#it's just a side effect of being stressed because i missed the chicken pox vaccine by like a few months when i was a kid

[queermania]

the bad news: i have shingles again and it hurts like a motherfucker again and is accompanied by a ridiculous fever again why does this ailment exist it's so stupid

the good news: i'm gonna watch dog dean afternoon about it

[sprnklersplashes]

not beyond repair (13/?)

ao3

January is a funny time in the school year. There’s little actual work to be done and handed in and graded but the aura of stress clings to the walls of the school and especially to the seniors, now staring down the barrel of that final stretch of the school year. The post-Christmas buzz still stubbornly hangs around and can be seen in the quiet moments before Miss Fleming enters homeroom, the weeks of stretching out on couches and gorging oneself on mince pies and pricey chocolates not wanting to go away so easily. Veronica can feel it now, in the early morning when she’s sitting on her desk, her fingers ghosting along JD’s coat, Martha sitting at her side and Heather on the desk behind, idly stroking Martha’s hair in a secret gesture of affection. All they have is fifteen minutes. Fifteen precious minutes where they can pretend high school isn’t a real thing with real world consequences.

“Also, there’s a pretty extensive Patrick Kavanagh collection in the school library,” JD goes on, his eyes lighting up the way they always do when he starts talking about literature. If there was a way to make her fall harder for him, it was when he was like this, caught up in his love for the written word, rambling on about any and all books he had read, particularly when it came to the poets. Watching the way he came alive when poetry was brought up was worth the confusion she wasn’t unused to feeling when he was talking, the feeling that she was struggling to keep up with him. “I checked it out when I first got here. No other place has ever had as much Irish poetry as Wester-”

He breaks off into a minor coughing fit, his shoulders shaking beneath Veronica’s hands. He still hasn’t shaken off that flu it seems, despite him swearing to God he was fine when he came back. Part of her, the protective part formed over years of being friends with Martha and just her own instincts, wants to grab him and check his temperature and try to force him down to the lobby to wait for Claire to pick him up. And the other part, well…

“I would try not to say, ‘I told you so’,” she says. “But I did tell you so.”

“You didn’t,” he says, the worst of it seemingly over.

“I told you it was contagious and you were the one insisting on your tough immune system.”

“You did tell me to get into the bed,” he reminds her.

“Yeah you did tell him to do that, in fairness,” Heather adds, leaning forwards on her knees. Veronica raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘whose side are you on here. I was your friend first.’ “But also… everyone got sick at some point. Last week my chemistry class was three people. And one of them was sneezing too.”

“I didn’t,” Martha reminds them, a confident edge in her voice that would have been foreign last year. Veronica suppresses a smile as she watches Heather keep running her hands through her hair. That girl’s doing wonders for her girl.

“Yeah, Dunnstock how are you the only one in our entire grade who didn’t get sick?” JD asks, coughing into his sleeve. Veronica finds her hand on his shoulder and tighter than before, her eyes moving over this face. Still looking healthy, his cheeks their normal colour, but that doesn’t stop the way her feet tap anxiously against the desk.

“My mom’s a nurse,” she explains with a shrug. “Which means I’ve had every vaccine there is to get. Sometimes twice.”

“That and her immune system is just generally a beast,” Veronica adds. “It’s why your mom let you stay over when I had chicken pox when we were 6.”

“That too,” she replies with a small grin. She ducks her head slightly so that her hair falls forwards a little. Behind her, Heather frowns for a moment before continuing to stoke her hair, taking a moment after each one to scratch her back with featherlight fingernails.

“Good morning class.” Veronica suppresses a groan as Fleming comes through the door, breaking the gentle hum of the room and bringing in the reality of morning announcements and codes of conduct.

“My cue to leave,” JD says with a grimace, lifting his bag onto his shoulder. “See you guys later. I’ll save your seat in English for you, Dunnstock.”

“Thanks,” Martha says, her attention elsewhere. Her focus is on Heather as she moves slowly back to the place she picked out at the start of the year, with the rest of the Heathers, and Kurt just behind her, sneaking glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She can’t miss the protective flash in her friend’s eyes, nor the way her hand curls into a fist on the desk.

“I’ll see you later, darling,” JD says, squeezing her hand gently before heading out the door, avoiding Fleming’s watchful gaze. Although he does take a moment at Heather’s desk to tap the back of her chair and whisper something in her ear. Veronica can’t make it out, and it may have been nothing for all she knows. But it has an effect on Kurt, who turns away from her. If he had been planning anything, it’s gone now.

Veronica slides into her seat, the date written sharply across the blackboard catching her eye; January 12th, 1990. Gone are the 1980s and everything that came with them. On the lead up to New Year’s Eve  the news was full of events that shook the world in the past decade; the assassination of a Beatle and of a Pope, the election of a new President that happened just when she was old enough to dip her toes into politics, the fall of a wall on another continent. They’ll all be in history books on day, maybe not too far away, but all she can think about (selfish, she knows) is her own life. From 1980 to 1990. Middle school to high school and everything that came with both of them, dreams she’d thought were so far away getting closer and closer and she’s trying to take every step with all the grace and poise she’d hoped. Now she’s here, staring down the barrel of a new decade that’s even less certain than the last. From seven going on eight to seventeen going on eighteen-

Holy crap.

“It’s my birthday next week.” She’s proud of how offhand she sounds. She certainly doesn’t sound like she was rehearsing this for the first two periods of her school day and refining it all the way up to lunch. It seems stupid and it probably is, especially if you asked someone like Heather Chandler with her 17,000 friends but for her it was years of her and Martha eating cake in her room, maybe a year or two with Betty in the mix as well. But now she’s upgraded from one friend to three. Well, two and a boyfriend. Which is new territory for her, birthday-wise.

“I know,” JD replies, pushing the baby tomatoes out of his salad. “Which is why I have already got my eye set on your gift,” he adds, budging his floor gently against hers under the lunch table.

“No,” she tells him, fighting a blush as she pokes his cheek. “I don’t need presents. What I do need is you guys.” Her friends look up at her, all three frowning a the bluntness of her statement and two raising eyebrows in an identical fashion, both conveying the message ‘I’m getting you a gift whether you like it or not’.

“Can you clarify what you mean by that?” Heather asks, wrinkling her nose. “Because that sounded really weird without context.”

“It did, didn’t it?” she replies, giggling along with the rest of her lunch table. At least Heather had the grace to hide it behind her hands. “Okay, okay so… I was just thinking we get together next weekend for something. Maybe my place. Or the bowling alley just reopened, we could go there. Get food after.”

“Question,” JD interrupts, his elbow on the table and his finger in the air. “Will there be cake?”

“Of course there will be cake,” she tells him, tapping his cheek playfully. “Keep up, babe.” She turns to the other two, a surprising nervous energy about her. She starts a gentle run through JD’s hair, hoping to calm herself. “Are you guys in?”

“Of course I’m in,” Martha says with a fond smile. Veronica grins; if there was ever an affectionate way to say ‘duh, idiot’, of course Martha would have figured it out. “I’m always in.”

“Great.” One down… her gaze moves to Heather, whose hand slowly creeps over Martha’s, but her eyes meet Veronica’s and show nothing but the same sparkling enthusiasm she had seen back when she was giving her makeovers.

“I’d love to,” she says. “And since it’s your birthday, I can take the liberty of planning it.”

“Heather, that’s sweet, but you don’t have to.”

“Yes I do,” she interrupts insistently. She pulls herself back just a little. “Besides I’m really good at it. Chandler and Duke used to get me to plan everything.”

“Okay,” she replies quickly, not wanting her their former friends’ presence to linger. “I trust you Heather.”

“And I trust her judgement,” JD replies, pointing in her direction with a fry. “And you, I guess.”

“Flattered,” she replies flatly, cocking an eyebrow. He gives her wink before looking past her for a brief moment, toying with the sleeve of his coat.

“Just a minute ladies, nature calls.” He kisses Veronica’s temple swiftly, his fingers delicately touching on the back of her hand. She feels a light, barely-there blush creep over her face and gentle warmth on her skin as she whispers ‘okay’ and squeezes his hand

“Are you going to do that to all of us or just her?” Heather asks. “Because I don’t think my girlfriend would be happy if you did it to all of us.���

                                                                                               *****

He takes a minute to scope out the men’s room first. He’s planned this about as carefully as he can, down to the minute. And it’s a pain in his ass, keeping one eye on the clock and the other on his lunch table, his little orange bottle sitting patiently in the pocket of his coat the whole time. Kissing his girlfriend and making like it’s just a normal bathroom run.

He keeps his eyes on his reflection as he twists the bottle open. Maybe he can pretend it’s someone else if he does it like that.

He doesn’t hate the meds. Not them specifically. In fact since they do their job right and keep his brain in check he can’t find anything to complain about. But… there’s the small issue of taking them to school, taking them in school. The old ones were pop one in the morning and go about his day. The new ones are one every lunch time which is… less than ideal. Especially considering lunch is the only point in his day when his entire friend group is together, given their fragmented school schedules. The rest of the days are a pick and mix of when he sees them-Martha three times a week in English, Heather twice a week in history and Veronica twice a week in social studies, not counting their little moments before and after classes, stolen away in their garden or behind the lockers or against the window. Those moments don’t last long enough to count. He wants to make the time he has count, not just with her but with Martha and Heather too.

And then there’s the other thing. The fact that this is another thing. Therapists is one thing, one thing that’s relatively normal, tied to the ground and doesn’t make heads turn so much. It doesn’t have too many negative associations, except in the older or less liberal citizens of Sherwood. But therapy is something she can understand and he can be okay with her knowing. These little guys in their little orange bottle aren’t so much.

He knocks two back, taking a swig from the water fountain, and closes the little bottle again before checking his own reflection. He pulls his hair over his face a little, letting it fall forwards into his eyes and leans on the sink, the boy in the mirror seeming to frown at him.

“Don’t give me that look, bitch,” he mutters to him. He taps the lid of the bottle with his finger. “These keep our brain in order. And for that we thank them for their service.” He turns to leave and puts the bottle back in his pocket just in the nick of time it seems; the door clicks and creaks open.

And doesn’t he just love the one who walks in.

JD’s old survival instincts kick in when Kurt enters, an everyday occurrence in both their lives suddenly and abruptly turning into a showdown. Two go in, one goes out.

He briefly considers that maybe Claire’s right when she calls him melodramatic.

“What’re you doing?” Kurt asks, stopping in his tracks, his mouth twisting in to a snarl.

“That should be obvious,” he replies flatly. His hand curls into a tight fist at his side so hard that his nails press into his palms. He doesn’t hide the fact that that he doesn’t like Kurt and hasn’t since his first day in Westerberg (both of them), but it’s different from how he feels about Ram or Heather Chandler or Heather Duke. He can’t forget the shiner on Macnamara’s cheek on Halloween night, the way she trembled in the half-light of Veronica’s living room, how small and fragile and breakable she seemed for the first time since they met.

“What’re you staring at?” he says harshly, taking another step towards JD. He doesn’t necessarily take a step back. It’s more of a stumble.

“Nothing.” He dodges around him and tries to make for the door, only for him to be caught on the shoulder. He tries to swallow but his throat is dry. He keeps his eyes on the poster about washing our hands on the wall. If only that poster could be the only thing in the room right now. Instead Kurt’s beside him, his hand slipping into his pocket-

“No!” He jerks away from him but it’s too little too late; his little bottle sits in the palm of Kurt’s hand and a wicked glint is in Kurt’s eye. He tries to breathe slowly and deeply, to put his chaotic thoughts in some form of order. “That’s mine!”

“Dude…” A wide grin spreads over his face, unfamiliar in its enthusiasm and its lack of mockery or cruel intent. “You do drugs?”

“No, I don’t!” he snaps. “Just give it back!”

“Or what?” he taunts, tossing the bottle from one hand to the other. Every time it lands, JD flinches and he realises trying not to is pointless. His fist gets tighter and it feels like his body is a wound up coil ready to jump. He knows it would be easy enough to give into that urge and it would work. But that’s only easy for a minute. Then after that it’s detentions and phone calls and awkward car rides and having to explain himself to Veronica and then having to promise Claire he’ll do better. And yeah, he cares. So he keeps all of that in his tightly curled fist and traps it there.

“You know ‘or what’,” he whispers, raising an eyebrow. “Especially now that Ram’s not around to protect you.”

Kurt scoffs and rolls his eyes, but it’s smoke and mirrors. If anyone knows the difference between not caring and just pretending, it’s probably JD. It’s definitely JD. He doesn’t move an inch, putting the ball in Kurt’s court and hoping he’ll do what he needs him to.

“Psycho,” he mutters, chucking the bottle in his direction. He manages to catch it and puts it back in his pocket, where it belongs. “I don’t get what Veronica sees in you.”

“Me neither, buddy,” he replies. But she sees something and they’re making something. And that’s what he’s going back out to.

                                                                                               ******

“What are you grinning at?” Veronica asks, bumping her arm up against Martha’s as they sit in the parking lot, waiting for her mom’s car. A rare day off for Martha’s mom means that she can give her daughter a ride home, and when she says her daughter, that includes Veronica, of course. Martha herself as been smiling at something in her planner, something she’s tried and failed not to smile at. Veronica has a strong idea of who the culprit is but that hardly stops her from being nosy. If anything it makes her more nosy.

“This,” she says, passing the book over to her. In the corner of the second page of the ‘notes’ section is a little flower drawn in pink pen, simple in its design, with a small scribbled message next to it ‘you’re so smart-it’s amazing’. Her hunch was right-the handwriting is unmistakable, and besides, only one person could make Martha blush like that. “She wrote it during study hall when I went to the bathroom. I didn’t even notice until now.”

“Sappy girl,” she says fondly, handing her back her notebook. “I’m glad though. That she’s making you happy.”

“Thanks,” she says, pulling her jacket over her hands. Her smile falters a little.

“Hey.” Her hand comes over Martha’s. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. Veronica cocks her head at her. Really, Martha should know better than to lie to her by now. “It’s just… I like Heather so much. But I can’t bring her home or tell my mom about her.”

“You haven’t told her yet?” Martha shakes her head, looking out across the lot. Veronica isn’t sure if she should be flattered or confused or depressed that Martha’s told her but not her own mom. No matter what she’s feeling inside, Veronica rubs her shoulder comfortingly.

“It’s complicated,” she says. “Like… I know my mom isn’t… she doesn’t hate gay people. I know that. Every time there’s news of some new hate crime she always talks about how bad it is. But it’s not even the gay thing… okay it’s a little the gay thing. But telling my mom that I have someone, it…”

“It brings her into it,” Veronica finishes it. “And then it’s not just you two… it’s you two plus your mom. And it brings her into your family.”

“Exactly,” Martha agrees, nodding. A knowing smile creeps across her face. “So I take it you haven’t told your parents about JD?”

“Not… quite yet,” she admits delicately, making Martha laugh. “I mean- have you met my mom!”

“I love your mom!”

“Yeah, you don’t live with her!” she reminds her, pushing her gently. “Can you imagine what would happen if she knew about me and JD? She’d be insufferable.”

“But…”

“Can we go back to when this conversation was about you?” she asks. Martha shakes her head, her ponytail falling over her shoulder.

“Nope.” Veronica laughs and leans back, her arm sitting on top of the railing.

“Okay. But… I don’t know… maybe I just like the idea of taking JD home.” She pushes her hair out of her face. “On the other hand I could just hide him from my parents forever.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can. Our wedding will just be an outrageously fancy dinner and we’ll do our vows while my parents are in the bathroom.” Martha bursts into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand and burying her face in her hand.

“Will that work?”

“Of course it will,” she says, more than satisfied by her little fantasy world.

“Doesn’t his mom know about you though?” she asks, just as her mom’s car pulls into the parking lot, alerting them with a quick honk of the horn.

“Yeah,” she says, getting up. “But… that’s different.” Martha squints at her behind her glasses, her head cocking ever so slightly. “Okay it’s… kind of different.”

“Maybe,” Martha admits just as they approach her mom’s car. “But if you’ve met his family...” Her voice trails off and she doesn’t need to finish that sentence.

“Sometimes I really don’t like when you’re right,” Veronica grumbles. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she just saw Martha smile at that.

Her mom is sitting on the couch when she comes in, her dad at the stove. Wednesday night, his turn to cook. Judging by the half-empty tub of chilli powder on the counter, his adventures in Mexican foods are not over yet and Veronica’s tonsils may be in danger of being blown off.

“Hey, pumpkin,” her dad greets as she sets her bag down. “Don’t eat anything it’ll spoil your appetite.”

“Doubtful,” she replies, filling up her water bottle at the sink. She turns the faucet a little too tightly but its not like she can help it. She’s standing with her hand on the doorknob, about to let her real life and her family life mix and there’s one way it can end; an embarrassing, awkward disaster. And maybe she’s being melodramatic, and more than likely nothing much will change once she tells them and they’re over this hill. But it’s driving up the damn hill that’s the challenge.

“Hey, so, for my birthday,” she begins, pressing the tip of her bottle into her palm. She leans against the counter, hoping she comes off casual. “Could I go out with a few friends on Saturday?”

“Sure, honey,” her mom says, getting up from the couch and making her way over to her. She tries to think if she’s ever heard Claire call JD ‘honey’. ‘Kid’, sure, plenty of times, but as much as Claire is probably the loveliest adult she’s ever met, she doesn’t strike Veronica as the honey type. Probably because, unlike her own parents, Claire recognises that JD is months away from being a legal adult. “Which friends? Martha and Heather? And JD?”

“Yeah. Just those three. We think we’re going to go bowling and get some food.”

“A boy at your party, Ronnie?” her dad says. Veronica groans out loud, rewarded with a disapproving look from her mom. She holds her hands up in surrender. “Just… you’ve never had a boy at your birthday party before. Not since kindergarten.”

“Yeah because Mom said I had to invite my whole class so no-one felt left out,” she reminds him. Certain people were perfectly fine with leaving her out, but that didn’t seem to matter to her parents back then. She wonders for a second if Heather Chandler’s mom ever told her that she had to invite the whole class. If she did, the message obviously didn’t take. “But I’m nearly 18 now.”

“And in any case, JD’s just a friend, right sweetheart?” her mom asks, rubbing her arm. She meets her mom’s gaze for a brief second, the same colour and shade, one pair blissfully ignorant and excited and the other reprehensive and awkward. She could just turn around and agree with her, let her parents keep thinking she’s a happy little single with no interest in mingling. Could be easier for all of them. Or not.

“Well, not exactly,” she admits. She squeezes the bottle in her hand, making crinkles on the plastic, and closes her eyes, bracing herself. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Whatever she was expecting, her dad’s wooden spoon hitting the kitchen floor was… well, not it.

“Boyfriend?” her dad echoes, his voice a strange mixture of mad and shocked. If she had the spine, she’d ask what exactly he has to be bad about.

“Boyfriend!” her mom squeaks, on the opposite end of the spectrum to her dad. She grabs her hand tightly. “Oh well Veronica that’s wonderful. How long have you been together, did you ask him out, does his family know?”

“Okay one question at a time, Mom,” she says, half laughing. “Just since… since November I guess. And yeah, Claire knows.” It’s a little white lie. Those don’t hurt, right?

“Since November?” her dad asks, seemingly calmer now. “Explains why you got him that stuffed cat for Christmas.”

“And why he got you that beautiful necklace,” her mom explains. “Aw, Veronica, I’m so happy for you.”

“Okay,” she replies, ducking out of her mom’s embrace before she can start squishing her cheeks. She straightens her skirt and turns around, facing her ecstatic mom and her dad, who’s still trying to process what she told him. “So… you guys are okay with it?”

“Of course we are! As long as you’re happy-”

“I want to meet him,” her dad interrupts flatly, throwing the dishtowel over his shoulder.

“What?”

“I want to meet him. Your boyfriend. I want to meet him if this thing is serious.”

‘Serious?’ she thinks. ‘Who said anything about serious?’

Maybe JD’s crumbled bedsheets and the butterfly at the base of her throat did.

“Dad,” she sighs. She looks over to her mom for help, an ally, literally any solidarity here, and just finds a shrug.

“Well, if you’re with him… I’d like to meet him too,” she says. “I’m sure he’s a lovely young man. But… it’s normally standard procedure that your parents meet your boyfriend.”

“Come on,” she sighs. She knows they’re right, of course, but that’s only because standard procedure is working against her. Doesn’t make her agree with it.

“Well, Ronnie, what could go wrong?” her mom asks, wringing her hands together.

‘So freaking much,’ she thinks.

“Nothing,” she admits with a defeated sigh. “Fine, I’ll bring him over.”

“Wonderful,” her mom says, clapping her hands together. “Well, what about Friday night? I can make my chicken casserole; we can all sit down and-”

“He has something on on Friday,” she interrupts, crossing her arms over her body. “Something he can’t get out of.”

“What is it?” her dad asks, raising an eyebrow.

“An appointment,” she replies. She tries not to bite her lip, but her dad seems to take it and nods, dropping the subject.

“Well, what about Saturday?” he asks. “He can come over before you go out with your friends. We can sit down, all talk together-”

“Talk about what exactly?” she asks.

“Well, you’re my only daughter,” he admits. “And I want to make sure he’s… right for you.”

“Oh my god!” she says.

“Language,” her mom reminds her.

“Okay,” she says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “But… please don’t pull the ‘she’s my only child’ thing on him when he’s here.”

“I won’t,” her dad says, shrugging unconvincingly. Veronica and her mom both raise their eyebrows at him, keeping their eyes on him until he begins to cave. “I won’t… too much.”

“Nice try, Dad,” she says, laughing unexpectedly, turning to go upstairs and make a start on her homework before her dad calls her back.

“Hey… I’m glad you’re happy, hon.”

“Thank you,” she replies, smiling for real for the first time since she came in.

What exactly had she been worried about?

She brings up the prospect to JD in social studies while waiting for their teacher to get in. Having come in a few weeks into the school year, JD didn’t get the chance to grab the seat next to her; he sits two rows in front, three seats to the right. She worked that out the first class they had together. Maybe that’s what ‘having it bad’ is like. For now she squats on the floor next to him, grateful for their teacher’s lack of punctuality.

“Would me meeting your parents make you happy?” he asks, stroking her hair gently.

“Not particularly,” she admits. “Honestly I’d be happier keeping you away from my parents until the day we both die.”

“Worried they won’t like me or I won’t like them?”

“Worried my mom will be showing you my baby photos,” she replies.

“I would love that.”

“I wouldn’t.” He pokes the dimple in her cheek, grinning back at her. “So you’ll come over?”

“Of course I will,” he tells her. “Anything for you, Ronnie.” She scrunches up her face, trying but failing to disguise the butterflies in her stomach. Is it normal to still have butterflies at this stage? Maybe not, but the romantic in her hopes they last as long as she and JD do.

“Get a room, you two,” Chandler sighs, one row behind and three seats to the right. She files her nails, sitting on her own and yet still looking unbothered and powerful the way only she can. Alone by choice. She doesn’t look at them, instead raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow in mild annoyance.

JD rubs her arm just as the bell rings and Veronica has to get up, stretch her stiff legs and run over to her own desk before Ms Noel can bust her for being out of her seat.

                                                                                               *****

Claire, surprisingly, is in the living room when he gets home and that’s not the only thing that’s unusual. The TV is pulled out from the wall and she’s squatting behind it, glasses on her head, sleeves rolled up, her face screwed up in concentration so intense she doesn’t seem to notice JD until he’s right beside her, and even then she smiles at him and asks how school was as casually as she would if he found her in the kitchen or her study, as he almost always had.

“What are you doing to our TV?” he asks.

“It’s been wonky all week,” she says, swinging a thick wire around. He takes a step back. “Colour blinking on and off, the sound not working. I’m trying to fix it.”

“Why don’t you just call someone?”

“Because I’m not wasting money on asking someone to do something that I can clearly do myself,” she tells him, looking up at him with a self-satisfied smirk. “Life lessons, Jason.”

“I’ll note it down,” he says. “Look, I need a favour.”

“What is it?”

“I need to go down to the grocery store tonight,” he tells her. “And I need to use the kitchen on Friday.” Claire takes a break from her 200 wires and knobs and frowns at him, leaning back on her heels. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replies quickly. “But you know you don’t need to ask to use the kitchen, right? It’s your house.”

“Right,” he says, trying not to think too much about the words ‘your house’. “Well it’s just… I don’t really want to be interrupted while I’m in there.”

“Consider me gone,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I’ll probably be in here anyway trying to fix this thing.” She smacks the top of it hard, making the whole stand seem to shudder. “Hey, is there anything on the screen now?”

“No,” he tells her. “Just black.”

“God damn it,” she sighs, the top of her head disappearing behind the set.

“Claire,” he begins, suppressing a smirk. “How do I know it’s not more damaged now than it was when you started.”

“Don’t sass me,” she says from behind the TV. Her glasses come up over the top, pointing sharply at him. “I’ve almost got it.”

“I’m sure you have,” he replies. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that her mouth is hanging open and her eyebrows are most definitely hitting the ceiling. “How long have you been at that anyway?”

“On and off all day,” she replies. “I always meant to get around to it. It’s been on the brink for weeks now.”

“It’s never been on the brink for me,” he points out, sitting down on the edge of the couch. “Maybe it just hates you.”

“You barely use it,” she replies. “Do you know how many people would kill for a kid who doesn’t watch the TV? Oh!” He hears the sound of something being slotted and clicked into place, then out of place, then back into place, and then a knob turning before she steps out, the cover of the back of the TV still sitting propped up against the wall. She lifts up the remote and turns to him, her wide eyes and hair falling out of its braid and sweater slipping off her shoulder making her look like something of a mad scientist. “Ready?”

“Dazzle me,” he replies.

She points the remote at the TV with a flourish and hits the button, bouncing up and down with glee as she prepares to show off her amazing technician skills-

Only for the screen to remain black and silent, the afternoon sun hitting off it and the only picture being their reflections. In the dark screen, he can see Claire’s disappointed pout and it’s actually enough to make him hold back his biting remarks.

“Damn it,” she sighs. “I took the whole fucking back off.”

“That’s a dollar in the swear jar,” he tells her. While Claire swears that she had a swear jar in her kitchen for almost a decade now, JD can’t help but wonder if she read his file and put it in for his arrival. He knows that for some people, “troubled kid” =cursing a lot. He guesses it comes with the territory. Pity she didn’t make a ‘gets into fights in school’ jar instead, then they’d have had a vacation to Hawaii booked and paid for by now. And at least 51% of the dollars in the jar are Claire’s anyway.

“Maybe we’ll have to use that jar to get a new TV,” she sighs. “I’ve had this thing since about 1973 anyway. Maybe it’s time for an upgrade.” She cocks her head, mentally assessing it, weighing up the pros and cons before shrugging and turning on her heel. “I’ll give it another grilling tomorrow when I’m well rested.” She puts her glasses on and sits down on the opposite arm of the couch, her chin propped up on her fist. “So what do you need from the grocery store?”

“Uh… flour, sugar… eggs I think. I’ll double check the recipe.”

“You’re baking?” she asks, grinning.

“Yeah,” he replies, feeling both dread and excitement, the latter winning out. “It’s Veronica’s birthday on Saturday.”

“Aww.” With a look from JD, she calms herself, dialling the ‘gushing foster mom’ stuff back down where it belongs. “That’s sweet Jason. Literally I guess.”

“Oh that was bad,” he replies, laughing. “Anyway I’ll double check. I think we have a lot of the stuff here.”

“What are you making her?” she asks, following him into the kitchen and leaning on the counter.

“Red velvet,” he says softly, taking the recipe book down from the shelf. If nothing else, he lucked out by being taken into a house with more recipes than he’d know what to do with. He holds it open at the right page with one hand and goes through the cupboards with the other one. “It’s her favourite.”

“Make a little extra one for me?” she asks.

“Make that saffron risotto and I won’t say no,” he tells her. He isn’t kidding. He’d do many things for that risotto.

“Oh, I managed to run out to the pharmacy today,” she says, looking through her bag. He keeps looking at the book, knowing what she’s bringing out of her bag. “Picked up your next prescription. You said you’re running low, right?”

“Yeah,” he says flatly. He must sound nearly as bad as he feels because Claire puts the bag down and comes slowly to his side.

“Everything okay, kid?”

“Course it’s okay,” he sighs, looking up at her quickly. “Thanks. Thanks for picking them up for me.”

“Jason,” she says, a little firmer this time. “Anything you need to talk about? Or is this a Rachel thing?”

A Rachel thing. That’s what he calls something only to be discussed between himself and his therapist. The real dark stuff that sometimes he can’t understand. He can understand this, of course, but it’s just…

It’s embarrassing.

“It’s fine,” he sighs, closing the book, his finger keeping his page. “It’s just…” He looks up, Claire’s face the classic parental concern (or foster-parental concern), gentle and coaxing. He tells himself hes only talking to her because that’s what she’s here for, it’s what the system pays her for. “I just… I don’t like having to be on them.”

“Jason,” she sighs. After a moment, her hand is on his shoulder and it’s��� not unwelcome.

“I know I need them,” he says. “I know that. And I’m not… It’s not like I hate them. I just…” Big truth time. He scratches the cover of the book in his hands. “I don’t want to need them. Not forever.”

“Oh, kid,” Claire breathes. “I know. I know it’s a lot right now.” He hums in agreement. “Would you feel better if I told you that you get used to it?”

“I will?” he asks.

“Of course you do,” she says. “Like these.” She touches the frame of her glasses. “I got them when I was 12. And I get used to them. Putting them on every morning. Taking them off every night. Sometimes I forget they’re there sometimes. And then I break them.” He at least chuckles at that. “And I don’t want to need them either.” She rubs his shoulder in a gentle motion that comes close to wiping his worries away. If only. “And that’s not going into all the other meds I’ve had to take before. It’s all just stuff I need. And there comes a point where it feels like second nature.” His head moves a fraction of its own accord, less than a breath away from Claire’s shoulder. It’s close to comforting, a line he’s seen more than once in his time. She squeezes his shoulder tightly and a rush of feeling comes over him, half-confused, half okay. “I know it sucks right now, kid. It’s just something you need. No shame in that.”

“Thanks,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

“Any time,” she replies softly, her breath tickling his hair. She pats his shoulder again before getting up and moving over to the counter to pick up her car keys.

“Also I’m going over to Veronica’s early on Saturday,” he tells her, taking out his notebook and writing ingredients on a back page. “She wants me to meet her parents.”

“Oh, it’s that serious?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Should I do the same? You bring her over, we have dinner, I grill her about her intentions with you and threaten to skin her if she hurts you?” He bites back a laugh; it’s not that Claire doesn’t pack a punch sometimes, but she’s 5 foot nothing and has a penchant for pastel jumpers and home crafting. He can’t see Veronica being scared much by that, especially not that she knows her now.

“I’ll make notes of what her dad tells me,” he replies. “To give you pointers.” He pauses, his pencil twirling in mid-air. “Although… maybe that wouldn’t be too bad. You, me, her. Real dinner.”

“Pick a date on the calendar,” she tells him.

“Maybe,” he says again. He used to love that word, ‘maybe’. When he’s moving every 3 months, it’s a nice way of saying ‘I’d like to, but realistically, it’ll never ever happen because I’ll be gone soon’. In recent years, he’s liked it less and less. “Okay, let me just leave my stuff upstairs.”

He takes the stairs two at a time and throws the bag down on his bed before taking his wallet out of it. It’s meant to be less than a minute, but something catches his eye; the reflection of himself in the mirror propped up against the wall, the way the sleeves of his coat fall over his hands and the collar is flipped up to his cheekbones, the way the black stands against the pale wall of his bedroom. He’s barely paid attention to it despite wearing it practically every single day since he got it. He likes it, doesn’t he?

For the first time in years, he’s not so sure about it.

                                                                                               ******

Veronica takes her finger out of her mouth, scowling at the chipped nail. To her credit, Heather Chandler probably put more effort into getting her to kick the nail biting than into anything else. She curls her hand into a fist, sitting at the kitchen table and waiting for her boyfriend to knock the door. To meet her parents. To actually talk to them. For them to talk to him.

Surely it’s not too late to cancel.

“Are you sure this is enough?” her mom asks from the counter. Two plates of sandwiches, a pot of coffee, a jug of ice water and a plate of homemade cookies. Her mom’s gone all out in more ways than one. She’s wearing the Easter blouse. If her dad’s over protectiveness doesn’t send JD running, her mom just might.

“It’s fine, Mom,” she says. “We’ll get food after bowling tonight.” She looks up, frowning. “Where’s Dad?”

“Probably at the front door,” her mom says. “Waiting for him.”

“Oh God.” She gets up from the table and runs into the hall, then the living room, where she sees her dad sitting in his armchair and facing the window. “Dad!”

“What?” he asks, a little startled. He pulls at his shirt collar, trying to perform relaxed. He’s doing worse than her, which is an achievement. “I’m just waiting for lunch to be ready.”

“Can you wait in the kitchen?” she asks. “You know, where there’s no windows?”

“Ronnie-”

“Dad.” She contemplates batting her eyes at her, trying to play up ‘Daddy’s little girl’. “Dad, I’ll let him in.” Her dad sighs and pulls himself up, crossing the room over to her. She pats his chest lightly. “And then you can scare him all you like.”

“All I like?”

“Okay, not all you like.” He laughs and ruffles her hair before setting off to the kitchen, not before taking one look at the front door, peering through the stained glass.

“Dad!”

“I’m going!” She laughs behind her hand as she herself turns to look out the window, her eyes scanning for a familiar coat or shock of dark hair passing by her window. She guesses she must have been concentrating too hard, because when the doorbell does ring it makes her jump out of her skin.

Before she opens the door, she does have to dead-stare her dad in the eye until he backs up back into the kitchen.

“Hey,” she whispers as he steps in. She pulls him into a soft, fast kiss, one eye open in case her father decides to ‘accidentally’ walk in on them. Her hand doesn’t grasp the collar as it normally does but falls flat against his chest. “You ready?”

“Of course I am,” he says with a shaky grin. “I was born ready.”

“Okay tough guy,” she laughs, running her hand down his arm to hold his. A snarky remark forms and dies on her lips when she takes him in fully. “Is that a new jacket?”

“Oh, this?” he asks, stretching out his arm. It’s dark blue and soft and stops at his waist rather than his usual floor-length coat. “Um yeah. Christmas present from Claire. You like it?”

“Yeah… it’s nice.” She clears her throat, bringing herself back to the present and grabbing his hand. “Come on. My mom’s probably going to hunt us down if we stay out here any longer.”

When they get into the kitchen, her mom is at the counter, working at nothing, while her dad puts on a show of reading the newspaper next to her. They’re both a little too into their feigned ignorance; Veronica has to clear her throat to alert them to their presence.

“Mom… Dad,” she begins as they both look up, regarding JD with broad smiles. Her catches for a second and she wraps her hand around his arm. “This is JD. This is my boyfriend.”

“JD…” Her dad repeats, strolling up to them. He’s just about eye level with JD. He tenses next to her, his fingers curling tighter around hers. His mouth opens but for a second no sound comes out. Veronica bites her cheek, trying not to laugh at his wide eyes, or the way he covertly wipes his hand on his jeans before holding it out to her dad.

“Um, Jason Dean, sir,” he says. “But… most people call me JD.” Her dad shakes his hand, the beginnings of a grin on his lips. When JD winces just slightly, small enough for just her to see it, Veronica swallows a snicker, but also makes a mental note to buy him liquorice on Monday to make up for it.

“Nice to meet you, son,” he says, clapping JD on the shoulder. “Why don’t you sit down?”

And it’s at that moment she hears Jason Dean, her JD, her unbreakable and unshakeable JD, squeak.

And she’s not sure she isn’t dreaming.

“I was not scared by your dad!” he insists as they walk through the parking lot to the bowling alley. Veronica had allowed half an hour before insisting they had to motor to be ready. Although her parents had a little more time with him than she had planned, thanks to her dad’s insistence that he wait down there while she ran upstairs to get her jacket and do her make-up. He said that him and JD would have plenty to talk about while she was gone. Well, her dad did anyway, and JD had plenty to smile and nod at and plenty of time to watch the stairs anxiously.

“You were so scared by my dad,” she corrects him, running her hand up and down his arm and resting her cheek on his shoulder. “But he liked you.”

“He did?”

“Mm-hm. I can tell. He didn’t like Heather Chandler and I could tell that. He was different with you.”

“How different exactly?” he asks, pride clinging to his every word. She doesn’t need to look up to see the satisfied smirk on his face.

“Mm. He was happy with you. Underneath all of the Dad stuff.”

“Way, way underneath all of that,” he agrees, pressing his lips to her hair. She takes his hand and turns around under his arm so that she faces him, sees the amused, soft smile on his face. She places her hand on his chest, just a little north of his heart.

“Thanks for coming over,” she says sincerely.

“Like I said in school,” he replies. “Anything for you, Ronnie.” He places his hand over hers. “And you’ve met my biological parent and my foster parent, I think it’s only fair I meet yours now.” She huffs a laugh, shaking away the usual prickling discomfort that comes around in the rare occasion his father is brought up. She takes hold of his jacket instead and pulls him towards her instead, grinning against his lips at the feeling of his hand tangling in her hair.

It’s not that she’ll miss the trench coat, she thinks as she wraps her arms around his waist. It was just a coat after all. But damn if it wasn’t fun grabbing the labels.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Not good to keep your friends waiting.” She hums in agreement, wrapping her arms around his and letting him lead her inside.

“Happy birthday Ronnie!” Before Veronica can even take anything in, a small flash of yellow crashes into her side and nearly knocks her over despite being practically half her size.

“Thanks Heather,” she laughs, wrapping her arms around her in return. Heather lets her go for less than a second before grabbing her hand and pulling her along with so much strength she slips out of JD’s hold.

“Come on! We set up down here!” Heather pulls her down past the lanes of other families and groups of teenagers or little kids bowling, so caught up in their own games none of them can spare a glance at them.

When Heather drags her down to the last lane, their lane, she’s close to speechless.

She doesn’t know how they swung it, but Heather (she imagines with Martha’s help) has tied blue and white balloons to the backs of chairs and even stuck a few to the ball dispenser, along with silver streamers that catch the red and green and yellow overhead lights. On the table there’s three different wrapped boxes and a white cake, which, if the red flakes are anything to go by, is red velvet, as well as a bottle of Coke and a bottle of Fanta. They caught Martha in the middle of placing silver candles on the cake, which right now spell out “Happy Bir”.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, hiding behind her hands, looking from Heather to Martha. “You guys did this?”

“Well, it was mostly Heather,” Martha says sheepishly.

“Oh, bullshit,” Heather says, skipping over to Martha and wrapping her arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Martha told me what I should get. I just followed her advice.”

“Well…” Her friend’s cheeks turn red, both from the praise and the public displays of affection from her girlfriend.

“You’re the best,” Veronica says, running over to Martha and throwing her arms around her “Seriously the best.”

“A little,” Martha allows herself to admit. “JD made the cake though.” Veronica turns to him, looking at him scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but his cake on the table.

“Oh did he?”

“I did promise you a red velvet cake,” he reminds her, sitting on the one free spot on the table.

“You guys are amazing,” she says.

“We know,” Heather replies, resting her cheek on her shoulder. “Now come on, are we bowling or what?”

And that’s how they spend their night. While Veronica relies on her old instincts from middle school birthday parties, JD turns out to be surprisingly bad at it (leading to quite a few hugs from Veronica). Heather, swearing she’s never bowled before, insists on Martha helping her. No one can miss how much she leans into her girlfriend’s embrace, how she deliberately pulls on Martha’s hand to tighten her grip on her waist. Or the not-so secret kiss Martha places on the back of her ear. Veronica celebrates every victory with a larger than life victory dance and high fives from all three of them and takes every defeat with a kiss on the head. She alternates between sitting on the table next to Martha and standing wrapped in JD’s arms while waiting for her turn. Even when waiters come down with French fries, hot wings and mini hot dogs they can’t calm down, high on their own buzz, play fighting over who’s winning, who has the better partner, who is the better partner, whether JD is really getting distracted or if he’s just… bad. She laughs until her face hurts and when in the moments when it starts to fade, she either leans on Martha or JD (one time Heather) and just for a second, she doesn’t even need to think about or say anything. She just sits in the moment and laughs and it’s perfect.

When she blows out the candles on her cake, she just wishes that they can always stay like this.