Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bulk of students come scattering in as the final bell rings. A typical occurrence now that the last day of school is only a month and a half away - everyone already itching for summer, getting lazy in their routines as the clock ticks down to warm endless days of sun and freedom.

Mr. Adams - the greying middle aged Humanities teacher who still manages to be cool enough for his students to favor him - sits back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk as he waits for seats to fill. There’s a hum of chatter that fills the room, the normal gossiping and horsing around that happens when teenagers gather together in a single space. Mr. Adams gives it another minute or two, lets everyone get seated and situated before he stands up and commands everyone’s attention.

“Who’s ready for another hour of learning?” He questions his class, voice full of cheer as he rounds to the front of his desk. He’s met with overwhelming groans and sighing and can’t help but chuckle as he perches on the very edge of his desk, crosses his legs in front of him. “Yeah, that’s about what I figured. So what if I told you we’d be doing things a little different today?”

“Do I get to sleep?” a voice comes from the back of the class, instantly identifiable as FP Jones.

“When has that ever stopped you before?” Mr. Adams throws back, earning scattered laughs from his class as FP shoots him a finger gun and winks. “Unfortunately, Mr. Jones, you still have to work today, but I promise it’ll be fun.”

This seems to get everyone’s attention, the students perking up in their seats as they await further explanation.

“I want everyone to look around and take a good look at your peers. Most, if not all, of you have been together since grade school. But how well do you really know each other?”

Mr. Adams lets the question linger for a moment, observes as the students scope each other out, their faces giving away equal parts skepticism and wariness. It’s easy to not think of someone when they’re in your day to day life in some capacity for years. But now that some of these kids are being faced with the question, they’re coming face to face with the fact that some of them might as well be strangers to each other.

“Fred,” Mr. Adams says, calling the younger boy’s attention forward. “What’s FP’s middle name?”

Without missing a beat, Fred answers “Pendleton” and his hands immediately fly up to his mouth as he looks over to his best friend, instantly remorseful over his betrayal. FP’s face is red and the surrounding students break out into laughter. Fred knows he’ll be paying for this for a while. “I’m sorry…”

“Okay, okay, settle down everyone. That was my mistake. I should have known better,” Mr. Adams says with a sly grin before trying another route. “Hermione. What’s Penelope’s middle name?”

Penelope doesn’t even bother with a glance over to the other girl, already knows what the outcome of this little experiment will be.

“How should I know?” Hermione answers casually, a bored tone to her voice. Penelope tries not to let it make her feel bad.

Mr. Adams throws his hands up in front of him in a gesture like Hermione just proved his entire point. “And there we have it.”

“Big deal if I don’t know Penelope’s middle name,” Hermione argues. “What does that prove?”

“You’re right, Ms. Gomez.” Mr. Adams points to Hermione and pushes off his desk. “Let’s continue with another little game, shall we?” He walks back to the chalkboard, grabbing a piece of white chalk and begins writing. “I assume everyone’s familiar with The Breakfast Club?”

“Don’t even think about it, Fred,” Mary sends across the class before Fred has barely even opened his mouth to let out some quip about her resemblance to any member of the Brat Pack.

“I take that as a yes,” Mr. Adams says, dusting his hands of chalk as he turns his attention back to his class. “Five teenage archetypes were created in that film; the brain, the princess, the jock, the basketcase, and the criminal. I’m sure most of you identify with one, but that’s not what I’m interested in. I want to know how your classmates see you. For example, where would you place Mr. Lodge?”

“Personally, I think he’s a great princess,” Fred offers.

Hiram wads up a piece of paper, chucks it straight at Fred’s head while telling him to “Shut the hell up.”

“Moving on!” Mr. Adams calls above the din of snickering students before any actual fight breaks out. “Hermione?”

“Princess,” the class responds in unison. Hermione smiles proudly.

“Tom?”

“Jock.”

“Alice?”

“Which version?” Gladys cracks, the slightest trace of venom in her tone only detectable by anyone who knows to look for it.

“Don’t start, G,” FP pleads under his breath from behind her.

“Well, we all know where Gladys falls,” Alice responds.

“Yeah, and what about it? Not all of us are interested in selling our souls for some pastel Barbie bullshit fantasy.”

Alice rolls her eyes, but keeps her head forward. Won’t give Gladys the satisfaction.

“Call it a hunch, but I think you guys are in desperate need of today’s lesson,” Mr. Adams says, his tone sarcastic but light. “For the remainder of class each of you will be paired up.”

“Dibs on Fred!” FP calls out, Fred turning in his seat to nod at his friend enthusiastically.

“That’s not how this works, Mr. Jones.” Mr. Adams pulls a small bucket out from behind his desk and goes over to the first row of seats, plopping the piece of plastic down on Clifford Blossom’s desk. Fred and FP deflate, joining the rest of the class in a chorus of groans. “Everyone on this side of the class will write their names on a slip of paper and place it into this bucket. Everyone else will draw a name, and I will send you off with a card of instructions for how to spend the rest of the period.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?” Clifford asks, voice layered with contempt at the idea of having to be sociable with the people around him.

“It is if you want an A.”

Clifford begrudgingly writes his name on a piece of paper, slips it into the bucket before passing it along. Once it reaches the other side of the class students start pulling out names, announcing their partners aloud.

“I got Clifford,” Tom says, doesn’t give away either way how he feels about it.

“Sierra,” Hiram says next.

“Oh boy,” Sierra mumbles under her breath.

The bucket goes to Fred, and he makes a show of digging around. “I got… Mary! Oh…”

“Are we allowed to trade?” Mary asks, already in no mood to spend the next 40 minutes with Fred Andrews goofing around with her grade.

“‘Fraid not.” Mr. Adams smiles, and Mary can’t help but silently question what kind of sick enjoyment he’s getting out of this.

Hermione goes next, pulling Penelope’s name out. “This is a joke, right?” She and Penelope exchange looks of displeasure across the class.

“I could make a joke about karma right now, but I’ll spare you, Ms. Gomez.”

Hermione’s still trying to plead her case when the bucket gets passed to FP. Two names are left, and he’s hoping to God he pulls the right one. He unfolds the little white slip and gulps, realizes he has two options here. “I got Coop,” he says, and Gladys reaches for the bucket more out of formality than anything.

FP tries to stop her, but she’s too quick, pulls the last piece of paper out and reads it to herself before whipping around in her seat. “What the hell are you doing?” She whispers, rather aggressively, FP thinks, as she holds up the little paper with Hal’s scrawl written across it.

“A favor,” FP whispers back, leaning over his desk so their faces are close.

“For who?”

“All of us. You and Ally need to sort out your shit. It’s driving me up a fucking wall because somehow Igot stuck in the middle, and I’m tired of hearing you two bitch about each other all the goddamn time!”

“It’s not your place to fix it. It’s none of your goddamn business!

“You made it my goddamn business! Besides, do you really wanna spend an hour alone with Coop?”

They both look over to Hal, who’s blissfully unaware of this entire exchange. It’s not like Gladys has anything personal against him. The kid’s just kind of… dull. For her tastes. And Gladys can put up with a lot, she can. But if there’s one thing she hates it’s being bored.

“Mr. Jones. Ms. Cohen. Is there a problem?” Mr. Adams questions.

Gladys mulls it over in her mind, flexes her jaw and rolls her eyes as she turns forward in her seat and sighs. Maybe some forced alone time with Alice would do them some good… if they don’t end up killing each other. “No. Uh… I got Alice.”

“That’s the spirit,” FP whispers, patting her arm. Gladys sends her hand back to smack him in the chest.

With the pairings all set, Mr. Adams sets out handing little envelopes to the students. “Each card contains five prompts you must answer about yourselves. I’m not asking you to write them down. This is more about you all getting to know each other. However, I would like at least one sentence stating what you’ve learned about your partner by the end of class. You can venture out anywhere on school property. Just be back before the bell rings.”

The students start to get up, wandering around to find their partners (those who are happy with theirs, anyway). But before any of the students can leave Mr. Adams stops them, says “And one more thing,” before opening a drawer to his desk and pulling out disposable cameras. “You’ll need these.”

“What for?” Sierra asks as she goes to claim hers.

“All will be explained in the card, Ms. Samuels.”

She fixes him with a skeptical look before walking off, joining the rest of the class who’s already out the door.

Hal’s the last one to claim a camera. FP comes up from behind and slings his arm around Hal’s shoulders, pulls him in tight to his side and takes the camera out of his hand, examines it as they head for the door. “We could have some real fun with this, Coop. Get something good for Ally outta this. How do you feel about nude modeling?”

“It’s a school assignment, FP…” Hal can feel his whole face heating up in a blush.

“Nah. It’ll be fine.”

“Keep it PG, Mr. Jones!” Mr. Adams calls out as he takes a seat at his desk.

“Can’t make any promises, Mr. A!” FP yells back, already out the door.

Mr. Adams shakes his head and laughs to the empty room. He’s not sure how today will play out - a risk he knew he was taking when he came up with the idea for this assignment. But he is sure of one thing: at least it’ll be interesting.

Chapter Text

Students scatter in varying directions of the school, each pair set off to find their own place to work on the designated project. Hiram keeps a few steps ahead of Sierra, already having a spot in mind while she opens the small envelope and scans over the directions of the assignment. The prompts are personal. Like, on a level that she doesn’t want to share with Hiram Lodge, of all people. But she figures if he plays along then she can, too. It may be the end of the school year, but she’s not about to toss away an easy grade.

Her eyes scan down to the bottom of the card, finally finding out what the cameras are for. “It says we have to take a picture of each other at the end as we see each other, and they’re gonna be posted in the yearbook.”

“Okay, well, I just fixed my hair, so just take my picture now,” Hiram responds as he leads the way into the weight room. “I want to make sure I look good. Not that it’s hard…”

Sierra rolls her eyes. Of all the people to be paired with, it had to be someone this pompous. “That’s not how this works, Hiram. I have to take the picture as I see you.”

“Which is incredibly handsome, obviously.” When Sierra fixes him with a blank stare he just shrugs his shoulders and heads for the nearest bench.

“Why are we in here, anyway?” She looks around the room, her first time ever having stepped foot in here. It smells unmistakably of boy; sweat and musk and all things generally unpleasant. Scrunching up her nose at the scent, she wonders when the last time anyone bothered to clean in here was.

“If I’m gonna have a free period I might as well get some lifting in.”

“This isn’t a free- You know what? Nevermind. Let’s just get this done.” Sierra looks down at the card while Hiram starts bench pressing somewhere behind her. “Share something personal with your partner,” she repeats the first bullet point.

Neither of them say anything, the only sound coming from Hiram’s grunts as he continuously lifts the metal bar up and down. Sierra purses her lips, flicking the card back and forth on her fingers as she looks around the room, stalling. When it’s clear neither of them are willing to share first, Sierra gets an idea.

“Didn’t you take down the mob or something?”

Hiram fumbles the bar as he’s placing it back in its holder, almost dropping it on himself. He remembers starting that rumor, obviously. He just wasn’t expecting Sierra to bring it up now. It gives him an easy out, though. Nowhere did the question say he had to be honest. “Yeah, I did that.” Hiram coughs as he sits up, finds Sierra’s now facing him. “That was me.”

Sierra, naturally, doesn’t believe him. She’s not an idiot, but she figures this’ll at least get the ball rolling. Hiram Lodge never passes up an opportunity to gloat. Maybe if he starts talking long enough, at some point he’ll drop a little nugget of truth.

“That’s impressive for a seventeen year old.”

“Well, you know-” Hiram leans forward, arm resting on his knee as he leers at her. “I’m an impressive guy.”

Sierra’s eyes widen for the briefest second at Hiram’s ego. Not like she’s unfamiliar with it, but it’s still… something… to be faced with up close. “You sure are… Still, it must’ve been scary, right? Being in such a dangerous situation, I mean.”

Hiram shrugs, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Well, sure. But it’s exhilarating, too. Mowing down a bunch of guys like that. It’s powerful.” His body feels electric as he recalls the false memory, like it was something he actually did. Sometimes it’s like he doesn’t even remember he’s lying anymore.

“Right, right.” Sierra nods her head. Hiram reaches for a dumbbell. “It’s just so weird how no one ever retaliated. Like, you’re still alive and all-” Hiram fumbles the dumbbell, almost dropping it on his foot, and Sierra has to bite her cheek to keep from laughing. “I mean, I’ve only seen a few mob movies, but don’t they usually go after anyone who goes after them? It’s also so strange the police never got invol-”

“What is your point, Sierra!” Hiram yells out, annoyed. He feels like he’s on trial. So what he told a little white lie to spruce up his image as the new kid? Give himself a little mystery, a little intrigue? He’s hardly the only person in their class to do so. And, quite frankly, it’s nobody else’s damn business.

Sierra feigns innocence, placing her hands up in front of her all sheepish like she doesn’t know what she’s done wrong. For as much as Hiram Lodge likes to put up a tough bravado, he’s a surprisingly easy egg to crack. Maybe he won’t admit to anything, but he is quick to temper, which she can’t imagine boding well for him later on in life, but that’s entirely his own problem to get over. “I’m sorry. I was just curious. We are supposed to be getting to know each other and all…”

Hiram doesn’t know what Sierra’s getting at, but he does know he’s not about to blow up his lie and have her run around to the whole school just so he can become the laughing stock. For a school project? As if. Sierra may think she’s smart, but he didn’t get to where he is by being stupid, either. “Why don’t you share something personal, then? Since you’re all about sticking to the assignment.”

“I’m not sharing if you’re not sharing,” Sierra says stubbornly.

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

“Just,” Hiram shakes his hand flippantly. “Read the next question.”

Sierra huffs, annoyed that Hiram won’t play along, but she continues on anyway. They’ve still got little under an hour to get back to the prompt anyway. “Lighten the mood: do an impression of a famous person or character. I don’t suppose you’ve got any impressions you’d like to share?”

Hiram gets this creepy smirk on his face that has Sierra’s eyebrows scrunching toward the middle of her face as her eyes shift around uncomfortably. Before she can get a questioning word out, Hiram’s launching into some monologue, making his voice deeper and weirdly steady as he makes direct eye contact.

“The point is, ladies and gentlemen, that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right. Greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit-”

Sierra holds her hand up, stopping Hiram from going forward the moment his speech registers. “Gordon Gekko? Seriously?”

Hiram’s whole facade fades, and he shifts right into a defensive pose; sitting up straighter, shoulders back, arms flying out to his sides. “Wall Street is a classic!”

“If you say so…” The only reason she even identified the speech was because she had caught her dad watching it one day. “At least you didn’t do anything from The Godfather.”

“Oh! I can do a really good Marlon Brando, actually. Wanna hear?”

“No! I’m good. Thank you.”

Hiram leans back, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly. “Fine, then. Go on and wow me with your talent and originality.”

“I’m not really good at impressions,” responds Sierra flippantly. She’s certainly not about to embarrass herself in front of the likes of Hiram Lodge.

Hiram’s not having that, though. “Oh no, that’s not fair! I did mine!”

“Yeah, and you also completely skipped the first question, so I’m entitled to one skip, too!” Sierra shoots back.

Hiram contemplates this for a moment. He’s not the biggest fan of opening up, but he figures he has at least some things he’s willing to share that aren’t too embarrassing. “Fine. Okay. How ‘bout this: you do your impression and I’ll share something personal. Which, by the way, you also still need to do.”

Sierra crosses her arms and stares at Hiram, unimpressed. “And how is that a fair deal? I do two things and you do one?”

“Uh, because then we’ll finally be on track to actually completing this bullshit before the hour’s up?”

Dammit, Sierra thinks. She hates Hiram making a point. “Okay, fair enough. But how do I know I can even trust you?”

Hiram smirks, and it’s the absolute least trustworthy look Sierra’s ever seen on anyone. “You’re just gonna have to take my word for it.”

He holds out his hand to shake. Sierra keeps her arms where they are as she weighs her options. There’s absolutely zero part of her that trusts Hiram, but she also doesn’t know what other choice she has right now. “Fine,” she sighs, reaching out to shake his hand. She keeps their hands clasped, squeezing with all her might as she adds “But if I do this and you still don’t give me anything, I’m dropping one of these dumbbells onto your head.”

Hiram does not wince as his hand is let go of, but if he has to flex it a few times, that’s his business. “That’s fair.”

Sierra takes a step back, along with a deep breath. She’s never exactly been shy. Lord knows she’s given enough speeches in front of her peers to get over that particular phobia. But having to perform for a one man crowd, someone she doesn’t even like, is a little nerve wracking.

Impressions aren’t really her thing. She’s terrible at them. She knows this. Avoids doing them at all costs. But she’s got two plausible options in her back pocket. She’s had Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation choreography memorized since freshman year. Watched the video no less than 700 times - still has it recorded on tape - just to make sure she got every little dance move right. For no particular reason other than she was obsessed. But she doesn’t have the song with her right now, and doing the full dance, or any part of it, really, without any music feels a little daunting, so.

Her back-up isn’t much better, but at least it’s quick and doesn’t actually require a background track.

She turns to the side and starts moonwalking, her sneakers sliding easily along the linoleum tile of the weight room. Ends it with a quick spin before kicking her foot out and adding a crotch grab. Seals it with a high-pitched “He-he!”

She feels more than a little embarrassed, especially when Hiram just sits there and doesn’t say anything. She’s awaiting ridicule, already eyeing the dumbbells in the corner waiting for her to grab one and knock Hiram over the head if he starts with her.

“That was… so friggen cool! How do you do that?” Hiram jumps up and stands next to Sierra, trying to figure out how to get his feet to slide as effortlessly as hers did. His shoes keep skidding across the floor, though, and he can’t seem to get the motion right.

To call Sierra confused would be an understatement, but she figures so long as she’s not getting laughed at things are going pretty good.

They spend a few minutes trying to get Hiram to perfect the move. He gets pretty close, but nowhere near Sierra’s level of fluidity, which she feels pretty smug about. He does manage to do a pretty good job at the high-pitched voice, though, so he counts that as enough of a win.

It’s weird, but she and Hiram actually had something close to resembling fun.

When the dance lesson is over, Hiram leads them out of the weight room and down the short hall that connects to the gymnasium.

“Okay. Fair’s fair. Time for something personal,” Hiram says as he steps through the double doors, pushing them open in a dramatic fashion, as if they were stepping into a tomb of gold.

Sierra looks around, expecting to find something. All she gets is an eyeful of empty gym. “Hiram! We had a deal.” She’s already looking around for the closest blunt object to hit him with for tricking her like this.

“And I’m keeping my word!” Hiram responds, feeling slightly offended. “This is very personal to me!”

“This is a gym! A public one, at that.”

“Do you want to stand there being a bitchy Betty-” Sierra cocks an eyebrow at the name. “-or do you want me to actually play along with this stupid assignment?”

Sierra doesn’t say anything for a beat or two. Just stares at Hiram and taps her foot in quick succession before sighing and rolling her hand in a get on with it motion. “Fine. But I swear, Hiram, if you say something stupid-”

“You’re really making it hard for a guy to be vulnerable, here!”

“Whatever. Just make it good.” She takes a seat at the bottom bleacher, sits criss-cross and places her elbows on her knees so she can rest her chin in her hands as she awaits Hiram’s explanation.

“This is my favorite place in the world,” Hiram starts, right into the deep end. Surprises himself as well as Sierra. “Especially on match days. The smell of the freshly sanitized mats, the crowd cheering-” He looks around at the empty bleachers with a gleam in his eye like the crowd’s there now, like he isn’t standing in the middle of a vacant gym, but one filled with adoring fans yelling his name in encouragement. “There’s nothing like it.”

“What’s so special about it?” Sierra’s surprised to find she’s actually interested in his answer, not just goading him on to open up more for the sake of the assignment.

“Nobody knows this, but I was kind of a scrawny kid.” He turns to look at Sierra for the first time since he’s started speaking. “You can tell whoever you want about that, but there’s no proof, so good luck.” He forced his parents to keep all his childhood photos tucked safely away in a lockbox at their bank so that there was no risk of anyone at school coming over and finding them.

Sierra rolls her eyes at the vague threat.

“My dad put me in wrestling to try and toughen me up. Used to get my ass beat-” he smiles a little at the memory “-but I was a quick learner. Wasn’t long before I started bulking up, winning my matches. You gotta put in the hard work if you want to see the results,” he says in a thick accent. “That’s what my father used to tell me. And I did. And now I’m this.” He scans his hands over his body, showing off the result of years of blood, sweat, and tears.

It’s not exactly anything surprising to Sierra. Hiram Lodge is practically the poster boy for overcompensation. And yet, even though she doesn’t feel like she’s learned anything necessarily new about her classmate (though, she does put it in the back of her mind to try and dig up some dirt about his scrawny childhood) she does get the sense that this was him genuinely being open with her. She can begrudgingly give credit where it’s due. “Was your dad a wrestler?” she finds herself asking.

Hiram laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. My abuela would never allow it. Hell, even my mom put up a fight when he signed me up for classes. She still worries, but I think all the trophies have helped calm her down. She knows I’m good.” He doesn’t say it to be cocky. He just knows she feels marginally better knowing he actually knows what he’s doing out there. But he’s seen her at his matches, up in the stands, hiding her face in his father’s shoulder because she couldn’t stand to see her baby hurt if it came to that.

He’s gone about as deep as he cares to on this particular subject, and he gets the impression Sierra will just ask more questions if given the chance. So he won’t give it to her. “Okay.” He nods his chin in her direction. “Your turn.”

Sierra straightens up, caught off guard by suddenly being put on the spot. “Okay…” She smooths out the denim on her thighs, stalling for time to come up with something, only to perk up instantly when she remembers something. “Tommy told me he loved me last night!” It wasn’t a moment she had planned on sharing with Hiram, or anyone, really, but what the hell? She’d been ecstatic about it when it happened, was still feeling the effects of it today. Why not spread the joy?

Hiram’s not as happy for her. “That’s it? I actually share something real, and you give me Tom Keller said ‘I love you’?”

“The card says share something personal. I shared something personal!”

“Man, what a load of bs,” Hiram whines. He flicks his wrist in Sierra’s direction, not even bothering to look at her. “Just read the next thing.”

Sierra picks the card up and reads the third prompt. “Share something that worries you-slash-you’re afraid of.”

“Oh, no. I won’t be fooled twice. You go first this time.”

“Fine, you big baby.” Oddly enough, this is the first prompt she’s felt comfortable answering. “I’m afraid of my kids being judged how I am.”

Hiram squints his eyes, confused. “You have kids? Plural?”

“Oh my God, no, you nimrod.” Immediately Sierra regrets going down this route, but it’s something that’s been weighing on her ever since she and Tom started dating. Has been even more on her mind since last night. “I meant the kids I might have in the future.”

Hiram’s mouth forms a small ‘o’shape and he nods. “Right. That makes more sense. Judged how?”

Sierra looks down at herself like it’s obvious, but Hiram apparently didn’t get the memo about the Shakespearan drama going on between the Samuels and the Kellers. “Let’s just say Tom’s parents weren’t exactly excited about me coming over for dinner.”

Hiram can’t really say he’s surprised. The Kellers are nice enough people on the surface, but he’s seen the wary looks they’ve sent his way when they thought he wasn’t looking. He can only imagine their reaction to their beloved son bringing home a black girl.

“It’s not just the Kellers, though. My mom and dad don’t want me dating anyone… different, either. I mean, it’s the nineties! You’d think we’d be beyond this crap by now, but. Bigotry dies hard, I guess.”

Hiram can only nod in agreement.

“Anyway,” Sierra continues. “I just think about the future sometimes, and I’d like to think I’d be accepting of anyone my child decided to date, but I just worry that that same respect won’t be given to them. I’d like to believe in twenty years everything will be better, but-”

“There’s always gonna be someone clinging to the past,” Hiram finishes.

Sierra looks up, and Hiram’s got this knowing look in his eyes, like he and Sierra are on the exact same page. It’s weird, having a moment like this together, sharing something raw and vulnerable. What’s weirder is that neither of them really hates it.

“You know, for what it’s worth, Hermione’s mom doesn’t really like me much either.”

“Not for nothing, Hiram, but if my daughter brought you home I don’t think I’d like you much either.”

“I’ll happen to let you know, I’m a great catch!” Hiram sounds offended, but after a few seconds his face splits in a grin like he’s in on the joke.

Sierra shakes her head, but finds herself biting back a smile of her own. “Okay, your turn. What’s your fear?”

Hiram’s face falls sullen, and Sierra prepares herself for a bomb to drop. “Definitely cotton polyester blends.”

Sierra’s foot kicks out to collide with Hiram’s shin before she even makes the conscious decision to harm him. “You’re supposed to share something real, Hiram!”

Hiram, now standing a considerable few feet away from his partner, can’t control his laughter. Though, briefly, he pulls himself together enough to say “I think you underestimate how much cheap fabric scares me. But at least we’re even now.”

Sierra groans, loud enough for it to echo in the empty gymnasium. “I hate you, and I hate this assignment.” She snatches the card up again to read the next line. “Okay, this one should be relatively painless. Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

“Running my own Fortune 500 company, obviously,” Hiram answers easily.

“At 27?” Sierra’s glad he’s so confident in himself because she sure isn’t.

“People have done it before! I’m gonna make my money while I’m still young enough to enjoy it. No point in waiting around until I start greying.” He shudders at the thought.

“Whatever. It’s your life.”

“Exactly. And what about you, hot shot? Where are you gonna be in ten years?”

Sierra pulls her feet tighter underneath her. “Working at some prestigious law firm in New York. Or maybe working in political activism. Protecting the little guy, either way. From people like you, no doubt.”

Hiram smirks. “Good luck with that, because I’m gonna have the best lawyers money can buy on my side.”

“And I’ll still beat you,” responds Sierra with all the confidence in the world.

“Guess we’ll see each other in the courtroom, then.”

“Guess so.”

There’s almost something resembling mutual respect that begins to linger between the two of them. Almost. Except. Sierra still thinks Hiram’s skeezy, and Hiram still thinks Sierra’s a bright-eyed goody-two-shoes. They’re fundamentally too different to ever favor each other, but maybe, in another life, another time, they could work well together.

“Alright.” Hiram props his foot up onto the bottom bleacher and leans forward to rest his arm on his knee. “What’s the next one say?”

“Uh, it’s the last one, actually,” Sierra says. She can hear Hiram’s sigh of relief as she reads over the last of the prompts. Her eyes immediately shoot up to find Hiram’s. “We’re supposed to tell each other a secret…”

Hiram’s foot falls from the bleachers, and the pair stare at each other with wide eyes. Without saying a word, it seems they both come to an agreement that this question will be meant with softball answers. Neither of them expect the other to give away anything actually secretive.

“Should we go on the count of three?” Hiram suggests.

Sierra shrugs. “Why not?”

“Okay. One.”

“Two.”

“My middle name’s Jaime,” Hiram says.

At the same time, Sierra reveals, “I lost my last baby tooth when I was fifteen.”

“Wow. Seriously?” It kinda grosses Hiram out, the thought of losing teeth. He threw a fit every single time he lost one as a kid. Couldn’t stand the feeling of a loose tooth in his mouth. Still gives him the heebie jeebies when he sees little kids with them.

“It was traumatic.” Sierra actually shivers at the memory of her last baby tooth falling out of her mouth one morning while brushing her teeth. She even skipped school that day, though, fortunately, it had been far enough back in her mouth that no one could really notice. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Hiram holds his hands up, showing he’s completely fine with that decision. “Yeah, no worries.” He checks his watch then, sees they’ve got about ten minutes left of class, and then they can finally leave this hell project behind them. “So is that it? Are we done now?”

“No.” Sierra says it like Hiram’s stupid. “I told you we’ve gotta take pictures of each other, and Mr. Adams wants us to write up a sentence about what we’ve learned about each other when we get back to class.”

“Fine.” He immediately moves to take off his shirt while Sierra fiddles with the camera. If he’s gonna have an ammature photo in the yearbook, he might as well lead with his assets. Something to distract from the poor photography and all. He tosses his shirt onto the bleachers and goes straight into a pose: right arm flexing his bicep and left arm out sideways and reaching upward. “Okay, I’m ready.”

When Sierra finally looks up, she almost drops the camera. “Oh my God! What are you doing?!”

Hiram doesn’t even break his pose. “Waiting to have my picture taken. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Being a tool!”

The look Hiram sends her is unamused, but he relaxes his pose anyway. “What happened to following through with the assignment?”

“I am. The assignment is to take your picture as I see you.” This assignment is officially the hardest Sierra’s ever had to work for an A, and that’s including the all-nighter she pulled once to start and finish a twelve page paper she thought was due the week after.

“Well then take my picture already!” Hiram doesn’t move to put his shirt back on. He doubts these are his prime physical fitness years - he knows the best are yet to come because, unlike his peers, he won’t succumb to the freshman fifteen when he’s in college. Still. He wants his physique documented as well as possible. Wants future generations to find this yearbook one day and look upon it in envy.

“You and Hermione belong together,” Sierra mumbles under her breath. “Say cheese!” she says louder, with a bright and phony smile on her face. She purposefully aims the camera just enough off to the left that Hiram won’t be able to notice an odd angle, but through the tiny viewfinder all that’s shown is Hiram from the shoulders up, positioned in the bottom right corner. The bulk of the frame is the empty gymnasium and basketball hoop behind him. She makes sure her hand shakes just enough to hopefully cause a blur, too, though she won’t find that out until the film is developed and sent to the yearbook committee to put together in the final product. “Okay! All done!”

“What? I wasn’t ready! Take another!”

“Sorry, no can do. Camera only has one picture left.” It’s a blatant lie, but Sierra’s hoping Hiram doesn’t know enough about disposable cameras to argue about it.

“This project is stupid.” He snatches his shirt and pulls it back on. He pointedly aims his index finger at Sierra, tells her “That picture better come out good.”

“For sure! You looked great, Hiram. Don’t worry. My turn now.” She shoves the camera at Hiram’s chest. Hiram makes a face at her for the action, but remains uncharacteristically quiet. When he goes straight into holding the camera up, ready to snap a picture, Sierra waves her hands in front of her to stop him. “Wait wait wait. Aren’t you going to pose me or something?”

“Why would I pose you?”

“Because the card says-”

“Oh my God, I see you as a girl standing in a gym, alright? That’s my artistic vision.”

Sierra’s not a violent person. If anything, she’s usually the one breaking up fights, not starting them. But as she raises her hands and balls them into fists to keep herself from socking Hiram right in the nose, she starts to rethink that approach. “Just take the picture!”

“You’re feisty. I can see why Keller likes y-”

Sierra’s fist collides with the camera right as the flash goes off.

Hiram ends up with a rectangular bruise on his forehead for the next two weeks that Hermione has to cover with her make-up and that he claims came from running into a door, because admitting he got that damaged by a girl is far too embarrassing.

When the yearbooks come out, though, everyone learns the real story, and (with a noticeable exception of Hiram Lodge) clamors to have Sierra sign her photo.

Chapter Text

“Couldn’t we have gone somewhere with more comfortable seating?” Hermione comments with disdain as she takes a front row seat in the auditorium. The cushioning hasn’t been replaced since the 1950s, she suspects, all worn down and spattered with holes and various stains. But it’s either this or the floor, and she just bought this Calvin Klein skirt, so.

“I like it in here.” Penelope’s sat atop the edge of the stage criss-cross fashion, staring out at the empty seats that give her a sense of peace she feels nowhere else besides maybe the Thornhill rose garden. “One of the questions on the card says share a secret. This is mine.”

Hermione pauses, staring at Penelope with judgemental confusion. “A high school auditorium we’ve all been in is hardly a secret…”

Penelope sighs. She could elaborate. Explain to Hermione all that this simple high school auditorium means to her, that it represents a freedom she seldom gets in any other aspect of her highly controlled life.

It’s not worth it.

“Fine. Here’s a secret no one else knows: my middle name is Isadora.”

Hermione scoffs. “You’re really digging deep there, Penelope.”

Penelope bristles, straightening up her spine. “Well it’s not like you’re going to open the vault with me.”

Hermione remains silent beyond an annoyed little huff, crossing her arms over her chest defensively and staring off to the side.

Penelope shakes her head. “That’s what I figured.”

“Whatever. Just read the next stupid question.”

Penelope skims through the questions looking for whatever’s most likely to elicit an actual response from her partner. “What do you plan to be in 10 years?”

A light flickers behind Hermione’s eyes as she imagines her future. This she’s ready to spill. “I plan to be married to Hiram, living in a swanky Upper East Side highrise, going to dinner parties every night, mingling with Manhattan’s elite. Maybe one or two little ones running around, if it fits our lifestyle. I’m sure Hiram will want a boy…”

“So you’ve settled on Hiram, then.” It sort of just slips out. The whole Hiram-Hermione-Fred triangle is one of Riverdale High’s hottest gossips. Tired and played out, sure, but keeps people talking nonetheless.

Hermione’s far off, dreamy expression turns cold when she looks to Penelope, clearly caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve chosen Hiram,” Penelope restates matter of factly. “So why keep stringing Fred along?”

“You don’t know anything about it!”

Penelope shrugs. “Maybe not. But it seems kind of cruel to keep giving Fred reasons to think you love him when you’re hearing wedding bells with Hiram. Everybody knows what a romantic he is.”

Hermione goes silent for a moment, fury rolling off her in droves.

She hates small towns. Everyone thinks they’re entitled to give their opinion about things that don’t even concern them. What business does Penelope have minding Hermione’s? It’s not like she’s dating Fred. Hell, they’re not even friends. The only friend Penelope Blossom has is whatever freak relationship she has going on with her brother. And maybe Darryl Doiley and Hal Cooper.

There’s her problem. If she had female friends she’d understand the complexities and nuances of romantic relationships.

“Fred’s kind and dependable and the type of guy every girl should date at least once in her life,” Hermione relents. “But he’s not the guy you marry if you’ve got big dreams for yourself.”

There’s something haunted in Hermione’s eyes contrasting the cocky assuredness with which she delivered her explanation. Like she’s regretting a decision not yet set in stone.

Penelope wonders if Hermione is self aware enough to even get it.

She also wonders if Hermione realizes she’s given up her own secrets.

“Anyway,” Hermione says with a shake of her hair. “Where will you be in 10 years? Still living in that haunted mansion?”

Penelope wants to argue, but the sad truth is Hermione’s probably right. If Rose has anything to say about it. If Clifford…

“I’ll be on Broadway,” she lies. Fantasizes. “Or I’ll become a botanist. Travel the world studying indigenous plants, learning all their secrets. Maybe I could do both.”

Hermione scoffs. “You really believe that?”

Penelope’s eyes harden at that. “I’m allowed to have dreams, too.”

Hermione catches just the slightest break in her voice. Gone as quickly as it came, but it’s enough to catch on to a bigger meaning, even if she isn’t quite sure what that meaning is.

It’s not the first time she’s felt pity for the other girl, but it is the first time she finds it not coming from a place of judgement.

Penelope’s always been the weird girl from the weird family, despite their wealth. She’s never fit in with her peers, and she’s never really tried to, in any way that actually counts.

She makes it easy not to like her, and most days Hermione’s content enough not to try to. But now that she’s really taking a look… maybe she’s underestimated the toll being a Blossom takes.

“Alright!” Hermione claps, sitting up. “Aren’t there any fun questions on that thing?

Penelope looks at her, a little surprised, before glancing down at the card. “Um… we’re supposed to do impressions of a famous person or character.”

“Okay, Ms. Broadway, take it away!” Hermione waves her hand out for Penelope to start performing.

“Me? Why do I have to go first?”

“I went first last time.”

Penelope huffs. “...Fine.”

She takes a moment to consider which impression she’s got ready enough to deliver, and then another moment to get herself into character.

Hermione’s getting impatient. “You know you’re not actually up for a Tony-”

Penelope stares at her with this intense look, chin up. “Yes. Yes, I did it. I killed Yvette. I hated her, so much-” Her voice has gone up a few octaves higher.

Hermione looks on like Penelope’s grown a second head.

“It-it- the f - it -flam - flames-” Penelope brings her hands up to the sides of her face for emphasis. “Flames, on the side of my face, breathing-breath- heaving breaths. Heaving breaths... Heaving…”

“What the hell is that?” Hermione asked once it seems like Penelope is done.

Penelope’s hands fall, immediately dropping character. “Mrs. White? From Clue?”

“Like the board game?” Hermione asks mockingly.

Penelope gets defensive. “Yes! It’s really good, actually, you should watch it sometime.”

“If you say so,” Hermione says, with no intention of ever doing so.

“Well let’s see what brilliant impression you’ve got lined up then!”

“Okay,” Hermione says, all self-assured. “Let’s see…” she hums. “Okay, got it!”

She stands up and makes her way closer to the stage, giving herself space away from the seats of the auditorium. She gives her hair one good flip for volume and clears her throat, her voice affecting a breathier tone as she begins singing.

”A kiss on the hand may be quite continental, but diamonds are a girl's best friend. A kiss may be grand but it won't pay the rental-” Her (frankly, off-pitch) singing is accompanied by hand motions to emphasize the lyrics; her hand reaching out as if to be kissed before waving a finger at the imaginary man she’s singing to.

”On your humble flat or help you at the automat. Men grow cold as girls grow old-” She floats about the space, singing to a pretend audience that consists of more than just Penelope.

”And we all lose our charms in the end
But square-cut or pear-shaped
these rocks don't lose their shape
Diamonds are a girl's best friend.”

She ends it on a seductive pose; one arm stretched upward as her other hand slides down it and across her clavicle, her hip cocked to the side.

Hermione awaits her applause, but it never comes.

She looks to Penelope like Well? Compliment me! Just as she does at the end of every cheer routine, just as she does whenever she enters a room.

“It’s a little on the nose,” is all Penelope offers.

Hermione deflates, more annoyed than out of any sense of embarrassment or disappointment. “You just don’t get it.”

“I think I get it better than you realize…” Penelope whispers to herself.

If Hermione hears, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Okay, next question…” Penelope reads. “Share something that worries you or you’re afraid of.”

“Snakes. Your turn.”

“I think we’re supposed to get a little more vulnerable than that…”

“Do you actually want to get vulnerable?” Hermione challenges. “Do you really want me knowing your deepest darkest fears?”

“Obviously not,” Penelope bites back. “But I do think we should be taking this assignment seriously and at least be a little open with each other. Within reason. If you’re even capable of such a thing.”

Hermione scoffs. “Oh, I am plenty vulnerable! Just because I’m not wallowing around my gothic mansion with a candelabra in the middle of the night doesn’t mean I’m not sensitive!”

“Well then share something worthwhile! Otherwise this whole project is a waste of our time!”

“I’m scared of being stuck in Riverdale, alright?!” Hermione shocks herself with her own honesty, but with the cat out of the bag she finds herself unable - or unwilling - to put it back in. “I am scared of becoming some- some townie who ends up a bored housewife on some idyllic Normal Rockwell cul-de-sac whose only achievement in life is pushing out two point five kids she raises while her husband goes off to the factory every day or whatever and comes home expecting dinner and a beer on the table. I deserve more than that. I’m worth more than that.”

They both sit with that truth for a moment.

Hermione isn’t afraid of being judged. She’ll defend her choices against anyone who has anything to say about them, she believes in them that strongly. Everyone in Riverdale seems content enough to live and die here, but not her. She knows there’s more life to be lived, and she’ll be damned if anyone stops her from living it.

“Sometimes I think being a housewife wouldn’t be so bad,” Penelope finds herself admitting. Maybe because this feels like the only time she’ll have the chance to. “But then I think… maybe that’s just a lie I tell myself to make me feel like I have any say in the matter.”

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked, genuinely confused.

Penelope’s mouth ticks up in a humorless smile. “It means my future has been meticulously designed for me, whether I like it or not.”

“Well I don’t buy that for a second. It’s the nineties! Women have choices.”

“Not if you’re a Blossom.”

“Well… aren’t you adopted? So, technically…”

“I am a Blossom!” Penelope shouts suddenly. “They’re the only family I’ve ever known!”

“Yeah, and you don’t seem entirely thrilled about it. You don’t owe them anything for adopting you. You can leave if you want. You’re almost 18.”

“Of course you would think it’s that simple,” Penelope spits.

“And what, exactly, does that mean?” Hermione questions, crossing her arms over her chest, staring Penelope down.

“It means you have no loyalty to anyone but yourself,” Penelope clarifies, not backing down.

“The most important person you should have loyalty to is yourself. It’s the only guarantee in life.”

“I’ll remember to check back in 20 years and see how well that’s worked out for you.”

“Will be a lot better than the Blossom vampire cult you end up in!”

Penelope doesn’t know what comes over her, except one second she’s seeing red and flying towards Hermione, hands outstretched ready to grab at her throat.

Hermione’s eyes flash wide in shock, but instinct manages to kick in as Penelope’s body collides with her own, and she’s able to dodge the choke the other girl was going for, though she doesn’t remain completely unscathed.

Penelope’s long nails catch her cheek. Hermione lets out a yelp of surprise before grabbing a fistful of ginger braid and yanking with all her might.

They end up on the floor from there, tripping over each other’s limbs and crawling on top of the other, claws flying just to strike whatever they can get.

Penelope ends up with her teeth sinking into the meat of Hermione’s arm as the brunette sits atop of her, fist in her hair as she yanks her head from side to side.

Hermione yells out in pain, slapping at Penelope’s face before snatching her arm away, cradling it against her chest. “What is wrong with you!”

Penelope, breathless, stares back at her, a sort of crazed look in her eye as she licks her lips. “Oh, you know how us Blossom vampire cultists are!”

Hermione rolls off to the side, paying no mind to the gross auditorium floor she’s currently sat on. More focused on the bite mark left on her arm, trying to rub the indentations away. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Penelope just lays back, staring up at the ceiling as she catches her breath. For once, she actually agrees with Hermione. “We still have one more question left.”

Hermione glares at Penelope, who is making no attempt to get up. Begrudgingly, Hermione goes over to find the piece of paper with their prompts, skimming it till she gets to the one they haven’t answered. “Share something personal with your partner… You almost took a chunk out of my arm. I think that’s personal enough.”

A laugh bubbles out of Penelope’s mouth, she can’t help it. “That was a little feral of me.”

“Uh, you think?” But Hermione finds herself laughing, too. A slow build until both their voices combine and echo across the empty seats.

Hermione stares at the disheveled state of Penelope on the floor; hair a mess and falling out of her once perfectly manicured braid, a shoe lying forgotten she had lost somewhere in the scuffle, shirt half untucked out of her skirt. By far the messiest anyone has seen Penelope - or any - Blossom. Which only makes her laugh harder.

“You know we have to take pictures of each other now, right?”

Sitting up, Penelope spins around to face Hermione. “Oh no, I forgot…” she says, barely containing her giggles.

“It’s supposed to be how we see each other, so…” Hermione slaps the card against the heel of her hand continuously in thought until an idea comes to her. “Okay, got it! Stand up.”

Penelope obliges, fixing her clothes in the process. Her hair is a little more difficult to resituate without completely undoing her braid, but she hopes she gets most of the strays tucked back in.

She stands there awaiting further instructions while Hermione grabs the camera and walks closer to her.

“Okay. Growl.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Growl,” Hermione repeats, holding the camera up to her eye.

“I am not- how does growling make a good photograph?”

“It’s about the energy!” Hermione explains, waving her free hand. “Release your inner animal, bare your teeth. You know…like a vampire.”

“Enough with the vampires!” Penelope yells, fists clenched at her sides as she stomps her foot down.

“Oh, see, that’s good! Give me more of that!”

“Hermione!”

“Oh, come on!” Hermione moans, taking the camera away from her face. “It’s kitschy! Avant-garde, even.”

“That is not what avant-garde means…”

“Whatever! It’s fun. So just… lighten up and take the picture.” Hermione brings the camera back up to her face and waits for Penelope to strike her pose.

It feels ridiculous. Stupid. But maybe Hermione isn’t entirely wrong. A little fun couldn’t hurt…

“Okay, fine,” she mumbles, to Hermione’s utter delight.

Penelope shakes herself loose and brings her hands up like claws in front of her, baring her teeth at the camera and releasing a growl from somewhere deep in her throat.

The flash goes off, and Penelope’s just relieved to have her part over and done with.

Hermione swaps the camera off and begins fixing herself up for her turn. “Okay. How do you-”

FLASH!

“I WASN’T READY!” Hermione yells.

Penelope just cackles. “It is meant to be how I see you.”

Now it’s Hermione’s turn to growl. “Oh, you little-”

Penelope’s already running for the exit when Hermione lunges at her.

(Hermione fights tooth and nail to keep that photo - the one of half her head looking like a bird’s nest, her lipstick smudged, and a run in her stockings - from making it to the final print of the yearbook.

But Penelope’s on yearbook staff.)