Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Regina George did not wait in lines. Lines waited for her.
And yet, here she was, halfway through the chaos of the mall, clutching a cappuccino that had already lost its foam, eyes locked on the glass storefront of Prada.

She’d come alone, since her friends were still “getting ready,” which usually meant arguing over lip gloss, and Regina had no intention of letting anyone beat her to the new bag drop.

She glided across the tile in her heels, radiating confidence.

Down the same corridor, Rodrick Heffley was very much not gliding. He was weaving between shoppers, flyers for Löded Diper’s upcoming show clutched in one hand, a half-empty soda can in the other. His band had convinced him that “grassroots marketing” meant bugging random mall-goers. It was going as well as expected.

“Hey, you like music?” he asked a man carrying a stroller.
The man gave him a look like he’d been asked to join a cult.
Rodrick sighed. “Cool. Have a nice day, sir.”

He handed another crumpled flyer to a passerby without looking. And then, collision.

The impact sent her cappuccino tilting, his soda fizzing over his wrist. A collective gasp rose from nearby teens who recognized Regina on sight.

“Watch it, loser!” she snapped, wiping a dot of coffee from her sleeve.

Rodrick blinked. The voice. The posture. The hair. It was her, the Regina George and he’d just baptized her in caffeine.

“Oh, uh, sorry!” he stammered, and then, realizing she was already glaring, added with a grin, “But technically, you bumped me first.”
Her eyes narrowed “Technically, I was walking like a normal person, and you were flailing around like you just escaped a drum cage.”

“Yeah,” he said, wiping his hand on his jeans, “that’s called promotion. You know, some of us work for our fame.”

Regina tilted her head, impressed despite herself. “Promotion? Passing flyers for that disaster of a band you keep spamming people about?”

He clutched his heart dramatically. “Ouch. You’ve heard of us. That’s basically a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes, muttered something about “mall rats,” and bent to grab her phone from the floor. He did the same. Without noticing, they each snatched up the other’s identical black case. They exchanged a last glare, his lopsided smirk meeting her perfect sneer, and went their separate ways.

Later that evening Regina dropped her shopping bags on her bed and collapsed beside them, triumphant. She reached for her phone to check her messages, only to frown at the unfamiliar lock screen.

The wallpaper was a blurry photo of a drum set and a crooked “Löded Diper” logo.
“What the hell…” Just then, it rang. The ringtone wasn’t hers and the caller ID read Greg Heffley. She hesitated, then answered.

“Hello?”
A kid’s voice exploded on the other end. “Rodrick! Mom says clean your room or she’s throwing your—”
Regina cut him off. “This isn’t Rodrick.”
A pause. “Wait… who are you?”
“Someone far too important for this conversation.” Click.

She stared at the phone, piecing it together.

Rodrick. Mall. Collision. Of course.

Meanwhile, Rodrick was sprawled on his couch, watching reruns of Jackass, when he went to check the time and froze. The screen of the phone he thought was his lit up with a notification. The wallpaper? A selfie of Regina George. Perfect lighting. Perfect smile. A little note at the bottom: “for my contacts only <3.”

He actually dropped the phone. “No freaking way.”

It took him all of five seconds to realize what had happened. Five more to grin like an idiot.

“Unknown Number”

Regina (Unknown):
Give me my phone back. Immediately.
Rodrick:
Wow. Didn’t even say hi. I’m good, thanks for asking.
Regina:
Rodrick Heffley, right? Return it. Now.
Rodrick:
Bold of you to assume I can teleport. Besides, I’m kinda enjoying this wallpaper. Motivational, even.
Regina:
Delete that picture.
Rodrick:
Nah, it’s basically art. Anyway, where’s my phone?
Regina:
Some kid called. He sounded terrified of hygiene. Meet me tomorrow to exchange.
Rodrick:
Hmm… tempting. But what if I’m busy being a rockstar?
Regina:
Rockstar? Please. Your biggest gig was probably your garage.
Rodrick:
Correction: local mall stage, thank you very much. This weekend. Come see for yourself.
Regina:
I’d rather be seen buying off-brand Prada.
Rodrick:
Tell you what, come to the show and I’ll give your phone back personally. Front row seats. Free ticket. Maybe even a T-shirt.
Regina:
You’re holding my phone hostage?
Rodrick:
Think of it as… bartering. Rock show for one cell phone.
Regina:
You’re insane.
Rodrick:
I’m persistent. Big difference.
She stared at the screen, debating whether to block him. But he kept texting little one-liners that made her laugh against her will.
Rodrick:
What’s your favorite color? Trying to see if I should sharpie your name on the merch.
Regina:
None of your business.
Rodrick:
So… pink. Got it.

She rolled her eyes. But she didn’t stop replying.

Somehow, their messages turned into daily banter. Rodrick would text stupid tweets, photos of his messy drum kit, or blurry selfies captioned “working hard or hardly working?” Regina would reply with sarcasm, but her comebacks got softer, funnier. Sometimes she sent pictures of her coffee or her dog, claiming she was “just proving she had better taste.”

He praised her too easily. “Okay, you win. You look great. Again.”
And she’d type “whatever” while smiling like an idiot.

By Thursday, she’d stopped pretending she wasn’t looking forward to his notifications.

Regina was in her room, holding a plain black T-shirt that had just been delivered by a nervous kid named Greg Heffley. Her mom had accepted the package and said, “Honey, some band boy sent you something?” before walking off bewildered.

On speakerphone, Karen and Gretchen listened to the sound of fabric scissors.

“Regina, why are you cutting that shirt?” Gretchen asked.

“Because it’s hideous,” Regina said, snipping off the sleeves.
Karen’s voice was dreamy. “So where exactly are you going tonight?”
“Just some… make-a-wish event,” she muttered, adjusting the cropped hem.
Karen giggled. “Is he cute?”
Regina hesitated. “He’s… persistent.”
When she hung up, she studied herself in the mirror: flawless hair, the altered shirt sitting perfectly above her jeans. The hand-drawn Löded Diper logo somehow looked ironic on her.

The small hall buzzed with noise. Guitars screeched, amps hummed, and kids in ripped jeans milled around. Regina walked in like she was stepping onto a red carpet, every head turning in disbelief. Regina George? Here?

Rodrick, mid-soundcheck, spotted her instantly. His grin widened. He leapt offstage, nearly tripping on a cable. “You actually came!”
She crossed her arms, faining disinterest. “I was… pressured.”
“By who?”
“Fate,” she deadpanned.

He laughed, and it was contagious. They stood closer than necessary. He smelled faintly of detergent and drumsticks, loud, chaotic, somehow genuine.
“So, uh,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “how’s my shirt look on you?”
She looked down, then up at him. “Like I improved it.”
He chuckled. “Fair.”

For a second, the noise around them faded. They were both aware of the nearness, the hum of speakers, the warmth of the crowd, but locked into each other’s space.
Then, smoothly, Regina slid her hand behind him.
Rodrick froze, heartbeat skyrocketing.
Was she—?

Her hand reappeared holding her phone. She smirked.
“Thanks,” she whispered, stepping back.

He stared, half-amused, half-devastated. “You’re evil.”
“I beg to differ.”
She leaned in just enough to make him lose his breath. “Play well tonight, and maybe you’ll earn a reward.”
“A reward?”
“A kiss. If you’re lucky.”

He blinked. “I’m officially playing the best set of my life.”

Regina stood near the stage, surrounded by curious glances. People whispered: Regina George, the queen bee, wearing that shirt? But she ignored them. The music started, and surprisingly, they were good. Raw, loud, magnetic. Rodrick was a blur behind his drum kit, every beat aimed at her.

By the last song, even she was smiling.

When it ended, the crowd cheered. Rodrick jumped down, sweaty and exhilarated, eyes finding her instantly.

“So?” he asked, voice breathless. “Verdict?”
She grabbed his collar and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’ll upgrade to a better one if you get signed.” " "when" you mean" then he saluted playfully, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

As they were about to leave, a man in a suit approached, flashing a card.
“Great show. I’m with Black Cat Records. We’d like to talk about a deal.”
Rodrick froze, eyes wide.

When the man walked away, he turned to Regina, disbelief turning into a slow, mischievous smile.
She raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Just thinking,” he said softly, “about what you promised.”
Regina laughed, bright, confident, and just a little nervous.
“Then you’d better not miss your meeting, rockstar.”

He watched her walk away through the crowd, the sound of her heels fading under the hum of amps. His phone buzzed a moment later.

Regina:
Don’t let fame get to your head, Heffley.

He grinned.

Rodrick:
Too late. You already did.

Chapter Text

If someone had told Regina George two months ago that she would spend her afternoons hiding out in a cramped garage with drumsticks clattering and speakers whining, she would have laughed in their face. Yet here she was, half-sitting on a stack of amps, sipping iced coffee while Rodrick tuned his guitar, trying to make it all look accidental.

Their relationship had unfolded in stolen moments: quick texts that turned into calls, calls that turned into plans, plans that turned into them. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It just did.
After the show, he had texted her a simple “thanks for showing up.” She had replied with “you were tolerable.” Now she was here nearly every other evening, pretending she wasn’t waiting for him to smile at her like she was the best part of his day.

Rodrick looked up from his guitar, grin crooked.
“You know, you don’t have to sit all the way over there. I don’t bite.”

“I’m fine,” Regina said, crossing her legs. “Besides, I don’t want to get sawdust on my jeans.”

He laughed. “That’s fair. Sawdust is punk.”

“Punk doesn’t have a laundry service,” she shot back, and he looked delighted.

This was how they existed: between insults and affection, in a rhythm that made sense only to them. Sometimes, when his bandmates were gone, he would pull her close, and she would rest her forehead against his chest for a second longer than necessary. Sometimes, she would roll her eyes but stay anyway, the faint thump of his heartbeat syncing with the bassline echoing off the walls.

They were careful. When they met on campus, she would pass him without looking up. He would only glance once, quick and soft, before walking away. Gretchen and Karen thought she was “busy with internships.” His friends thought he was “seeing some girl from the city.” Only the two of them knew the truth, and it was both thrilling and terrifying.

One night, they were parked just outside the edge of town, sitting in his van. The windows fogged slightly from the summer humidity. Rodrick had one arm over the steering wheel, the other drumming absently against his knee. Regina leaned back in the passenger seat, eyes tracing the constellation of stickers on his dashboard.

“You ever think about what happens if people find out?” he asked quietly.

She looked at him, unreadable. “You scared?”

He hesitated. “A little. Not of them, just… of losing this.”

Regina smiled, small and real. “You won’t. Trust me, Rodrick. I’ve handled worse rumors than the truth.”

He studied her face, the confidence there—sharp, glowing, dangerous. “Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to handle them for me.”

She reached over, brushing her fingers against his. “You’re not a liability, Heffley. You’re a secret. My secret.”

He laughed softly. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“It should. I don’t keep anything I don’t care about.”

That shut him up for a while. They sat in the quiet, the faint buzz of streetlights and the distant hum of a car radio filling the spaces between words.
Weeks passed like that: fast, careful, brilliant. They went on hidden coffee runs at odd hours, met in the park after dark, watched movies from opposite ends of his couch until they drifted closer without meaning to. They were opposites. She was all polish and control; he was chaos and noise. But together, they found a strange balance.

“Why do you like me?” he asked one night, halfway through a bag of chips, hair sticking out in every direction.

She smirked. “I’m still figuring that out.”

He threw a chip at her. She caught it, laughing. “Fine,” she said. “You’re funny. You don’t treat me like I’m made of glass. And you look really good behind a drum set.”
He grinned. “So basically, I’m your charity case with good rhythm.”

“Don’t push it,” she warned, but her smile didn’t fade.

It started with a photo. Someone on the campus forum posted a blurry picture of Rodrick’s van parked outside Regina’s house, a flash of blonde hair visible through the window. The caption read:

Looks like North Oaks’ queen bee’s got a punk problem.

Within hours, the post had hundreds of comments. By morning, it was everywhere.

Regina saw it first. Karen had sent it with seventeen question marks. Her stomach dropped. She had promised herself she wouldn’t let the world have this part of her, and now it was gone.
By the time she reached the café where Rodrick usually worked mornings, he was already there, pacing behind the counter. His face was pale, anxious.

“You saw it?” he asked.

She nodded. “Of course I did. Everyone did.”

“I swear I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t,” she interrupted gently. “Calm down.”

He stopped pacing. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m furious,” she said evenly, “but not at you.”

For a moment, he just looked at her, surprised. “I thought you’d… I don’t know. Pretend you didn’t know me or something.”

Regina crossed her arms, stepping closer. “Rodrick. If I was ashamed of you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He blinked, the tension in his shoulders easing. “So, what now?”

“Now,” she said, voice sharp, “we find out who did it.”

Rodrick’s brother Greg was, unfortunately, a genius when it came to gossip sites. With a little bribery (and the promise of never mentioning his middle-school diary again), he helped trace the original post to a familiar name: Cady Heron, the art student with a grudge and too much free time.

Regina’s jaw tightened. “Figures. She’s been waiting years to get back at me.”

“Revenge post?” Rodrick asked.

“Jealousy post,” Regina corrected. “She couldn’t stand that I moved on, grew up, and still look better doing it.”

Rodrick grinned. “You really are terrifying.”

She smiled thinly. “That’s why you like me.”

They didn’t confront Cady with shouting. Regina preferred precision.

They found her in the student gallery two days later, surrounded by canvases and paint fumes. Regina walked straight up, heels clicking like punctuation marks.

“Nice post,” she said, voice sugary. “Shame about the copyright violation.”

Cady frowned. “Excuse me?”

“The photo,” Regina said. “Technically, that’s my image. You didn’t get consent. I could have it taken down, maybe even file a complaint.”

Cady blinked, suddenly uncertain. “You wouldn’t—”

Regina smiled, all teeth. “Try me.”

Rodrick stood beside her, arms folded. “She’s serious. I’ve seen her scare actual TAs.”

Cady muttered something under her breath and turned away. The post vanished that afternoon.

For the first time since the leak, they walked across campus together. Not holding hands, not announcing anything—just not hiding. People stared. Some whispered. A few took pictures. Regina ignored them all.

“Still think we should’ve kept it secret?” Rodrick asked quietly.

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s kind of nice not having to pretend I don’t know you.”

He bumped her shoulder. “So I’m official now?”

“Don’t push your luck,” she said, but her tone was softer than usual.

Two days later, he texted her a location: Meadow behind the old library. 4 p.m. Bring nothing fancy. When she arrived, the grass was still damp from the morning rain. Rodrick had spread out a blanket, a small speaker humming quietly beside an open lunchbox.

“You actually brought food,” she said, amused.

“Leftover pizza counts as food.”

She laughed and sat down, slipping off her shoes. The air smelled like wet earth and sunlight.

For a while, they just talked—about his band getting more gigs, about her plans for grad school, about the stupid things that made them both laugh. He told her she looked different in daylight. She told him he looked better when he wasn’t overthinking.

At some point, he stretched out beside her, head resting on her lap. She hesitated only a second before running her fingers through his hair.

“This is nice,” he murmured.

“Don’t get used to it,” she teased, but her voice was gentle.

He looked up at her, eyes half-closed. “So what happens now?"

Regina glanced down at him, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Now we stop hiding. Let them talk. We’ve got better things to do.”

He grinned, lazy and content. “Like what?”

She leaned back on her hands, looking at the sun through the trees. “Like living.”

He closed his eyes again, letting the breeze move through his hair. Her hand stayed on his head, steady, protective.

Somewhere in the distance, a band was rehearsing, the faint echo of drums drifting across campus. Regina listened, smiling.

“Sounds familiar,” she said.

Rodrick laughed without opening his eyes. “Maybe they’ll open for us someday.”

She didn’t answer. She just watched him—messy, sincere, hers—and thought, for once, about how easy it was to stay.