Heathers Oneshots!

[CHANDLMARA] It's not the same.

      The first time she asks, it's exactly four days after Heather Chandler was found dead on her bedroom floor. McNamara knows because it's her first day back to school. She had been sitting on her bedroom floor in a disturbed trance, similar to her dead gir --best friend. For those three days after funeral. Until her Dad had called in from whatever work trip he was on that week, snapping at her for the absences. She isn't even sure he knows that Chandler is dead. He probably doesn't care anyway, so she doesn't say. Heather just croaks in agreeance, scooping up her faded backpack.

Yes. It's that day that Heather Duke acts her if she wants to play croquet again.

"Are you alright?" It's laced with faux care. "Here," they're sitting on Duke's lawn when she shoves the mallet into McNamara's pale hands. It's yellow, like always. She moves almost robotically, standing up as the grass falls off her cheerleading uniform.

Heather had wanted to ask if Duke was okay. They both had been best friends with the queen bee, after all. But she doesn't. Because she already knows the answer. Duke had barely stuttered. She saw it in her gaze as they passed her locker in gym. Or in the halls. Heather gets sick when they walk by. Duke has no problem, no hesitation when she lazily throws it open.

"It's not the same."

"Sorry?" The ginger looks up, brown eyes confused. There's a clink as the ball hit a lawn chair.

"Croquet." She pursed her lips. Looking down at the racket she decides to prop it against a tree. "It's not the same without her." She swallowed the bitterness in her throat. "Without Heather."

Heather Duke frowned. "Hit the ball, Mac."

Veronica Sawyer is there the next time. She was laughing with Betty Finn when the two remaining Heathers walk down the stairs. Well, Duke walks. Gracefully. In control. Mac staggers after, confidence from the previous weeks a mere memory. It's been a month and four days since Heather Chandler had died. The world around Heather McNamara had shifted, dulled. No one's commented. Their lives have continued, after all. No one notices the cheerleader's long sleeves, or leggings. The glint in her eyes when someone wears all read to school. More specifically, the glint in her eyes when Heather Duke wears red to school. She noticed that Duke's eating again. No one else does. How was it possible.

This event. This tragedy. Was making Heather Duke stronger? That was one word for it.

Yes, anyway. Veronica's there, holding a blue mallet. Betty is orange and Heather tilts her head because, well, like them. The color fits Finn. When Betty scurries off, tripping over her shoelaces, she dropped the mallet. Duke takes her place, flashing a smile to Sawyer. The blonde had seen that before. That smile. It's fake. Laced with a plan and purpose. You flash that smile with a goal on how you want the other person to think. Heather Chandler flashed that smile on a daily basis. Heather Chandler had flashed that smile to McNamara, after all.

This time, Duke's manicured hand slipped past the green mallet and landed on the red one. Heather's head was buzzing. Oh. Look at that. That color really. . . really matches her outfit. It takes a lot to bite her tongue. It wasn't just a fake smile. It was Heather's smile. Heather's color. Heather's mallet. For the first time in weeks, she feels something. Anger? Yes. Because Heather Duke is not Heather Chandler. McNamara didn't love Duke the way she liked Chandler.

Veronica said something about it. The mallet, that is.

"She's right," the teenager swayed. "It's not the same without Chandler." McNamara collapsed against the wall like her mallet. It's yellow. With chipped paint and faded grip from the countless rounds. There's a crack down the head. She nearly snorted. Was that supposed to be symbolic or something?

"Oh, shut up, Heather." Duke barked, impatient. McNamara ran out the yard before the match ended. No one goes after her.

There standing at Chandler's locker now. Duke is wearing red, hair tied up into a ponytail. Mac hasn't commented that Duke has begun to purchase the same brands of clothing as the dead owner of this locker. The same heels, same blazer. Everything.

"What are you doing?" The blonde sputters automatically as Duke's hand shoots forward to grab the scrunchie that sat on the floor of the metal. Heather's own hand follows, nearly grabbing Duke's wrist. She cowers as the ginger snaps a glare at her tall figure. McNamara reels.

"What does it look like?" The junior hisses, grabbing the slip of red fabric. There's a lump in Heather's throat. Blue eyes trail up and follow her hands as they come to tie the scrunchie into her locks. It's this feeling in her gut. Guilt? Sadness? Horror? Either way, she feels like sobbing.

She doesn't need to pinpoint the emotion, just her feelings. And standing there, with Heather Duke in front of her dead girlfriend's locker, it clicks. Not only croquet isn't the same without her. That everything is.