and held him tightly until he had to leave. His first real friend. Maybe more than that. They never really got to dinner and movies.

He had been looking around since they passed the beaten up ‘Welcome to Sherwood’ sign, as if she was going to pop up the moment he crossed the town line. When they stop at a traffic light, he sneaks a glance at the car beside them, wondering if maybe he’ll see that wild mane of dark hair, a denim jacket swung over a floral dress the way only she could pull off. Maybe he’d hear her laugh, loud and carefree, and he’d-

He’d what exactly? Run up to her and shout “surprise, it’s me?” Or maybe something a little more charming. Ask her if she had missed him. Would she have missed him? He got that letter she sent him all that time ago. Slept with it under his pillow. Kept it folded carefully in his jacket pocket, and then between the pages of his book, read it until the ink burned onto the backs of his eyelids. But maybe she didn’t feel the same. Maybe she read his reply and tossed it aside, went back to her normal life of sleepovers and homecooked meals and geography projects.

The thought terrifies him.

Still, he’s due to start (restart) at Westerberg next week. Maybe he’ll get his answer then.

They pull up outside of a small house, red brick and lace curtains, silver Ford parked in the driveway. Potted plants in front of the blue front door and a sloped roof. It looks exactly like its pictures, he guesses. Nothing special. It’s a lot smaller than what he’s used to, but he was told to expect that. No other kids in here, just him. He’s not sure how he feels about that. He supposes he’s grateful for the privacy and tranquillity, but he’s grown used to having kids of all ages running around at his feet and hiding under the table and jumping on his back as he tries to do homework. It’ sort of became comforting to him. And well…. He never disliked having them hang around and ask about his books or be asked to fix a TV or glue a Barbie back together.

“Here we are,” Aimee says.

“Home sweet home,” he replies, swinging his backpack onto his shoulder and getting out of the car. There’s a chill in the air that penetrates through his coat and hits deep down in his gut as he gets his other bag out of the trunk. His entire life is in these two bags and not for the first time, he feels how sadly light they are.

He bites on the inside of his cheek as he and Aimee walk up to the door, skirting past the patch of grass that’s growing slightly wild in front of the house. He would say he doesn’t know why he’s so nervous but let’s be real-of course he does. Who wouldn’t be? He’s done this once before and thought maybe this time would be easier. Maybe this time it would be easier to stand on someone’s doorstep and silently beg them to like him.

He was wrong. Somehow it’s more terrifying, despite him having overheard Aimee tell people that this woman-Claire-has experience with kids like him. He takes her word for it, having only spoken to Claire on the phone, once, for her to tell him how happy she is to have him. He doesn’t know if all that makes him less relaxed or more.

“Hi there.” He was so lost in himself he didn’t even notice the door opening. He’s not sure what he imagined, but she’s small, messy brown hair back in a half-braid and glasses perched on top of her head, pink sweater slightly too big for her, hanging over her floral print jeans. Her looks match her voice, he thinks. He guesses that greeting was directed at Aimee too, but he can’t know for sure, because all her attention is on him. The soft way in which her mouth turns up into a smile is painfully comforting to him, the open sincerity in her eyes scares him and almost draws him in. He doesn’t want to get too secure here. Comfortable yes, but not secure. Miss it when he leaves, but so much that it hurts.

“Hey,” he says after a while, realising he hasn’t spoken.

“Nice to meet you, Jason,” she says, holding out her hand. “Officially.”

“Thanks,” he says, shaking her hand. “You too.”

She steps back, opening the door a little more, the sun shining on wooden floors and white-painted walls, and lets him come in. He almost feels too big for this place. Like he’ll move in the wrong direction and snap something in half.

“I’ll show you your room,” Claire tells him warmly. There’s something about her gentle voice and seemingly real smile that make his stomach flip. Something that makes him either want to run out of this house and never stop or follow her up the stairs. He picks the latter.

She doesn’t do anything when she opens the door. Every other place he’s been in open it dramatically, flourishing arms, one even did a “ta-da!”, like they were showing him the grand ballroom on the Titanic. Claire simply props the door open with the same smile she’s had since they met and leans against it. Maybe she knows he’s a little too old for those kind of theatrics. The silence leaves him to take in the tidied bed and empty shelves, the spotless rug on the floor and TV set up in the corner.

“I get a TV?” he asks, a laugh lining the edge of his voice.

“One of the perks of being the only kid here,” she replies, folding her arms and shrugging. “Got it for one of my first placements. It’s a little old, but it’s in colour at least.” With his back to her, he smiles. He may not use it that much, but he feels like there’s some deep part of him that’s just glad it’s there. Like he’s high-fiving his little twelve year old self. “I know you’re used to group homes. Think you’ll cope well here?”

“Well there’s no one to steal my food or draw in my books,” he says flatly, making Claire chuckle. “I’ll be fine here.”

“Good. Cool. Also you’re set to start at school next week.”

“Westerberg High,” he says, toying with the edge of his coat. He burrows into it out of habit. Like if she sees more trench coat than person, she won’t see what’s going on inside.

“You know… I have talked it over with Aimee,” Claire begins. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her picking at her nails. “If you want, you can go somewhere else.”

“You and I both know there’s no other schools in this town,” he sighs, sitting down on the bed, half-facing her. “Except for that Catholic school and I’ll be damned if I….” His voice trails off when he catches sight of her. Her mouth is still turned up into a smile, but it doesn’t look real anymore, like someone took a sticker and put it on her face. She holds her wrist tightly, twisting it in her hand. He’d been around enough to recognise a nervous habit when he sees one and wishes he could stuff the stupid shit he said back inside of him. He can’t though, so he clears his throat and offers her what he hopes is a friendly grin. “I’ll be fine there, really.” He shrugs. “And maybe it’s fate. You know if I’d have stayed here with my dad, I’d have ended up at Westerberg anyway.”

An unspoken ‘yeah right’ hangs in the air. They both know if he had stayed with his dad, he’d have been out of Sherwood in three months, max. As long as it took for his dad to find a new job somewhere else. He suppresses a sigh, the wave of self-pity looming over him and threatening to crash. He guessed he was always going to leave Sherwood, leave Westerberg, leave Veronica. He just left quicker than he expected. At least this time around, he’s got a written guarantee that he’s here until he graduates high school. And three verbal ones, just to make sure.

“I’ll let you unpack,” Claire says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Get settled in. I have some stuff to talk about with Aimee anyway. T’s to cross, I’s to dot.” He nods, knowing what she means, of course. She’s not the type to say ‘okay well I’m off downstairs to talk about your many, many problems and what therapist you’re going to and what medications you need and what you get like on the bad days’. He flinches at an old memory, of him creeping downstairs and listening behind a kitchen door to a woman lamenting on the phone that she couldn’t cope with him. At least his experience of foster care went up from there.

“Cool,” he says.

“And I was thinking for dinner… do you like risotto?” she asks. “It’s an old family recipe. I only wheel it out on special occasions.”

So now he’s special?

He tries not to smile too much at that.

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Claire heads downstairs, leaving the door slightly open, exposing a sliver of the white walls of the hallway. He sets about putting his clothes on hangers, arranging his books on the shelf. Outside, the September sun turns lawns and sidewalks golden, playing a trick on him, telling him it’s still summer. He leans against the glass, watching mums and dads and kids and teenagers walking and running. He finds himself looking for messy brown hair and scolds himself for being creepy. Instead he looks beyond his new neighbours, his eyes drawn to the building looming in the distance. Westerberg High. Building a semi-decent home life, that’s one thing. He’s gotten kind of okay at that. All he really needs is the right people and Claire hasn’t set off any warning bells so far. But school… Veronica aside, building a good school life is another thing. So far his grades have ranged from below average to fair and his social life from decent to dismal. His breath fogs up the glass, spreading across until the school is nothing but a smudge in the distance.

“Okay, Ohio,” he says, shrugging off his coat and tossing it on the bed. “Let’s make it a good one this time.”

*****

Present Day

He gets better.

It takes time. Some days are better than others. Some days he sits and laughs and makes jokes and throws grapes into MacNamara’s open mouth. Some days he passes Veronica little notes during study hall, compliments written in tiny scribbles with a badly drawn cartoon. Some days he spins her under his arm as they walk home together. And some days… some days he walks slowly and takes deep breaths before going into the cafeteria. Some days he holds her hand that much tighter and buries his face in her shoulder when they hug.

But she feels him coming back to her, the bad days getting fewer and further between.

He apologises to her, whispering ‘I’m sorry’ against her collarbone, and it tears at her heart every time. She kisses his head and tells him that it’s okay, that he’s forgiven, completely forgiven, and he will be in the future too. For the present she just holds him, playfully kissing his hair and nuzzling into his shoulder, smiling against him and watching the sun breaking through the grey clouds.

*****

When he comes out of his therapist’s office on Friday, Claire’s car is parked right outside, one of three on the street. Friday night, everyone else’s cars are in the drive, after long weeks at work or school or whatever. And she’s here instead, sitting in the front of her car with her sudoku book waiting for him, after driving all the way across town to pick him up.

“Hey, kid,” she greets brightly, marking her page with her pen and sliding it into the glove compartment.

“How many did you get?” he asks.

“Two by the time you got out,” she says proudly. “Next time maybe take a little longer in there and I can make it three in a row.”

He laughs, but it’s half hearted. He’s been in for longer than usual these past weeks, sessions sometimes running five or even ten minutes overtime and he’s just glad he’s the last one she sees before closing. Still, as time goes on, his mind gets brighter, and he’s sure they’ll be back to their regular, done-at-five-on-the-dot schedule.

He follows her into the house, swinging his backpack from his hand, toying with it like it’s a weight, while Claire makes inquiries about what he wants for dinner, telling him about some new curry recipe she stumbled upon that she’s been dying to try out.

Rather than giving a vague answer and running up to his room, JD leans on the table and discards his jacket, listening to her as she takes stuff out of the fridge and flips through a magazine. It wasn’t too long ago now when he was sitting here, his eyes vacant, his blood cold, with her sitting opposite him, pushing a plate of food in front of him and rubbing his back while he let out everything, a million thoughts and memories rushing out of his mouth and painting the room red with his anger, grey with his grief. And she had stood there and held him in the midst of that hurricane. She was there until he dragged his ass back up to bed and even after that.

He thinks he should know by now that she gets paid for this, and she’s a nice enough person to do it for anyone else, but there’s a familiarity that’s both soothing and scary, one that tugs on old memories and brings them into the light without making them hurt. There’s a feeling that comes along with her, with this house that almost makes him feel like he’s meant to be here. That almost takes the foster out and leaves the word ‘home’.

“Hey, Claire?” The words battle their way from his mind to his lips, pushing past the last defences, the ones that still think he’s better off on his own. He guesses they’ve been crumbling for a while now anyway. He must have sounded like he feels, because Claire stops dead in her tracks and turns to him, concern shining in her brown eyes, half-hidden behind a smile. He coughs as if that could clear the butterflies in his stomach, his hand curled into a tight fist.

“Thank you,” he manages. “For taking care of me. When I was… you know…” He taps his nails on the table, searching for words to describe something he doesn’t even know. “Thanks.”

“Aw, kid.” She comes over to his side, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and squeezing softly, resting her head on his shoulder. “You don’t need to thank me, Jason.”

“I know I can’t have been easy to deal with,” he says quietly, guilt causing his voice to crack. He wraps his hand around her arm and doesn’t let go.

“Don’t,” she tells him sternly, her fingers stroking in a steady rhythm against his shoulder. “Don’t talk like that, kid. You were just having a rough time. You just needed a bit of help, that’s all.” He nods while Claire runs her hand up and down his arm. Just needed help. “Besides, you’re not that hard. Not for me, kid.”

“Oh stop,” he sighs, half-laughing, fighting back the rush he feels flowing through him, colouring his cheeks a faint crimson. He still hears past ghost’s words ringing in his ears and trying to slap down any good feeling he can have, but they’re weak, weaker than they’ve been before.

“I mean it,” she replies, stroking his hair. Her weight lifts off him as she steps back and JD finds himself oddly empty when she does. “Now come on. You want lamb or chicken in this curry?”

“Whatever you’re having,” he says, sliding off the chair and hoisting his bag on his shoulder.

“Well I need your seal of approval if I’m going with the lamb,” she warns. “Because I’m not having you complain to me that you don’t like it once I make it.”

“Have you ever known me to complain?” he asks.

“You want an answer?” she retorts. Warm laughter escapes from both of them.

“Lamb’s fine, Claire,” he assures her. “I’m going to go start my homework.” She grins, shaking her head fondly, not enough to make it obvious but enough to make him notice. He guesses she thought he was halfway up the stairs by now. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. She’s not built for lying. “Just… really excited about this curry.”

“Okay…” he replies, making a swift ‘I’m watching you’ gesture, to which she replies with a lazy, two fingered salute.

He swings around the doorframe and heads up the stairs two at a time, the books and pencils in his bag tapping out a mismatched tune. Despite what he told Claire, he’s not entirely sure what-if any-he’s going to get done tonight. March has brought a steady tide of deadlines and tests and homework, and not to brag, but also a steady tide of As and Bs for him. He attributes them to Veronica, but she shakes her head, telling him that he’s the one with the brains. She’s just there to push him. And sometimes he takes a minute to congratulate himself, to remember that Veronica has had less cause to push.

He flips open a copy of The Great Gatsby he got in a thrift store last year, covered in highlighter pen and biro. In the quiet of his bedroom, he hears Claire at the stove, the news on the radio as she cooks, and smiles to himself before he even realises why.

He could have ended up with anyone, he knows that. Anyone in quite a few states, even with all of his issues. There’s fewer than he’d like, but group homes for “troubled teens” and foster parents who think they’re up to the challenge exist, only to hold him at arm’s length or send him back to the group home with the first two weeks. Who aren’t willing to drive an hour to get your to a therapist or to hold you when your mind is falling apart or make sure you have enough meds to get you through the month. And the more he thinks about it, he guesses he’s really, really lucky he ended up with Claire.

*****

Veronica won’t, and has never, claimed that she’s experienced in relationships. Her experiences before JD were Simon Andrews kissing her on the cheek at Ram’s tenth birthday party and reading old romance novels from the more neglected parts of the library. And with that inexperience, she vaguely wonders if there’s meant to come a point where her boyfriend kisses her and she doesn’t feel a thrill running down her spine.

If there is, she’s yet to reach it. Because right now, JD is on top of her and the backboard of her bed is behind her and his lips are on her neck and she feels the same kind of breathlessly giddy as she did the night she climbed into his window. She grabs his shoulders as his lips meet hers, their legs tangling and kicking notes and textbooks off her bed. Her hands trail down his body, leaving phantom marks on his back.

She hopes she never loses this feeling because holy hell, does she love it.

“You know, I thought you brought me over here to study,” he teases breathlessly.

“I did,” she replies, poking his cheek. “Not my fault you distracted me.” He laughs again, kissing her lips and her neck and her cheek. While he’s distracted, she sees her chance, wrapping her arm around his waist and pushing him over, grateful for the size of her bed giving him a comfortable landing, even if it does shake and creak against her floor, the headboard knocking against the wall. It’s messy; he lands on his side and traps her arm underneath him and she’s almost too busy laughing at his expression to remember that the whole point was to get on top of him in the first place.

“Jerk,” he says playfully, tapping her nose.

“Oh is that what I am?” she asks, bending to kiss him, deep enough to leave him wanting a little more. “Am I still one now?”

“Um… a litt-no,” he replies, shaking his head, his charm deserting him, leaving him helpless and bewildered. “No you are not.”

She kisses him again, one arm around him, the other pressed against his chest. She’s not going to straight-up have sex on a school night, least of all in her own house with her parents downstairs, but she is up for something halfway there. She presses a kiss to his jaw and buries her hand in his hair, tilting her head to make it a little more-

“Veronica!”

She flies off the bed, landing in a heap on the floor. In the split second between her mom knocking and the door opening, she does what she can only assume is an Olympic level stunt to get to her desk. The door opens to her mom holding a green plastic tray of food and Veronica would groan, if she wasn’t still trying to catch her breath.

“Did someone fall?” she asks. JD- who thankfully had the sense to sit up and grab the nearest thing to him, her French textbook-shakes his head, the very picture of innocence.

“Um, no,” Veronica says, avoiding her mom’s knowing gaze. “I-uh-my bag fell off the bed.”

“Uh-huh,” her mom replies, utterly unconvinced. Veronica waits with crossed fingers, hoping her mom is too innocent (or too oblivious) to catch onto them. “Well, remember what we said, when company’s over the bedroom door stays open.”

“You know, Mrs Sawyer, that is exactly what I have been telling her,” JD replies, his voice at least half an octave higher, gesturing with the pen in his hand before burying himself back in the textbook of the class doesn’t even take.

The freaking audacity. And he just smiles, butter wouldn’t melt expression on his face and a knowing glint in his eye.

Little shit.

“Well I’m sure you’ve been given the same speech by your-your foster parent, JD,” she tells him.

‘You are unbelievable,’ Veronica mouths at him over her mom’s back.

“I just came up to bring you kids a little snack,” her mom says, placing the tray carefully on Veronica’s desk. “I know you’re working hard up here.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Veronica says, making a show of looking through notes.

“You two need anything else?”

“Nope, we’re fine,” she says, shooting JD an apologetic look while half-hiding behind her hair. She waits with a sharp impatience before her mom takes the hint and leaves, the door staying wide open behind her.

“Oh my god,” she grumbles, pushing herself up from her chair and closing the door as much as she can get away with. “Sorry, J.”

“Sorry for what?” he asks. “Is it selfishly hoarding the snacks on your desk so your poor boyfriend can’t get at them?”

“Are your legs broken?” she asks. Still, she picks up the plate and brings it over to the bed, motioning for him to scoot over before she sits down. Wholemeal crackers, some with smushed avocado and salmon, some with pate. It’s better than when the Heathers were over and she made them little finger sandwiches, cut into triangles and everything. Veronica had never wanted to die more than she did in that moment.

“Hey.” JD pokes her in the cheek, pulling an exaggerated pout that gets a laugh out of her. “Why are you Miss Frowny Face? Don’t be Miss Frowny Face. Be Miss Smiley Face.”

“Okay how much sugar have you had today?” she asks. JD raises an eyebrow playfully, and she gives in with a sigh that screams ‘you’re lucky you’re cute’. She flops backwards, bouncing a little as she hits the bed. “She’s making me snacks. I’m 18 and she’s making me snacks and bringing them up to my room and reminding me to keep my door open.”

“And that’s… bad?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she groans. “I can make my own snacks if I need them. And I can do whatever I want in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

“Ew.”

“Oh shush, you know what I meant,” she scoffs, slapping his leg lightly. “Just… I don’t need her to bring me food.”

“Wow. I’ve heard a lot of shitty parent stories in my time, but this one truly takes the cake. Veronica Sawyer, the girl whose parents made her snacks. The fiends.” She feels a pang of guilt at what he said. Has she really been walking through her life that blindly? She doesn’t believe herself to be callous, she’s always thought of herself as a good person, even now. But now she feels like someone’s opened her window for the first time and she’s looking outside, looking out at the world of Big Bud Deans and kids who cook their own food, parents who raise voices and hands at their kids. She’s looking at it all, and she’s kicking herself.

She sighs and turns onto her side. Her face must tell everything, or maybe he can just read her like that, because he starts running a gentle hand through her hair, as though he can run the bad stuff out of her brain.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Why does that make you feel bad?”

“It’s stupid,” she sighs. It’s also not something she wants to admit, not verbally. It’s something for her diary, where she can let her thoughts out and keep them hidden and at bay at the same time.

“No it’s not.”

“How do you know? I haven’t even told you.”

“Because it’s you, and you can’t be stupid if you tried.” She buries her grinning face in her covers. “So you want to talk about it?”

“Fine,” she replies, half-peeking out. She reaches out and strokes the fabric of his jeans, the rhythm building her nerve and dampening her shame with each stroke. She shouldn’t feel ashamed anyway, and she doesn’t want to be, not with him, but without a little hint of shame, would she be human? “She made me snacks when I was a kid. Like when me and Martha were having sleepovers. And that was fine. And then I got bigger and people had cooler parties that I didn’t go to and their moms didn’t bring them snacks and-” She lets out a long breath as JD pets her hair. “It’s not cool.”

“And you care about being cool?”

“Yeah.” She closes her eyes and remembers Heather Chandler’s kitchen dwarfing her, Heather Duke’s parents giving her full, unrestricted access to the kitchen, her flaming cheeks as Chandler had looked from her mom to the liverwurst on the plate with equal amounts of disgust.

“Well, look at that,” JD sighs. “Your mom brought you snacks, and yet I still think you’re cool.” She huffs a laugh as he pokes her stomach. “Especially since your mom makes amazing food.”

“I should count myself lucky that she makes me stuff at all,” she sighs, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “Right?”

“Just a little,” he admits, smiling softly at her. “Come here, love bug.” He pulls her against his body, too comfortable amongst her pillows to get up properly, settling her head below his chin and legs amongst his. She supposes there is one upside to her mom’s “open door” policy, and that’s that at least she can hear her coming as well. His knuckles run slowly up and down her back. “There are worse things in life than your mom making you snacks, Ronnie.”

“I know,” she murmurs into his chest. An ‘I’m sorry’ plays on her lips, but she holds it back, nervous of awkward conversations, and almost sure he already knows. He kisses her head, taking a moment to nuzzle into her hair. “J?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Never call me love bug again.” His laughter shakes the bed, and her, and if there was any awkwardness or tension left, it chases it away.

Mindful of her parents in the living room, she makes do with a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek when JD leaves.

“See you at school,” she tells him quietly.

“See you,” he agrees. His eyes move behind her, over Veronica’s shoulder, and he straightens up. “Goodnight, Mrs Sawyer.”

Veronica keeps her eyes on JD has he leaves, mainly because she knows the lecture she’ll get if she catches her in the eyeroll. She only turns around when he’s out the door and down the front path and her mom is back in the kitchen.

“So did you guys have fun?” she asks her once she steps into the kitchen and flicks on the kettle.

“Yeah, studying is so much fun,” she says flatly, running her hand through her hair and stretching her neck out. Her momentary study breaks only distract her so much, but the pressure still weighs down on her and presses against her back.

“Come on, sweetie, you know it’ll all be worth it when it’s over,” her mom says, running a hand up her back.

“So you keep saying,” Veronica sighs, running a hand over her face. She’s heard it said that the more you say something, the more you believe it. She’s wondering if there’s an inverse; the more you hear it said, the less you believe it.

“How’s JD finding Westerberg?” her mom asks, as though it’s October and he just rolled into town. Sometimes his presence is so natural Veronica finds it had to really believe that he ever left.

“Fine, Mom,” she replies.

“He’s still not planning on going to college?”

“Not as far as I know. I don’t think so. I don’t really ask him about it. Where’s the peanut butter?” Her mom hums behind her and doesn’t move when she turns around. She has to skirt around her just to get to the counter, trying not to notice the vacant look in her mom’s eyes, or the way she wrings her hands, or the question sitting on her almost-parted lips. When she’s doesn’t even flinch at the PB&J she’s making herself, that’s when Veronica begrudgingly gives into the ringing alarm bell in her head. “Mom? Still with me?”

“Fine,” she manages, giving her a toothy smile. “You’ve met his foster mom, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. She’s awesome.”

“And he’s happy with her?”

“Yeah. He really likes her.” Veronica straightens up against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest, right where the heavy weight is sitting. She curls her clammy hands into fists. “Mom what’s going on?”

“Why do you think something’s going on?” She crosses her arms too, but she’s not Veronica’s reflection. Her mother is on the defence, and Veronica’s on the offense.

“Because you’re acting… weird,” she answers. “You kind of do a lot whenever JD’s around.

“Don’t use that word,” her mom replies, so sharp that Veronica’s only hurt for a second before she realises how false it is. “Weird.”

“Well that’s what you’re being.” She can’t really work out if it’s a persistent curiosity or frustration at being lied to or genuine worry that’s causing her to push like this. “Why… why do you care so much about JD?”

“Am I allowed to worry about people? I’m a Mom, Ronnie. I can’t help it.”

You’re not his she thinks. Instead of saying it, she keeps her eyes locked on her mother with a laser focus, quietly demanding the truth from her, while she hides behind a titanium shield. Veronica’s hands wrap around her arms, realising she’s locked herself in a battle of wills with one of the people she never thought she’d fight with. She almost wishes she was back making them study snacks. Despite what her mom might think, she doesn’t like fighting with her. But she also doesn’t like her hiding things from her.

When mom bristles under her gaze, she’s not just smiling because she’s winning. She’s breaking because it’s almost over.

“You really want to know?” she asks. Veronica nods stiffly.

“Well…” Mother and daughter both snap, their battle stances collapsing. Veronica lets herself lean against the counter, but her guard doesn’t drop down. There’s still a simmering tension keeping her upright. “You remember back when you and JD were kids? When he lived here?” Veronica nods again. It seems that’s all she can do. “When you told me about him… how he made his own dinner… I got worried.”

Shit.

“Worried?” she echoes.

“Call it parent’s intuition,” she says wearily. “But what you told me rubbed me the wrong way. So I contacted the school. Asked what they knew about his family.”

“You did what?”

“Well I was right, wasn’t I?” she fires back. “The school, turns out, had the same concerns I did. So they contacted a social work team to investigate.” Veronica grabs the countertop as her legs start swaying. Cold sweat trickles down her back. “And then they found out-”

“I know the rest.”

A wave of nausea takes over her and makes her knees buckle as she sees everything set out before her. She tells her mom. Her mom tells the school. Her school tells social workers. And then JD… JD gets taken off his dad and goes through court and tossed around the system before ending up coming back to her.

All because she told her mom.

“Mom…” her voice trails off, unsure of what she’s even accusing her mother of. She doesn’t even know what she’s feeling, just knows there’s a pit in her stomach and a prickling heat on her cheek and a terrifying realisation.

“I’m going to have to tell him,” she says, more to herself than her mom. Her mom takes it anyway and grasps her hand gently.

“You don’t have to,” she assures her. “Why does he need to know?”

“Would you?” she retorts. “If you found out you wrecked Dad’s life, would you tell him?”

“You think you wrecked his life?” Her mom shakes her head and pushes her hair away from her pale face. “Veronica… was he even happy with his father?”

“I don’t think that matters,” she replies. She swallows past the lump in her throat and pushes herself off the counter, stumbling over her weak legs. “I still have to tell him.”

“Veronica?” She stops in the doorway, looking just over her shoulder at her mom’s anxious wide eyes and wringing hands, and that adds another layer of guilt to the wave she’s riding. Her mom tries to smile, but every attempt fails. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

Is she? She feels like she should be.

“Depends if he is,” is her answer.

Dear diary,

She runs a hand over her face, the words on the pages almost blurring together after a near-sleepless night. She had a textbook open on the desk and a highlighter uncapped, but she can’t so much as lift it. Her mind is too frazzled to focus on the perfect tense. At least in study hall, she can hide her diary on her lap and people are either too busy or too tired to care.

I have to tell him. I know I do. He has a right to know what happened, how those people found out about his dad.

He knows I’m keeping something from him. And I feel like shit about it. He won’t tell me, but he’s doing all his comforting stuff- kissing my forehead and squeezing my hand and he even hugged me before homeroom. I must look worse than I thought.

I’m telling him. I told him I have to meet him after school. It’s the right thing, if nothing else.

I’m just… scared.

I’ve gotten used to loving him. I’ve gotten used to him maybe loving me. I don’t want to have to get used to him hating me.

I don’t think I could ever get used to that.

He beats her to their garden after school. He’s hunched over a book, his eyes looking at pages that his mind isn’t reading. She knows a pretence when she sees it. She hides behind the doorframe for a second, her heart hammering against her ribs. She thinks that there’s a good chance that all the waiting is going to hurt just as much, if not more, as him leaving her. That’s why she asked him to meet her before she could stop herself, why she’s pushing herself over next to him now. Not knowing is so much worse than knowing.

“Hey,” she greets him, wincing as the words scratch her dry throat.

“Hey,” he replies, looking up at her. He takes her hand and pulls her to sit, her forcing her knees to bend. When he brushes his fingers against her cheek, she pushes his hand away instead.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I guess I’m a little nervous right now.”

“Ronnie-” His voice cracks. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. You know-” He shrugs. “As long as you’re not pregnant or anything.”

The concept is so bizarre and so far away that for a second, she actually allows herself to laugh.

“Wait you’re not pregnant right?” he asks, words tumbling out of his mouth in rapid succession.

“God, no, J, I’m not pregnant,” she sighs, the smile falling from her face as quickly as it had come. She looks down at the clasped hands in her lap, her cold fingers fidgeting and picking at each other. “I just… I found something out.”

“Okay. Hey.” He takes her hand, linking their fingers together, and brings it to his lips and kisses it. “I promise. Whatever it is, we’ll be okay.”

She sighs, letting go of his hand to stroke his face. She knows now what this is, this warm calm she feels around him, how settled she feels in his arms, the butterflies she feels when he kisses her, the way she can never seem to have enough of him. She’s in love. And it’s different from what she’d read before. It’s not Buttercup and Westley or Romeo and Juliet or Elizabeth and Darcy. It’s different and it’s better.

And it’s too good to lose.

“Can I ask you to do something?” she asks. “Try not to hate me?”

“Veronica,” he scoffs, like she’s said something offensive. “I could never.”

“Swear?”

“Swear.” He kisses the inside of her wrist, sealing their deal.

She opens her mouth, tears threatening to build in her eyes. She wishes she was a worse person so she could keep this from him without a guilty conscience.

“JD… back when you came here the first time… remember when someone called social workers on your dad?”

“Of course I do.”

She takes in a deep breath. She’s looking back on everything they’ve been since the day he came into her homeroom, they day she said hi to him at the lunch table. When she had watched him punch the shit out of Kurt and Ram, when something unlocked in her chest for the first time. If she knew then what he’d become to her, would she have kept quiet? If she had known it would mean keeping him?

“That was my mom.”

“What… what was your mom?”

Don’t make me explain it she thinks. Getting words out is hard enough.

“My mom called the school. And the school called social services on your dad.”

She doesn’t look at him. She hears him though, hears the sharp intake of breath. She knows how tense his body probably is, judging by the way he’s gripping her hand tighter by the second. He’s either holding himself together or one second away from falling apart.

“How did she find out?” he asks.

“I told her. I told her when I got back from your house about you making your own food and that tipped her off and she called the school and- JD, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know until last night and I never meant for you to-”

He kisses her. He kisses her quickly and cups the back of her head, probably to stop her from falling off the bench in shock. She kisses him back, mostly in relief.

“What was that for?” she asks, heat rising in her cheek against his cold hand.

“Kind of to get you to stop babbling,” he teases.

“Remind me to babble more often,” she replies. “JD, I-”

“Don’t,” he whispers. He traces her jawline, pressing his thumb gently to the bottom of her chin. “Veronica, why would you be sorry?”

“Other than the fact that I kind of messed up your life?”

“A lot of people messed up my life,” he tells her. “You could never be one of them.”

“I got you put into foster care,” she reminds him. A small voice in the back of her mind asks her why she’s doing this after he’s just kissed her like that. She thinks she should be holding on tighter, not giving him reasons to go.

“You did,” he agrees. “And it was the best thing to ever happen to me. Look, some parts of foster care suck, but they suck a lot less than they did with my dad. I got happy. You’ve seen me with Claire. I’m happier with her than I ever could be with my dad.” She only realises she was crying when he wipes away the tear on her cheek. He smiles breathlessly at her, shaking his head slightly. “Please don’t ever blame yourself. Getting away from my dad was the best thing to ever happen to me.” He kisses her forehead. “One of them anyway.”

“You mean it?” she asks. Despite the question, she starts playing with his necklaces, her fingers brushing against his skin.

“Definitely,” he says firmly. His smile is wider than she can ever remember seeing it. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

She wraps her arm around his and nuzzles into his shoulder, unsure if she’s weak with relief or it’s just him. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and squeezes tightly, punctuating their walk home with gentle kisses and sweet nothings murmured into her ear.

Him leaving was the best thing for him, no one can deny that. And it worked out for the two of them in the end. The universe, or God, sent him back to her, so she figures she can’t complain, especially not if it meant he was safe, emotionally for physically. If she had known what she knows now, would she have still spilled the beans to her mom about JD’s dad? Absolutely she would have.

Even if she’ll always wonder what would have happened with them if he had stayed.

*****

Days turn into weeks after Veronica’s confession, and JD would say they return to normal, but the truth is that they don’t. They somehow become stronger, like something broke between them. They had never shied away from each other before, but JD swears he can feel a difference in the way they hold each other, the way she lays her head on his chest, even if he can’t quite explain it. Maybe it’s him knowing that she saved him. No, not saved him, there’s danger in language like that, but it’s something like that. Maybe it’s a change in her, in that beautiful mind of hers that he’ll never work out. But it’s wonderful, whatever it is and he won’t question it.

It brings him closer every day to I love you and while that scares him, there’s something about the fear he actually likes.

“Hey, I’m home,” he announces, one Wednesday afternoon. He frowns, the lack of a TV or radio or phone conversation standing out starkly. “Claire?”

“In the kitchen. Jason can you come in here a second?” He frowns, and the idea of company being over is the first that comes to mind. Very quiet company. He checks himself in the hallway mirror for a second, pushing the dark curls away from his face before straightening up and heading to the kitchen. His first guess is an inspection, and while Claire has nothing to hide, these kinds of things have always given him the heebie-jeebies. Like when a security guard passes you in a store; you know you’ve done nothing wrong, and yet all you can think of is all the bad things you’ve done.

His guess was proven wrong though, since the kitchen is empty bar her, sitting on one of the chairs, back straight, glasses perched on her head and some forms on the table. She’s deliberately not chewing her nails, instead tapping them on the table and her lips rolled into a thin line. He’d probably prefer it if she was chewing them.

“What’s up?” he asks, approaching the table like it’s a ticking bomb. “Claire what’s up, are you-”

Then he sees it.

He sees the document sitting on the table. He sees the agency logo at the top. He sees his name at the top. He sees them and he puts them together, one by one, and the big picture is staring him directly in the face.

“You’re sending me away.”

“What?”

“You’re sending me away.”

He explodes. Things he hasn’t felt in a long, long time come rushing back and the strangest part is there’s a degree of comfort in them. There’s comfort in the rage and the terror, even in all its wild chaos as it tears at his throat and eyes and skin. Maybe there’s a part of him that’s used to it.

“You-you promised!” he screams. “You promised I’m here until graduation everyone promised me that! The first day I was here Aimee said to me, and she said to me before that, she told me I wasn’t leaving until I graduated!”

“I know, Jason, I’m sorry-”

He can’t breathe. His chest is too tight so that it can’t do anything but burn. His thoughts crash over him and drown him and leave him flailing helplessly, trying to grasp for a clear line, but everything moves too quickly and jumps too suddenly. He tries to remember everything he’s learned in therapy, not just now but since he first started going, but they’re half-formed and vague, the voices distorted and garbled. His head aches, fragmented pieces of his mind ricocheting like bullets until something becomes half-clear to him.

“I can change,” he says. His hands curl around the kitchen chair and cling tighter than he’s ever held onto anything. “Claire just tell me what I’m doing wrong and I’ll stop.”

“Jason, you’ve got it all wrong,” she says, her own voice shaking in desperation. Her fingers brush against his strained hand. “Jason… I’ve been getting the paperwork to adopt you.”

His knees his the ground after his hands fall from the chair. He only manages to throw one hand in front of him to stop himself. He takes in huge gulps of air, the tight chord that had been wound around his lungs cut now. All that’s left of the frantic racing of his mind seconds ago is a ringing in his ears.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you like that,” she says as she rubs his back.

“You’re doing what?” he asks breathlessly.

“Adopt you,” she replies.

The word adoption has sort of become synonymous with Santa Claus. A far off dream that’s fun to think about, something that little kids talk about with wide smiles and laughter in their voices he can’t bring himself to correct. Something that’s reserved for kids and kids only. He was never lied to and he appreciates it; his chances of being adopted have been slim since he entered the system and dwindled with each passing birthday. The closer he gets to aging out of the system, the less likely someone is to look at him and want him around. He can’t really argue with them-who would want a teenager instead of a cute tiny baby or squealing toddler they can have all the firsts with. All the excitement has gone out of him. Add all his baggage on top of that and he’s a turn-off for perspective adopters.

Well, he thought so anyway.

“Really?” is all he can ask.

“Yes, really,” Claire says, laughing. “I never wanted to do anything without your permission. I mean, I legally can’t. You’re 18 soon anyway.” She hesitates before wiping his face. “Sorry I scared you.”

“I’m sorry I freaked out,” he replies. He shrugs weakly. “I guess I just saw the papers and…” He bites the inside of his cheek. He’s seen similar papers once before, last year, accompanied by the excuse that ‘It’s nothing personal Jason. You’re a lovely boy, just a little too much for us to handle right now’. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, kid.” She sits back, wrapping her arms around her knees. “So what do you say?” She swallows and adjusts her glasses. “I know I’m not your Mom, kid. I know no one can replace her. I just want you to have a home here. With me, if you want it.”

“You’re not kidding?” She shakes her head. He pinches himself under his leg, where she can’t see. He pinches until it can’t hurt more, and he’s still sitting there. Nothing’s changed… so this is real.

He crashes into her, his weight nearly sending them both toppling to the ground, saved only by Claire’s quick thinking. He feels the past five years shaking inside him, the uncertainty that had lurked in the background of his life finally calming.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.” He nods against her, nothing but a small, trembling gasp escaping him. Laughing, she hugs him back, somehow enveloping him despite being half his size.

It crosses his mind that he can’t wait to tell Veronica about this. And he will, even if she won’t understand what this all means for him. She can’t, few people can, and that’s more than fine. It’s not lost on him that in some roundabout way, he sort of owes this to her, but at the same time, he and Claire are their own thing. His own… dare he say it, family? Even if she’s not his mom, she’s something close.

He opens his eyes to the same wooden floor he’s trodden over every day for months. Familiar, unextraordinary. Utterly simple. But it’s transformed now. It’s his future now and he’s just as much part of this house now as these floorboards are.

His dad told him years ago that Sherwood Ohio was his new home. And now, five years later, it finally is.

#jdronica #heathers the musical #heathers fanfic #veronica sawyer #jason dean #i've been in kind of a weird place mentally this month and didn't think i'd get a chapter out #but i did #*high fives myself*

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