#nbr verse getting added lore five years later

[sprnklersplashes]

screamin but daddy I love her (ao3)

buy me a coffee

fanfic fundraiser

This isn’t the first time Martha has been on Heather’s doorstep. To the contrary, the first time was when they were high school seniors, and Martha must have been here hundreds of times between then and now. She knows this porch like she knows Heather’s bedroom, but tonight standing in her new dress and adjusting the maroon bow in her hair, she feels just like she did at seventeen. Breathless, anxious, ready to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.

Although, the sight of her girlfriend opening the door does help a little. 

“Hey,” she whispers. Heather steps out onto the porch and closes the door behind her, exuding effortless class in her pale yellow blouse and black skirt. The light catches on her glossy lips, and Martha wants nothing more than to pull her in and kiss her. But her parents are inside her and neighbours might be passing by, so she has to settle for squeezing her hand as if they’re just two good friends saying hi on Thanksgiving. 

Just a few more hours she tells herself. If it goes according to plan, she can kiss Heather on this porch at the end of the night. 

“Hey baby,” she says softly. “How are you feeling about tonight.”

“Good.” Heather nods once, her curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Good. My dad’s in a really good mood, which helps. He had a massive boom in sales right before Thanksgiving.”

“Well, it is the most romantic time of the year,” Martha chuckles.

“Yeah. Yeah. Totally,” Heather breathes. “And he had a good time with his buddies and he has already opened up the brandy.”

“Okay. Cool. How about your mom?”

“She’s good too. Popped some Tylenol this morning, she went to yoga, oh and I let her take me to the mall this morning and told her a little white lie about how the guy at the coffee shop thought we were sisters just before we got home.”

“Wow,” Martha murmurs. “You are good.” Heather giggles, her face lighting up at the compliment, but there’s hesitancy in it, like she’s tiptoeing right on the edge of a cliff. Despite their being ‘in the open’ as it were, Martha slides her hand round Heather’s neck and cups her head, as if she’s about to pull her lips to hers.

Instead, she looks into her eyes and lowers her voice so only she can hear.

“You don’t have to do this now,” she says. “If it’s not the right time. We can wait.” I can wait, she adds silently. Much as the hiding and the half-truths drain the life out of her, all Heather needs to do is bat those eyes and Marth knows she’d wait decades. 

“No. No, I want to.” Heather closes her eyes, shakes her head as a small puff of breath escapes her. “It’s… I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of my parents asking me if I’ve met any nice boys in college. And I’m tired of… not getting to talk about you.” A pink blush creeps across Heather’s face, matching the one Martha feels in her chest. She rubs circles against her scalp as Heather moves a half-step closer. “I can take a lot. But I can’t take not being with you.” 

“Oh,” Martha breathes. Warmth creeps across her cheeks, glowing in a baby pink blush. Instinct tells her to duck her head, slip into the shadows where it’s comfortable, but she won’t. And while she can’t do what she really wants and kiss Heather until she’s breathless, she can take her hand and link their fingers together, and it’s enough. For now, it’s enough. “You’re sweet.”

“Yeah,” Heather sighs. She straightens up, the same way she used to in high school right before starting a cheer routine. “Don’t let go of my hand til we’re inside.” Martha smiles and squeezes her hand. Heather’s hand shakes, either from the cold or something else. 

It doesn’t matter. Martha can keep her warm.

As predicted, the house is classily decked out for the holidays. The girls enter to gold and brown leaves wrapped around the bannister, towering candles flickering held in bronze candlesticks. Martha tries her best not to gape as Heather leads her along the carpeted hallway into the living room. Mr Macnamara lounges in one of the plush armchairs, broadsheet newspaper folded over his lap and a crystal glass of brandy glittering in the other.

Heather has to clear her throat twice before he looks up.

“Oh. Heather. And….” He looks Martha up and down, face creasing just slightly. Heather stiffens beside her, and Martha squeezes her hand to remind her to breathe.

“Martha,” she says.

“Martha, of course.” He folds up his paper and does them the courtesy of getting up from his chair. Martha forces herself to smile as he walks towards them. When he extends his hand, Martha takes it, 

“Wonderful that you could make it for Thanksgiving. Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh!” Martha squeaks. Her heart pick up, racing like a butterfly’s wings. She did preapre for this question, she did, but now her neatly ordered thoughts are bleeding together and she can barely make her mouth move. She manages to say, “Whatever Heather’s having” without too much trouble, and she lets Heather lead her to the couch as her dad pours them both a red wine.

She hates red wine.

Heather sends her a quick apologetic look, and Martha whispers ‘it’s okay’ as her dad sits back down. Tonight is about her in any case. It might end up being about stopping her from getting too drunk and blurting it out before the turkey gets carved.

“So. Martha. You’re still in Sherwood aren’t you?”

“Dad!” Heather groans. Mr Macnamara frowns at the outburst, his gaze enough to send a chill down Martha’s spine. Her hand twitches, aching to take hold of Heather’s, and she wraps it around her glass as well.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Heather,” he scolds. “I can’t possibly be expected to keep track of all your friends’ exploits can I?”

“It’s okay,” Martha interjects. “I’m at Ohio State.”

“Ah. Certainly a fine school, no doubt. Your major?”

“Early childcare.”

“And a fine major to have,” he says, a bit more warmth this time around. Although he does follow it up with, “Good to see a young girl like you follow her natural path,” and Heather chokes on her wine. Her dad glares at her, a split second that burns into Martha’s mind. 

She is not and has never been a violent person, but she would be lying if she said throwing her drink in his face wouldn’t give her immense pleasure. Nor would it be the first time she thought of such a thing.

“And tell me Martha,” he asks. “Have you had a chance to find a man out there yet?”

“My studies tend to keep me busy,” she replies smoothly. Tomorrow, she and Veronica will laugh themselves sick over this moment.

“Dedication. I like that in a girl. And surely you’ll have plenty of time to find a man.” Martha nods while Mr Macnamara sighs dejectedly, swirling his drink around his glass. “If only some of that dedication would rub off on Heather.”

Next to her, Heather flinches as if a gun had gone off. When her dad goes off to refill his drink, she slides her hand across the couch and strokes the back of Heather’s hand. She watches as she takes another hasty drink, three deep breaths to keep her from breaking down. It’s always a little bit scary, wacthing Heather slip the mask back on in real time. When she smiles demurely at her dad, it’s downright terrifying. 

“Heather didn’t tell you did she?” he goes on. “About what happened at college? The whole waitlist business?”

“She did actually,” Martha replies. Mr Macnamara blinks, a deer caught in headlights, and Martha tries not to look too triumphant. She doesn’t mention that Heather told her before she told her parents, the night of crying in Martha’s room, the rejections from Ivy Leagues and the whispered confession that she was glad. Despite how scared she was at the time, she didn’t have to force herself to an Ivy League that would’ve made her miserable.

“Anway, you seem to be doing okay right now,” Martha adds, looking over at Heather. She allows herself the tiniest smile, a faint rose blush across her face. “And University of Michigan is a great school.”

Mr Macnamara nods, and his mouth opens to say something else. Thankfully, at that exact moment, Heather’s mom appears in the doorway and tells them dinner is ready. Heather’s relief is palpabale as her dad leaves, her body almost doubling over as the tension leaves her. They wait for a few minutes in the living room, her parents’ footsteps getting quieter.

“Well…” Heather begins. “This could be going worse. Right?” Heather lifts her head and looks at her, a pout on her pink lips. Martha pushes her hair away from her face, takes the moment to stroke her cheek with her thumb.

“Absolutely. Your mom even remembered my name this time around.” She squeezes Heather’s cheek between her thumb and forefinger. “Progress.”

Heather, face adorably smushed between her fingers, manages to smile. Even if it’s followed by a worried glance at the doorway.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Progress.”

Dinner begins fairly okay. They get through the starter without much hassle, Martha answering questions about college and her career plans and making chitchat about the engagement ring business and nodding appropriately at Mrs Macnamara’s bridge club stories. She compliments Mrs Macnamara’s cooking and laughs at Mr Macnamara’s jokes and slips in praises about Heather and so far, it seems to be going okay.

She doesn’t expect it to last. If there is one thing she’s good at, it’s bracing herself for things going south. But she’s also learned to enjoy herself along the way.

As the main course is brought out, Heather’s dad once again turns the conversation to boys.

“Whatever happened to that Ram boy you used to run around with in high school?” he asks. “I keep running into his father in town. Lovely family, that boy has.”

“Uh, I’m not sure where he is now,” Heather says deliately. “Last I heard he went out west somewhere.”

Last Martha heard, some girl on campus was charging him for assault. She takes another spoonful of mashed potatoes and decides not to comment.

“And you never kept in contact with him?” her mom asks. Heather just shakes her head. Mrs Macnamara clicks her tongue and takes another drink. “Shame. You two always looked so nice together.”

“I was just talking to his father about that. A shame you two fell out over such a boyish mistake.”

“Boyish mistake,” Heather echoes. Her voice is hollow, her eyes distant. Martha doesn’t need to guess where her mind is right now. She only heard about that night, first from Veronica and then from Heather herself. She saw the faded bruises, heard the whispers in the hallway. It was enough to make her want to throw Ram off the local bridge. “He assaulted me, Dad.”

Mr Macnamara waves his hand dismissively, shoves another piece of turkey in his mouth.

“I’m sure it was just a game taken too far,” he says. “You always were a bit too sensitive, Heather.”

Heather drops her fork. Her skin has gone white. She looks like she’s about to cry.

“The food really is lovely, Mrs Macnamara.” Martha nudges Heather beneath the table. She glances at her out of the corner of her eye and she gives a quick, tight nod.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she coos. “Although, the credit really should go to Margaret. It’s such a rarity to get good help these days, isn’t it?”

Martha can just nod and hope her cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. She tugs at the hem of her dress, painfully aware of how cheap it must look in comparison to everything else. The tablecloth is probably worth more than her dress. 

“How is your family celebrating Thanksgiving this year, Martha?” Mr Macnamara asks. “I hate to think you left them alone this year.”

“Oh no,” she says. “My mom’s working today, so we’re celebrating tomorrow.”

“Working?” he asks, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face. Martha bites her tongue, pulls back the anger rising within her. He said ‘working’ like it’s some deadly disease, one you would never mention in polite company. “She’s working on Thanksgiving?”

“Martha’s mom is a nurse, actually.” Heather speaks before Martha can, the power in her voice pushing back against her father like a tiny yellow hurricane. The pressure in Martha’s chest eases.

Thank you she mouths. Heather smiles. 

“I see,” Mr Macnamara says. “And your father?”

Hidden beneath the table, Martha’s hands curl into fists. Her nails poke through her tights and drag across her skin.

“I don’t see him much, sir.” At all is more truthful answer. 

“Well,” he sighs. “That is indeed a pity. It seems that these days the traditional family is hard to come by. Still, I applaud your mother for working. Medical professionals are the backbone of our society afterall. And of course, hard work is the most important thing in life. Next to family, of course.”

“Because you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Heather mutters. 

“What was that Heather?”

“Mom, pass the gravy please?” Across the table, Mr Macnamara narrows his eyes as Heather innocently pours gravy over her food, certain an insubordination happened but unsure what or how. Slowly, he goes back to his food, but not before taking a long drink.

“How’s Victoria doing these days?” Mrs Macnamara asks.

“You mean Veronica?” Heather asks. When her mom nods, Heather continues, “She’s good. We’re hanging out tomorrow actually. The four of us.”

“Four?”

“Veronica’s bringing JD. Her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” her dad echoes. Heather nods. “And how long have they been together?”

“A year.” 

Martha inhales deeply. The room sways like a boat about to capsize. Mr Macnamara’s gaze darkens, his fingers tighten around his glass.

“And she’s the one out in Duke isn’t she?” Heather nods. Her breath comes in swift puffs, although her parents remain oblivious. Her dad just nods slowly. “Long term relationship and an Ivy League school. Amazing things for a young woman to achieve.”

He doesn’t look away from Heather as he says it. His eye bore into her like knives, slicing right down to her bones. Heather is unflinching, even when the tears fill her eyes. Mrs Macnamara refills her glass and offers some to Heather.

Martha wonders if anyone else is finding it hard to breathe. Her instincts tell her to flee, but her love for Heather has her rooted to her chair. Carefully, as if the girl is made of glass, Martha brushes Heather’s knuckles with her fingertips. Stay or go, it’s entirely up to her.

Contrary to Martha’s expectations, Heather bursts out laughing. It starts of low, a rumble of thunder, then gets higher and higher, and Heather’s cheeks are scarlet, and she bangs her fist on the table so hard the cutlery rattles.

“Heather, sweetie, I think we’ll switch you to water now.”

“No. No it’s fine.” Heather then stands, slowly, palms flat against the table. “I thought if I made everything perfect tonight this would be easier. But you two are never going to make this easy. So I might as well say it.”

Martha jumps to her feet. In full view of both her parents, Heather takes Martha’s hand, anchoring herself to the room. Her chest might be rising and falling rapdily, her heart doing somersaults in her ribs, but they stand steady.

“Mom, Daddy, Martha’s my girlfriend,” she announces. “Surprise. I’m a lesbian. We’ve been together since high school. And I wanted to make tonight nice to tell you, but that didn’t work out. So here we are.”

Mrs Macnamara’s mouth falls open slowly, like someone is a winding a key in her. The colour has drained entirely from her face. The fork falls from her hand and clatters against the plate, the noise ricocheting like a bullet was fired.

Minutes pass by in suffocating silence. Then, Mr Macnamara answers with a simple, concise, “No”.

“I’m afraid you can’t lawsuit your way out of this, Daddy.”

“No,” he says again. He looks down at their joined hands as if they presented him with a dead animal and shakes his head. “No!”

“Dad-”

“Heather, sweetie,” her mom interrupts. “I know you and Martha are very, very good friends. But this…” She waves her hand almost maniacly. “This isn’t… you’re not… that.”

“Mother, I can assure you we are.”

“No, Heather, you are just confused!” her mom insists. The words prick at Martha’s skin, but she won’t show it. 

“I agree with your mother.” Mr Macnamara rises to his feet then, standing tall over both of them and Martha feels her resolve begin to waver. Another memory flashes through her mind, a different  angry man and a smaller version of her.

‘No,’ she tells the memory. She is not that small and helpless now.

“Whatever friendship you have with this girl,” her dad goes on. “You’re not one of… them. No-one in this family is.”

“I am. And we’re together. And you’re going to have to deal with it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Heather.” He slams his glass down on the table. A quick, panicked gasp sticks in Martha’s throat. Mr Macnamara looks at her, really looks, probably for the first time the entire evening. Puzzle pieces click together in his head. “She is the reason you left your old friends. The reason you stopped hanging out with the Sweeneys.”

Heather doesn’t say anything. It would fall on deaf ears anyway. Her father sneers at her, pure hatred burning in his eyes. Martha wishes she didn’t understand.

“You’ve spent the last year aimlessly wandering around town and throwing away every plan we made for you for a girl who will work in a daycare!” he shouts.

“At least she’ll actually work!” Heather replies. “All  you do is pay people to sell engagement rings you didn’t design.”

“You will drag this family’s reputation through the mud and why?”

“Because Daddy, I love her, that’s why!”

“Not in my house!”

“Then we won’t be in your house!” she declares. She grabs her glass, drains it and slams it down on the table. The stem splinters. With a sharp tug on her hand, Heather is pulling Martha out of the house, just barely remembering to grab their coats on the way. 

Mr Macnamara is still yelling at Heather as they leave. Mrs Macnamara is quietly sobbing at the table. Just before Heather opens the door, they hear her high-pitched whine, “Is this because we let her do cheerleading?”.

Martha chuckles, but it’s cut short when she looks at Heather. Tears are streaming down her flushed cheeks. When she looks around, she struggles to find the swe she felt when she stepped in. The glitter has faded, and everything looks worn out now. 

Still clutching Heather’s hand, Martha opens the door and leads Heather onto the porch. The door clicks behind them and, despite Mr Macnamara continuing to rant on the other side, it doesn’t open. Heather stares into space, panting like she’s just ran ten miles. Martha stands by her, only looking away to glance occasionally at the door. The shouting steadily winds down and Martha can almost feel the energy of the house eeking out. It’s almost sad to look at; the place that had felt terrifying to Martha at 17 just looks… sad. Dull and sad.

But that doesn’t matter.

“Heather?” Martha asks. “Are you okay?”

Heather sniffles and wipes the tears from her face.

“Is it weird that I am?” She glances over her shoulder at the house. Martha wonders if she’s seeing what she sees. “I wanted to say it.”

“Did you want to say it like that?”

Heather shrugs. White smoke billows from her mouth as she sighs. She shakes her head, blonde curls falling over shoulders. She runs her free hand through it, scrunches up her face.

“I’m not sure,” she confesses. “I don’t know. I think- I want….” Her voice trails off. 

“Do you want to go back to mine?”

A smile bursts onto Heather’s face, sunlight breaking through November clouds.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

Something settles in Martha’s heart then; something that doesn’t quite patch up the discomfort they just dragged themselves through, but cushions it and wraps it up so it hurts less. It makes her feel that, no matter what shit they plough through, they’ll somehow come out on the other side of it in one piece. Hand in hand.

“Come on baby.” Martha wraps her arm around Heather’s shoulders. Heather hums contentedly and Martha-maybe out of affection, maybe as a fuck you to the people inside the house-presses a little kiss to her head. “Let’s go home.”

Neither one mentions how or when Heather is going back to this house. Their relationship is based on getting from one day to the other and it's worked out well so far. It will work out, somehow. Even if it's with spit and a prayer.

(Besides, Martha thinks with an unexpected thrill. Her bed fits two people)