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sprnklersplashes · 16 days

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time won't fly (9/?) ao3

this was the very first page (not where the storyline ends)

Martha isn’t expecting much from today.

Which is a silly, self-pitying thought that she should push from her head and move on. She doesn’t know why she had expectations, other than she had a lovely night last week with Veronica. And yes, maybe some part of her-a very naive part of her-thought that they were going back to the old days, to Veronica-and-Martha, where every weekend was theirs, but that’s on her for not knowing better. If she refuses to let the past go, unrealistic expectations will plague her until after college.

With a heavy sigh, Martha drops her cereal bowl in the dishwasher and slams it closed. So much for not thinking about it.

The house is empty; her mom is working the early shift today so she woke up to a note on the fridge signed off with ‘I love you’. It’s times like this the house feels a lot bigger; two floors become twenty, square feet become acres. When she could simply appear on Veronica’s doorstep, it hadn’t felt quite as lonely. A safety net always existed down the block for her.

Earlier, Martha had asked Veronica during study hall, tentatively, if she wanted to do something today, but she had shaken her head, mumbling about a doctor’s appointment that morning. Which makes sense; twice now Martha has seen Veronica emerging from the bathroom, face pale and hair limp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Most of the time, Heather Duke trails after her, contempt in her dark eyes. And much as she tried, she couldn’t help feeling uneasy at the sight, a two-pronged fork poking her in the gut. One; someone was helping Veronica and it wasn’t her. And two; Veronica was staggering out of the bathroom with red-rimmed eyes and a bulimic of two years beside her. It’s awful, judgemental, to put those things together and yet she did.

Martha shakes the thought from her head, scowling. She grabs her backpack from the table and storms into the living room, floorboards creaking beneath her steps.

So, at 9 am on a Saturday, Martha curls up on the couch, flips on daytime TV, and takes out her homework. She has a short essay on The Tempest to start and while she’s been in the class and made, she couldn’t recall the plot of that play with a gun to her head.

At around halfway down the page, there’s a knock at the door. Martha’s head snaps up. It comes again, quick and dainty against the wood. It’s unfamiliar to her, and for a second she considers pretending she didn’t hear it. Then the instinct fades and she pulls herself up, and discards the blanket before she makes her way down the hall. She does her best to appear happy and welcoming but then she opens the door and she can’t quite do anything.

Because Heather Macnamara is standing on her doorstep.

Martha blinks fully expecting to wake up in her bed. In what version of reality would Heather Macnamara be on her doorstep, smiling at her like there’s nowhere else she would rather be.

“Heather,” she says, having taken far too long to find her voice. “Um, uh… hi?”

“Hi.” Heather beams at her, perfect white teeth in her perfect cheerleader’s smile. Her hair is held back in a loose bun, tucked under the same white beanie she had the last time she was here. “I was in the neighbourhood.”

“You were in the neighbourhood?” Martha repeats. She wasn’t aware their neighbourhoods existed on the same planet.

“Uh-huh,” she says. “I mean, well, I was walking Lola here and I remembered how nice your block was and I thought I’d take her down it.”

“Lola?” Martha asks. It’s then she glances down and sees that Heather is holding the lead of a very fluffy grey-and-white puppy whose tail beats a steady rhythm against the ground. “You have a dog?”

“Yeah,” Heather says. Of course she does, loads of people have dogs. That is not something to be confused about. “Normally my dad or my sister walk her, but I thought I’d take her down here for a change, and then I saw your house cause I remembered it from the last time I was here, and I thought maybe you’d want to come and walk her with me?” As if on command, Lola lets out a bark and begins sniffing around Martha’s sneakers.

Martha braces herself. Ram’s party bursts across her mind; all dimmed lights and a strong vodka smell, eyes of the world on her. Her hair rises on the back of her neck, waiting for the cheerleading squad to burst from her bushes.

Martha never used to be cynic. But now, she’s pulling away from Heather and getting ready to slam the door.

“So let me get this right,” she says. “You came all the way from your house to mine, which is at least fifteen minutes, to ask me if I want to walk your dog with you when there is a park five minutes from you?”

Heather’s face falls. It’s such a sight that Martha stops short, her breath sharp as she inhales. And then comes the guilt, cold beneath her skin, because this is why no-one likes you Dunnstock-

“I… I did not plan on you knowing all of that.”

“You live near Ram right?” comes her response. In contrast to her previous rant, this one is soft, careful, accompanied by a shift from one foot to the other. Heather nods, and doesn't meet Martha’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean it to be like that,” she says quietly. Her gaze moves up; she takes in the whole of Martha’s small house. The smile on her face is oddly subdued. Martha remembers the Heather who came to this house last week, sheepish and awkward, shivering in her long coat. “I don’t know what I meant, really. Guess I was just…” She shakes her head. “Nevermind. I’ll-I’ll see you around, Martha.” She turns on her heel, not so quick that Martha can’t see the red on her cheeks. Martha stands rooted to the ground, watching her leave. Then something emerges from the back of her throat, and without thinking she calls “Heather wait!” just before she reaches her gate.

When she turns, it’s one swift motion, pink lips parted.

Her hand tightens on the doorframe, the voice in her head whispers to stay put because she’ll end up regretting this.

“Let me get my coat,” Martha hears herself say. “I know somewhere we can go.”

The ‘somewhere’ in question is a woodland not too far from Martha’s house. Well, woodland is a little generous, it’s more a stretch of uninterrupted grass with clusters of trees round it. It’s not quite pretty enough to call woodland, and the stretch of highway in the distance ruins the image a bit. But it’s open and in the fresh air and Lola seems perfectly happy, straining against the leash as she tries to explore.

“She’s cute,” Martha says, nodding at her. “Didn’t know you had a dog.”

“I got her a few years ago,” Heather explains. “She’s a good girl. Most of the time.” A small smile tugs at her lips. “She doesn’t normally get to play like this. When my dad walks her he just takes her to whatever client he’s meeting up with that day and ties her to a railing while they walk.”

“Poor pup,” Martha sighs. Ahead of them, Lola jumps at a tree trunk, fascinated by a squirrel up in the branches. For a second, Martha laughs, caught up in this very strange moment, until she looks down.

“Oh, hey,” she cringes. “Sorry I should’ve-your shoes are covered in mud.”

“Are they?” Heather stops, seeming to panic for a second. She follows Martha’s gaze and looks down. Sure enough, the pristine white of her boots is now streaked with brown, little jagged clumps nestled in the soles. Martha hadn’t thought of it when she took her out here. Her own sneakers are wrecked too, splatters of soil across the faded rainbow stripes.

“S-sorry,” she says again. “Maybe we should’ve just-”

“It’s fine,” Heather interrupts. She shakes her head once, twice, pink lips turning upwards. “It doesn’t matter. I can clean them later.” She resumes her walk, stumbling a bit as her dog pulls her forwards. Martha picks up the pace and scrambles to her side, slightly bothered by the pain in her hips.

Steadily, she breathes out. She can handle it, at least for the next hour or so.

“So…” Heather begins. “Were you in the middle of anything important?”

“Oh, no,” she replies. “No, just uh, getting a start on that English assignment.”

“The English assignment,” Heather sighs, teeth gritted. It’s there where Martha begins to see the Heather she recognises; steel beneath the yellow satin. “Don’t remind me. I think I just wrapped my head around it.”

“Well, we’ve got time,” Martha says. “It’s not due for another few weeks.” She pokes at a leaf with her foot. “To be honest, I’m still getting to grips with it.”

“You are?” Heather asks. Martha freezes, her cheeks burning. The admission had slipped through her teeth, undetected and unintentional, and now Heather Macnamara has it in her hands. She wills herself not to look at her, and steadies herself in preparation for the onslaught that’s about to come.

Only when she does catch sight of her face, Heather’s eyes are blown wide, her mouth hangs open, pink glows in her cheeks.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that,” Heather insists. “God, I’m-I’m so sorry I did not mean it like that. I just meant that like- well you’re so smart and you get such good grades, I guess I… I didn’t think you could find stuff hard.” She swallows, stuffs her hands in her pockets. “School stuff, I mean.”

“I… I do,” she mumbles. “Sometimes.”

“I feel like I’ll never get any of it,” Heather sighs. “English isn’t… so bad. Not all of the time. Neither’s history.” She huffs, a short and bitter sound. “It’s Math that’s getting me. None of it makes sense, you know what I mean?”

“Sure,” she nods, even though she doesn’t. Math comes pretty easy to her; it’s really just a set of patterns that she can memorise, but Heather is on a roll with something and the ache in her leg is making itself known. Heather can take the reins right now.

“I mean, I know you’re in a different math class to me so I don’t know if you’re doing this right now, but we’ve been doing surface area for weeks and I’ve had it explained over and over and I still don’t get it,” she goes on. Frustration trembles in her voice. “And it’s not… like I look at the numbers and they just don’t make any sense, you know?”

“Yeah,” Martha breathes. “Yeah, I know.” And she does, a bit, but right now the steadily growing pain in her side is taking over her thought process. Before she can think to stop, her hand is pressed to her side, her breaths become shorter, quicker. Heather slows to a stop, her eyes inescapable.

Get it together, the voice in her head whispers. Stand up, you’re fine, be normal.

“Martha?” she asks. All of the anger has fled her voice, replaced with a worry that Martha would be cautious of in other circumstances. She takes a long, slow breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth.

“I think…” she begins. “I think I need to sit down somewhere.” And the admission is humiliating, shameful, she’s handing Heather all the ammunition she could ever want. Forgive her language, but she is so sure this will bite her on the ass.

“Oh…okay,” Heather says. She looks around, fist pressed to her mouth. “I think… there’s a log over there? We can sit there.”

“No.” Martha shakes her head. “I mean… I know somewhere we can go.” She takes another breath and straightens her spine. The pain is still there, but she can bear it, she will. Perhaps if she were on her own she’d collapse on a log, but she’s not about to make Heather sit on a piece of fallen tree. Another breath. “I know where we can go. It isn’t too far. It’s inside. And there’s cake.”

“Oh well, if there’s cake,” Heather replies and inexplicably, Martha grins at her. Grins. At Heather. “You’re sure you can make it?” Martha sets her shoulders. When she was a kid and having panic attacks over going to school, her mom always told her, just make it to the door. Then the car. Then the front gate. Just one step.

It’s the same thing here.

“I can make it,” she tells her. She looks down and finds Heather’s free hand half-extended to her, another crutch. Her heart pounds, matching the ‘what on earth’ ringing in her head. She declines the offer though.

Before she turns, she sees Heather’s curl inward, then slowly and limply fall to her side.

With slow and careful steps, Martha walks Heather down and along a backroad that takes them into the little park near her house. There, she leads the bemused Heather Macnamara and the still-excited Lola down a narrow path to a little white, rectangular building. The cafe’s been here since before Martha was a kid, run by a constantly changing group of local kids and college drop-outs, plus on elderly lady who’s worked here since before Martha was born. For all she knows, she probably built the place.

In the short walk here, the pain in Martha’s bone had sharpened so much that her breath is coming in short, swift gasps. Her vision blurs at the edges, a familiar heat prickles at the back of her eyes. When they enter the cafe, it takes all of Martha’s self control to not completely collapse into the chair, and if Heather’s expression is anything to go by, she’s not hiding it nearly as well as she hoped.

“I’m… I’m okay,” she pants. It’s far from true, but she grips the side of the table anyway and braces to rise. “Anyway, what do you-”

“Oh my gosh no!” Heather replies. “No. I can order, what’s your usual?”

“it’s fine, I can-”

“Martha!” Heather snaps. “Listen, the fact that you made it here in one piece is a miracle, so I am going to order you a drink and you are going to sit here and maybe play with my dog if you want to!” Heather exhales, a short puff of breath, and then she smiles. “Please. Because if you pass out I will have a nervous breakdown.”

Martha freezes. Her mouth hangs half-open. At the very least, there’s something familiar in having Heather snap at her, her heartbeat spiked out of habit, but the request is so far from expectation that she can’t even formulate a response, let alone say it.

Heather waits until she croaks out that her usual is a vanilla latte, then she smiles and flounces off to the counter. Tiny flecks of mud fall from her boots as she goes.

If this is indeed a dream, now would be the perfect time to wake up. There’s no way it can get stranger than this.

Martha runs a hand through her hair and lets out a long exhale. Around her, the few patrons in the cafe still watch her, evidently interested in whatever just happened. She wants to tell them that she doesn’t know what just happened either, only that the most popular girl in her school-who used to enjoy making her life hell-is waiting in line at the counter and her dog is rubbing her head against Martha’s leg, nuzzling and demanding pets. Martha gives them, because the motion is the only thing tethering her to Earth.

Good God, what exactly were her plans for today? They sure as hell weren’t this but as she sifts through the confusion, she finds she’s not really complaining. There’s some part of her that’s enjoyed today. If nothing else, it’s better than sitting in her house.

She leans back in the chair. The pain in her side slowly recedes, and she allows herself a smile as Lola tries to stand on her hind legs. Martha contemplates calling over to Heather and telling her to grab some dog treats from the counter, until she turns her head at the exact time and sees a familiar car round the corner.

And maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s a coincidence, but as Veronica’s mom’s car slows to a halt on the road outside, Martha feels a shiver pass through her. A glance at the clock tells her it’s a little past ten, meaning Veronica’s appointment has likely been and gone. Should she be hoping everything went okay? Should she be calling her or chasing down the car? She can see Veronica, for a minute, jumping from the car and rushing inside. She unloads all her troubles onto Martha, just like she had a hundred times before, and Martha feels whole again.

Then, the light turns green and the car is gone. Veronica didn’t even know Martha was here.

“Okay, two vanilla lattes!” Heathers slides into the chair opposite her. Martha turns back just as she slides her cup across the table. “And they even gave us little cookies too! God you were right, Martha, this place is adorable! I should come here more often. They even gave me dog treats because I told them about Lola!” She giggles, her nose scrunches, and she bends down to feed Lola. “She didn’t give you any trouble, did she?”

Heather looks up, blonde curls falling in front of her face. Her blue eyes are bright, sparkling, there’s a pink flush on her cheeks and Martha realises that Heather is kind of beautiful. It’s always been a fact, but it’s never felt as real as it has right now.

She is also aware that Veronica is driving down the road to her house because of a doctor’s appointment Martha doesn’t know about. And that she’s been keeping something from her for weeks. Something happened to her at the pep rally and Veronica won’t tell her what. Since September, the person she thought was her one constant has been drifting further and further away from her.

And she can’t solve that. But she can solve this.

“Martha?”

“Why are you here?” she asks her. Heather’s face falls. Slowly, she pulls herself upright, her hands rest on the table.

“What?”

“Why are you here?” she says again. “Why are you with me? You have any number of people you could hang out with today-why the hell are you hanging out with me? Are your friends busy or is this some kind of ‘let’s hang out with Dumptruck’ joke like inviting me to Ram’s party was? Because if I’m honest Heather, at least the party invite made sense. That had a punchline. And it didn’t ruin your shoes, so what’s the point this time?” She laughs and it sounds wrong. It’s cold and bitter and all the things she isn’t. “What gives, Heather?”

Now it’s Heather’s turn to be surprised. Martha doesn’t look away as she squirms. She avoids Martha’s gaze, pulls at her sleeves, looks at the floor. Maybe Martha should be uncomfortable with how it makes her feel. She is not a spiteful person and yet for a precious few seconds, she’s watching Heather Macnamara become small beneath her gaze and doesn’t dislike it.

Until Heather answers.

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “I don’t know why I’m here. When I went out today I did not plan on going near your house.” She looks down at her hands. Her fingers clasp and unclasp. Resigned, she heaves a sigh and slumps forward. “But when I was out… I could just feel everything and everyone. And I couldn’t stand it and next thing I knew I was on my way to your house.”

“Why?” Martha asks. Her voice is barely even a breath. “Why my house?”

Heather shrugs.

“I… I wanted to go to the last place I felt safe. And that was… that was that movie night you and Veronica.” She glances up, her eyes shining. Martha’s breath catches. “You were the last person to make me feel safe. And I don’t know why.” She shakes her head, huffs a breath. It’s almost self-deprecating.

Not almost. It is. Heather Macnamara is crying and self-deprecating right in front of her.

And she doesn’t enjoy it now. It pierces her chest, as easily as a knife would.

Wood scrapes on wood, and Heather is pushing her chair back and standing up.

“I can go. It’s fine, I can-I can go. Thank you for-for today. For everything really I-” She pauses, presses her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to treat you like I did. I didn’t mean it Martha. And I’m sorry.”

Heather goes to untie Lola’s leash, but this time Martha is faster and she grabs Heather’s hand. The contact is so sudden that Heather gasps, muscles tensing beneath Martha’s hand. Martha realises she is standing too. Her heart is pounding and pounding and pounding. Heather’s hand is beneath hers/

And Veronica is still down the block. And yes, it’s driving her crazy but Heather is right here.

Heather’s hand trembles. Martha didn’t think that was possible.

“I said there’d be cake,” she says weakly. It takes a moment for the words to register. She watches as the realisation dawns on Heather’s face. Cautiously, like she’s expecting a trap, Heather sits back down.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

They order a slice of vanilla cake and share it between them.

#heathers the musical #heathers fanfiction #heathers musical fic #martha dunnstock #heather macnamara #fic: time won't fly

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