Disclaimer:  The characters are not mine, not a one of them.  They all belong to Warner Bros/Hanna-Barbera.  Ethan Dace is Metal Head in the first SD film, not an original character (though I did create his name and his background info.)

Special Thanks:  Sincere 'thank yous' go out to Mlle Dinkley, DaphFlamm, Dragontooth18, and LunaGhost16 for the beta-reading and for being my sounding board on plot ideas.  Check out their fics, everybody—great stuff!

Author's Notes:  This fic is a combination of about three plot bunnies that have been hopping around my head for months now, but the flashback scene of "Scooby Doo 2" is what really tied it together.  I wanted to write a fic about the gang growing up, struggling between childhood innocence (and ignorance) and the new feelings that come with becoming an adult.  It is based off SD2 (characterizations included,) but you need not have seen the film for this fic to make sense.  You might need to know that Patrick Wisely is Velma's love interest in the movie, but that's about it

Last Golden Summer

By Littlesoprano

Was this the little girl I carried, was this the little boy at play?

I don't remember growing older... when did they?

When did she get to be a beauty, when did he grow to be so tall?

Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?

Sunrise, sunset... Sunrise, sunset

Swiftly fly the years

One season following another

Laden with happiness--  and tears

"Sunrise, Sunset" from "Fiddler on the Roof"

"Get rid of him!" Velma Dinkley cried desperately to her friends in the Mystery Inc living room, diving over a couch and speeding off on hands and knees.  Fred Jones and Daphne Blake, puzzling over what could have brought on this bizarre behavior from their usually cool-headed teammate, jerked their sightline to the front door, at which the bell was ringing.  There, looking jumpy and expectant, stood Patrick Wisely, their new museum curator acquaintance—and Velma's latest romantic pursuer. 

Ah, so that was it.        

Fred sighed, preparing to play his all-too-familiar role as go-between.  This wasn't the first time Velma had avoided a suitor, and, unless Patrick had a few new tricks up his sleeve or a minor miracle occurred, it wouldn't be the last.  This was, however, the first time he'd seen her literally run away from a man.  With Shaggy she had mothered and bossed.  With Ethan, the young musician whom they'd met on Spooky Island, she'd stonewalled, then hesitated. There had been others-- some that she liked, some that she didn't-- but no matter what the end result was the same.  She resisted, and he gave up.

Poor guys.  Probably what he should do, Fred thought, was to just warn Patrick and save him the trouble.

            He wouldn't, though.  It hinted at disloyalty, and if Fred had learned anything from the gang's breakup three years before, it was a renewal of devotion to his friends.  Instead, he turned his mind to coming up with an excuse that would satisfy Patrick and yet at the same time not be a bald-faced lie.  'Velma's in the lab'—that would work.  From the direction of her frantic crawling, that was exactly where she was headed.  'Velma's busy in the lab'—even better.  Never mind the fact that she was probably busy having a panic attack, not furthering her studies of the clues they'd found, as his phrase would indicate.  It still wasn't a lie, not technically.  Patrick could draw his own conclusions, and Fred would keep his conscience clear.

            Of course, it couldn't be that easy, could it?  He was turning to go answer the door when his girlfriend Daphne stated an opposing set of instructions in his ear.

            "Keep him busy!" she told him, then hurried off after her crawling best friend.

Fred now found himself in a very delicate situation, and he hesitated slightly.  On the one hand, Daphne was his girlfriend and that demanded some heightened loyalty, not to mention the fact that he didn't exactly want to find himself on her bad side for the rest of the evening.  On the other, Velma was his oldest friend, and it was her feelings ultimately at stake.  Her bad side, complete with zinging sharp remarks, was a force to be reckoned with as well, but he doubted that, no matter what his decision, she would unleash it.  Deep down, he was sure that she knew her behavior—this ridiculous hiding—wasn't quite right. 

            Not that he was one to lecture about being scared of relationships.  Exactly how long had it taken him to finally come out with his feelings for Daphne?  Even now that they were together, he knew that she wanted him to be more open with her, but it was difficult for him.  He had been this way as far as he could remember, inwardly convinced that showing his feelings was a sign of weakness and vulnerability.  He and Velma were somewhat alike that way, ironically enough.  But the difference was that  Velma had not always been like this.  It had been done to her.  Too much teasing, too much rejection, had caused it, building up year after year.  Ben Ravencroft, the man she'd loved who later tried to kill them all, had done his part in a big way, but even he wasn't the most at fault.  That role belonged to Fred himself, and he well knew it, though he and Velma never spoke of what went on between them one day many years before.  Fred didn't think they ever would, but neither would they ever forget it.

            It happened in the summer—their last golden summer.

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            Everyone, if life goes the way that it should, has a perfect summer to look back on—a three-month idyll that seems to capture all the carefree happiness that youth allows.  The summer that Fred Jones was fourteen was just such a time—as was every summer before that he could remember.  Those days were so sun-drenched and blissful that even as they were unfolding they felt blurry around the edges with nostalgia... and so happy that looking back on them was almost sad, because you knew life would never be that perfect and simple again. 

            They had no real troubles, then, he and his best friends in the world, and when they went anywhere, it was with arms linked around each other.  There was no Mystery, Inc, not yet, though  every once in awhile they would solve a little case, take their nominal fee, and use it to buy ice cream sundaes at the Malt Shop.  They felt so proud and victorious and most of all grown up sitting there, despite the fact that their feet still dangled off the high stools. 

Most of the time, though, they did what children are supposed to do—they played.  Once they got old enough, their parents let them have more or less free range of their suburban Coolsville neighborhood, and they thrilled at the sense of freedom.  They spent their days riding around the area on their bikes and scooters, swimming in the Blake family pool, playing Frisbee on the sunlit open green of the local park-- anything where they were outdoors and together.  One summer was spent building a clubhouse, the very same that would be their headquarters some years later.  Evenings were spent at one person's house or another-- their families grew used to feeding all of them at dinner—and often nights were as well, with all of them bedding down on couches and pull-out beds, or on the floor beneath the bedsheet roofs of improvised "camping tents."  Daphne kept a complete grooming set at each house, and there was no shortage of extra toothbrushes at every family's bathroom sink.  When Freddy was nine, he even kept his favorite pair of Martian-men patterned pajamas over at the Dinkleys.

The year that Fred was fifteen, he had no reason to believe that his summer would be much different.  But it was; it had to be.  He had no way of knowing that it was the end—the end of their childhood.  In two more years they would trade it for excitement, freedom, mysteries.  But that year he and his three best friends would be caught in a confusing, inevitable pre-pubescent limbo.  Everything would change.

He wasn't thinking about any of this in the third week before school ended and vacation began.  Mostly he was grousing at being stuck indoors with his final science project, when anyone could see that activities outside were practically calling his name.  His partner had come down with pinkeye (rather conveniently, Fred unfairly thought) leaving him to finish the entire thing himself.  It wasn't coming easily.  His mother noticed this one afternoon while he sat working at the kitchen table, jamming his pencil against his notebook in frustration.

            "Why don't you ask Velma to come over and give you a hand?" she suggested, and Fred immediately perked up.  "She's probably bored, waiting for all of you to get out of school."

            "Velma's back?" he questioned eagerly, turning in his seat.  The youngest member of the gang went to a private school in another town, as she wasn't being "challenged enough" (as her teachers had put it) at Coolsville.  She'd also been skipped a few grades.  "I didn't know," he continued, a little surprised.  Then again, the remaining three friends had been so hard at work at their own end-of-school projects that their contact had been cut back considerably.

            "I saw Marilyn at the post office yesterday and she told me.  Velma got back yesterday afternoon."

            "Oh."  He wondered, vaguely, why she hadn't called.  Perhaps she had called Shaggy and he hadn't passed on the message yet.   Schoolwork was often a challenge for Shag, not because of a lack of intellect, but because he was always letting his work pile up.

            "You should go over there, Freddy," he mother went on, though resuming chopping some dinner vegetables.  "She'll like the visit, and I'm sure she'd be happy to help out with your project."  No doubt she would; Velma loved science.  His mother's statement did rankle him a bit, though.  The idea of Velma being considered more intellectually capable than he wasn't exactly palatable, though really he knew his mother hadn't meant it that way.  After a moment he settled.  Yes, Velma was smarter, but she was smarter than most of the planet.  In a way it made her beyond competition.  Almost.

            So, it happened that Fred took his mother's advice that very afternoon, walking less than two blocks to the Dinkley household with a few of his books and notepads tucked beneath one arm.

            "Why, hello, Fredrick," Marilyn Dinkley greeted him warmly, opening the door to him.  Fred cringed inwardly at the name but tactfully said nothing.  She and her husband Harold had called him that since he was born, probably, even though the only other person that ever used the name was his mother, and that only when he was in trouble of some kind.  "You haven't been over in ages," she continued.  "Come in!"

            "Thanks, Mrs. Dinkley,"  he replied, then came into the familiar entryway of the house.  He knew their home almost as well as he knew his own, he'd spent so much time there in years past.  The Dinkleys, besides being close friends of his family, were especially fond of him.  He'd often taken up the role of Velma's champion on the playground, defending her from the taunts of bullies and snobbish girls.  As a result, he'd completely endeared himself to her family.  He liked them, too, though he often had to bite back a laugh at their formal mannerisms and occasionally over-intellectual speech.  Harold in particular could be downright hilarious that way.

            "Would you like some milk and cookies?" Marilyn asked, then let out a short laugh at herself.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I suppose you're a little too grown up for me to ask you that."  She shook her head, as if wondering where the years had gone.

            Fred couldn't imagine why anyone would outgrow cookies, but he didn't comment on it.  "I'm fine.  I just had a snack," he explained.  "I was wondering if Velma's home?"

             Marilyn beamed.  "She's out back… she'll be so happy to see you!"

            "Me, too," he smiled.  "I mean—I'll be happy to see her, too.  Should I just go on out?" he asked, looking toward the back sliding door.

            "Sure, if you'd like."  Fred nodded his assent and slipped outside. 

At first glance he didn't see Velma anywhere in the yard, but upon a closer inspection he spotted a bright flash of orange and red over by several large hedges.  She was on her hands and knees, peering intently at something on the ground.  Not wanting to startle her, he called out softly before moving in.

"Hey, Velma!"  Instantly he saw her shoulders shift in surprise, and she got quickly to her feet.  She knew his voice, deepened though it was in the last year, and there was no sense of alarm in her movements, just eagerness.  She turned and looked at him... but then she didn't move and she didn't speak.

They hadn't seen one another in a full school year. He'd been on vacations and trips with his family during the holidays she'd come home for visits.  Looking her over, though, he noted that he hadn't seemed to have missed much.  While he looked drastically different from the summer before,  she looked exactly the same.  Her hair was still cut into the simple pageboy she'd worn since girlhood, and, as often, she hadn't bothered to curl her bangs under.  They hung straight and thick, just over the tops of the same black horn-rims.  Even her "summer outfit" was identical to the one she'd worn the year before—orange turtleneck (even in hot weather,) red shorts that looked almost too small, and white, knee-high, men's sports socks.  All in all, she looked like she'd been out playing field hockey, though judging from the tools he glimpsed on the lawn, she'd been collecting leaves of some kind.

            Fred quickly noticed something else.  Something was... wrong with her.  She seemed awkward—in her clothes, in her body, even.  All at once she was looking around uncomfortably, her eyes flitting from him, to the empty yard, then down over her unflatteringly-dressed form.  Her hands came alive and fluttered without any real direction, tugging on her shirt, trying to smooth down the shorts that were far too tight to be wrinkled.  Her socks were filthy from kneeling in the damp grass and it seemed to embarrass her, though Fred didn't know why, not at the time.  Hadn't she only last summer dove into the grass after a Frisbee, picking herself up triumphantly without a thought in the world to that same outfit?  They might have even been the very same socks; Velma was none too picky about such things.  She'd been known to wear clothes until they all but fell apart.      Now she was almost difficult to watch, this tomboy with a woman's body, who didn't seem to know quite what to do about it.   

            Velma's mouth was open as if to speak, but nothing was coming out.  She appeared to be gulping in air, then swallowing it down.  "I… uhhh….  Fred?" she finally got out, throat dry.

            "Hi, Velms," he replied good-naturedly, using his personal nickname for her.  To Daphne, she was the full 'Velma,' always.  Shaggy sometimes called her 'Vel.'  But 'Velms' – that was only between the two of them.

            "I…. I… didn't know you were coming."

            "Oh, I'm sorry about that," Fred blinked, not sure if her words were a reprimand or not.  He'd expected her to be happy to see him, as he was her.  She didn't look happy, but definitely not unhappy, either.  Mainly she looked... odd.  Confused.  Considering her intellect, it wasn't a look he was accustomed to on her.  "I would've called, but you know, it's practically faster just to walk over.  If you're busy I can…"

            "No!  I mean, jinkies, Fred, it's fine.  You just… surprised me."

            She was staring.   "Is something wrong?" he asked cautiously.  Why was she looking at him that way?

            "No, umm... nothing," she stuttered, tripping over her tongue.  "You just look different is all."  She laughed, breathy and nervous—not like the Velma he knew at all.  "You're bigger."

            Fred looked down over himself instinctively.  It was true; he had filled out considerably in the past year, partly due to nature and partly due to his efforts in the weight room at school.  He was all well-toned muscle—his limbs and torso perfectly formed— and showed signs of the brawny physique that would develop even more in years to come.  His chest was hard and broad now, his shoulders wide and his hips narrow.  With his light blond hair and already impressive height he was almost Viking-like.  Velma's childhood defender had grown up.  "I guess so, huh," he replied, understating.

            "Yeah."  Velma was shuffling her feet now, shifting her weight back and forth.  Her hands were finally under control and clasped strictly behind her back.  She also appeared to have run out of conversation.  Fred kept waiting for her to add to her statement, but nothing came.  The silence—not so much the absence of words but the absence of anything between them—was growing uncomfortable.  What did they usually do when they were together? Fred thought to himself.  They played.  They did things.  That was it.  Fred had always been more of a man of action, anyway.  So, he took action.

"Aww... c'mere Velms!"  he commanded playfully, coming at her and squashing her against his chest in a bear hug.  It was a familiar enough action between them—usually he'd hug her, then pick her up off the ground to test his strength.   But there was nothing familiar about this hug, this time.  He was expecting a body like his own, flat and firm, but that was not what he felt in his arms.  Instead, he felt warmth and full, feminine curves that both pressed and yielded in his crushing embrace.  Her form was still as petite and compact as he remembered, but it was fully bloomed woman's body now, not a girl's.  Heat instantly flooded his face.  She hadn't been like that LAST summer, that was for sure.  Fred could remember tackling her in the grass when they played football, rolling over her in a way that was completely childish and innocent.  There would be no more of that, he knew at once.  They weren't two kids anymore… and the realization scared him. 

            It probably shouldn't have.  All during that past year, the gang had found themselves suddenly awakening to each other, experiencing hormone-induced feelings that were both exhilarating and confusing.  For the first time, Shaggy was beginning to pay attention to something other than food --  ever-beautiful Daphne, to be specific, who seemed to grow more shapely and more feminine as the days passed.  Fred had noticed her, too.  Suddenly, he looked forward to their occasional weekend swim parties not because he got to use the Blake's high dive board, but because he got to see Daphne in her new two-piece.  He found himself paying attention to everything about her—her laugh, the way she styled her hair, the way she stood with one hip forward.  Their parents had taken note of all this, of course.  All at once they were no longer allowed to have those shared sleepovers, their sleeping bags pitched side-by-side on one family den floor or another. Their games changed.  A rough-and-tumble game of dogpile or Twister was no longer childish fun… it was flirting… and maybe not appropriate at all.

            Somehow, though, Fred had left Velma out of the equation, making her separate from all these changes.  Partly this was because she had been absent from it, true enough.  But mostly, though, it was because she was…well... Velma.  She was almost sexless as far as Freddy could remember.  Oh, he knew she was a girl, but she was a girl that was so unlike those "fussy" and "prissy" girls in his class that had so annoyed him as a boy.  And he knew she hated to be told she looked like a boy; he'd defended her from much of that teasing back when they were in Coolsville Elementary.  He remembered how she'd sniff bravely, trying to hold back her tears even while her feelings were being ripped to shreds.  'You're the prettiest girl in the whole world,' he'd tell her when the bullies were gone, even though he'd really not given it a thought one way or another.  It made her feel better, and she'd hug him.  Velma still hugged then.  Truthfully, though, her gender had never been something that occurred to him much.  She was smart, and fun, and didn't fuss, and even though she wasn't the best at sports, he'd always admired the plucky way that she had, giving the game her all.  He'd rarely paid much attention to her appearance, other than the most casual observances.  Certainly he'd never thought of her in terms of attraction before.

            That wasn't changing now, but even though his mind wasn't setting off the alarms of attraction as he held her in his arms, his body had other ideas entirely—ones that were more basic, more instinctual.  He was male, she was female—that was all that was needed.  It was a concept old as time, and completely natural, but Fred was knocked off guard by the fierce surge of pure feeling that coursed through him without any mental prompting at all.  Instantly embarrassed, he let her go.  The break was hasty and clumsy, and in his hurry to disengage, he accidentally brushed a hand against her chest. 

            "Oh, man, I am so sorry!" he stammered loudly, mortified at his unintentional move.  Then, to his further embarrassment, he realized that he was staring right at the place he'd just touched.   He jerked his gaze away, his face reddening almost to the roots.  His heart pounded, a flurry of school videos and lectures flying into his brain.  What if Velma was offended?  What if she thought he touched and stared at her on purpose?  Would he get in trouble?  It had been a pure accident, but Velma was fond of saying that nothing happened by accident.         

            He needn't have worried.  If anything, Velma looked calmer than before, perhaps because Fred's nervousness offset hers.  "It's okay, Fred," she assured him, then looked down over herself self-consciously.  "I know... this is sort of strange, isn't it?" 

Fred wanted to say that she'd just made the understatement of the century, but mostly he was just relieved.  He heaved a sigh.  "So we're cool?'

"Yes.  Don't worry about it."

"Thanks, Velms," he closed the conversation gratefully.  Still, though, some discomfort wheeled itself around inside him.  He had to get it out, had to put things back the way they were.  Unconsciously, he found a way to do it.  Letting out his best macho laugh, he play-punched her on the shoulder, then grabbed her over his forearm so he could reach over and mess up her hair.  All at once she was a little kid to him again, 'one of the guys.'  It felt better that way.

            But there was one problem with the safe cocoon Fred was creating. Velma was not a child and she certainly wasn't 'one of the guys.'  She was a young woman suddenly finding herself in the full throes of her first bout of love.

 And Fred had no idea.

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With Velma's expert help, the work on Fred's science project went more quickly, and he looked forward even more to the freedom that summer would bring.  They met nearly every day after school at the clubhouse, where Velma kept the majority of her lab equipment and supplies.  There wasn't much time for idle chatting or visiting as the project took most of their concentration, but even so Fred was beginning to notice... things.  Velma's odd behavior at their first meeting wasn't going away, or at least not all of it.  He'd thought that she'd just been surprised by how different he looked, but obviously there had to be more to it than that.  He'd look up from a paper or chart and catch her staring at him, and then she'd dart her eyes to the side when his found hers.  She'd move her hand away, flustered, when it accidentally touched his during their work, but then as the days went by, she stopped moving away, letting his lie against hers until he became aware of it and quickly moved. 

There were changes in her appearances as well—nothing revolutionary, but changes nonetheless.   She took to wearing a skirt, which he'd never seen her do outside of school or church before.  Every day that they met, her hair was curled, held stiffly in place with what had to be half a can of spray, though Fred was too polite a boy to say so.  Unfortunately, he was not quite the experienced man enough to know that she wanted him to at least acknowledge—hopefully even compliment—the changes she'd made.  In truth, it was about a week before he even noticed.  What was worse was that he failed to realize what was painfully obvious—Velma was as hopelessly in love with him as a thirteen year old girl could be.

            This did not go unrecognized by the respective parents, and so it happened that one day Fred's father decided that it was time for a good talk.  He choose to bring it up one night over hamburgers and french fries, while he and his son watched a game on television.  They were talking of the summer, and of Fred's upcoming baseball league games, when he was able to insert the delicate subject into the conversation.

"About this summer, Fred..." he began, "I've been meaning to talk to you a little bit."  He waited for his son's assenting nod, which he received.  "You'll be spending a lot of time with Daphne and Velma, and... well, I think we need to talk man-to-man about a few things."

            "Like what?"  Fred had not missed the reference to himself as a 'man,' and it appealed to him.

            "Well, Freddy... about not getting girls in trouble.  I know we've had some talks about this when you were younger and about how you should wait for marriage, but there's going to be more temptation now and you need to be prepared for it..."

            Fred barely heard most of this, his mind still fixated on his father's opening phrase.  'Not getting girls in trouble?'  All at once it hit him what his dad meant.  He was talking about not getting girls pregnant.  Pregnant!  Daphne... well, and Velma, too.  Pregnant.  Fred felt himself go cold, then flame-hot.  It was true.  They were actually old enough for that.  He could make a baby with Daphne, or another girl, and the realization threw him into a stunned silence.  Wasn't it only a few years ago that 'getting someone in trouble' was a playground taunt?  Oh, It wasn't as if he hadn't known about the birds and the bees for years now—an advanced science textbook of Velma's had seen to that the year he was ten.  Back then it was 'icky,' improbable.  Why anyone would make such a big deal about it, let alone want to do it, was a mystery to him.  No, the reason his father's warning came as such a shock was because he'd only recently started to relate such goings-on to himself.  He had to admit, he'd started to think more about it lately.  A lot, in fact.  It sometimes embarrassed him, but the thoughts were getting harder and harder to turn off.

            "Umm, Dad," he choked out, "Daphne and I aren't going out or anything, and Velma... Velma's just a kid!"

            His father was trying to keep a casual yet serious countenance, but nevertheless a laugh escaped then.  Fred frowned, not understanding.  "I think you're going to get a surprise there," he advised with a shake of his head.  "She's only two years younger than you, and girls mature faster at your age."  He paused, gauging his teenage son's reaction.  "And it's looking like she's getting a pretty big crush on you."

            If Fred was taken aback by his father's earlier statement, he was doubly so now.  The combination of shock and sudden disbelief was enough to make his jaw drop open.  "Wha--  Velma?!  Nah, no way!"  That couldn't be right!  Velma was a little tomboy, a kid practically, she wasn't interested in all that.  Now Daphne he could have believed—she'd had crushes on guys even as young girl.  But Velma?  It just wasn't possible!

            "The other night when she was over for dinner.."

            "Yeah?"

            "She looked about ready to jump out of her skin every time you got within a foot of her." 

            Fred was silent, fighting this strange new notion.  His father went on, more seriously.  "I know you may not be interested, and if you're not, that's okay. Or maybe you are, or you're not sure yet.  But either way you're going to have to be prepared, because this probably won't go away by itself and you don't want to hurt her feelings."  He paused, sympathetically.  "It's tougher when you're friends.  Feelings get hurt more easily that way, mixing up friendship and something romantic."

              This all would have been helpful advice, but Fred had already more or less tuned out early on.  Velma with a crush on him—he respected his dad's advice, but this time it was totally off. 

            In another week's time, he would sorely wish that he had listened to his father more closely.

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            Finally, on the day before school was out, the project was in its very last stages.  Fred looked nearly triumphant as he spread out the very last batch of Ph litmus test strips on Velma's "lab table," then aimed a grin in her direction.  As soon as the strips dried and yielded their results, he could record the findings and finish the experiment.  With that burden off his shoulders, he'd have nothing to do but look forward to a long, relatively stress-free summer.  About the only stress he would have, in fact, would be his upcoming baseball games, and that was a kind of stress he didn't mind in the slightest.  He relished training, strengthening, competition. 

His games were the topic of conversation as he and Velma sat down on a bench to await the results, but they hadn't been able to talk as easily to one another since they'd reunited three weeks before.  She was still acting shy and funny, which cut her conversation skills back considerably, while conversation, at least at some stages of his life, hadn't been Fred's strong suit in the first place.  In truth, though, he didn't mean to be as horribly insensitive his next words made him appear.  He wasn't sure what to say anyway, but he did know that Velma was his friend—however strange she might be acting—and friends confided in one another.  He had something to confide now. 

"Daphne said she'll come root for me," he shared, grinning ear to ear.  It was a young man's dream, after all—having the prettiest girl in school come and cheer you on. 

Whether Velma misunderstood his intimation or merely chose to, Fred never knew.  "Why wouldn't she?" she questioned, and he caught her meaning.  The gang had always come to his games— the whole gang.

Of course, this was different. 

"I guess I meant… well, you know…" Velma raised an eyebrow.  "Never mind," he finished hastily, turning back to his project.  Clearly, he thought, she wasn't catching his hints, and he was too self-conscious about the whole situation to explain it further.  He was wrong, though.  She knew exactly what he'd meant.  There was a long, long pause.

"I'd come root for you, Freddy," she offered seriously, her usually nasal voice soft and shy.  He looked at her, and she bit her lip, expectant, holding her breath at her own boldness.

"That's cool," he replied, oblivious.  "You and Shag—maybe Scoobs, too, if Shag can keep him from running after the ball like last time."  He let out a head-shaking laugh at the memory, then gave another casual glance in the direction of the experiment.  The strips still weren't done.

He turned back just in time to see Velma's face purse tightly in hurt frustration  "No, I...that's not what I meant..."

She looked tense, ready to cry, which was something Fred had never seen her do, not even when she'd scraped up her knees badly when she fell off her scooter or, worse, when she was cruelly teased on the playground.  He really hoped she wouldn't start now, though he had no idea why she'd even need to.

"You feelin' okay?" he asked, sidling closer to her.  He almost put an arm around her, but stopped short midway through the action. He hadn't touched her since the hug incident weeks before.

"No," she groaned miserably, turning away.  Fred got the feeling that she wasn't talking to him.

"What's wrong?"  His tone showed his concern, but that, unbeknownst to him, was only driving the knife in deeper.

Her answer was a deep, slow breath, and she turned her eyes up to meet his.  They locked, and he was stunned momentarily at how dark they were behind those thick glasses— almost black and glistening with forming tears.  They were brilliant and shining, like stars.  He'd never noticed before.

            "Freddy, don't you get it?"

            He scrunched his brow, not liking the almost pleading tone in her voice.  "Get what?"

            "Everything!"  She was suddenly louder, her aggravation starting to break loose from her carefully-built shell.  "All of this," she gestured, plucking at the ends of her curled hair, then at her short skirt.  "Why do you think I'm here every day?"

            "The project?" he ventured feebly, knowing how pathetic it sounded.  The light was beginning to dawn, all the pieces falling into place.

            "Fred..." she said softly, her voice gentling.  She sounded almost as if she was pitying his ignorance.  But there was another tone to her voice, too, a kind of grating, far back in her throat.  Something changed in her face, and then he knew.  His father had been right all along.  He'd tried to caution him, told him to be prepared before the situation went too far.  Fred knew somehow that it was about to, but he had no idea what to do.

            It was really too late to think of anything.  For even with all the years that they'd known one another, with all he knew about her, and with all the experience he'd gain later, Fred would never exactly know why she did what she did next.  Complete frustration?  An overwhelming rush of feeling?  A need to give him a signal he couldn't possibly misinterpret?  It was, and would always be, a mystery to him.

            What she did next was to kiss him.  And not a shy kiss, not a kid's kiss, not a quick brush on the cheek, either.  A full kiss, right on the mouth. 

She just gave a little jump forward and... did it.  If she felt any hesitation, she didn't show it.  She had no particular style or method.  Daphne would have been the type of girl to study up on the matter beforehand in some teen magazine or another, but not Velma.  She wouldn't have spent hours practicing on her hand or her pillow... or maybe she had.  She hadn't prepared—no wetting her lips first or putting on flavored lip gloss, like Daphne would have known to do—but she probably hadn't expected to do what she did.  She'd kissed him, for whatever reason, because she just couldn't hold herself back anymore.   

            It took about a half-second for Fred's mind to process what was going on, and his eyes flew open in surprise.  His thoughts churned in startled confusion, every nerve racing.  He was overwhelmed, his mental and physical circuits overflowing.  Breaking away from her didn't even occur to him, for his senses still sent a bullet-fast message to his reeling mind—this felt good.   A little strange, yes—but really, really good.  He'd always wondered what the big deal was about kissing anyway—why touching lips would be something one would even want to do.  Now he knew.  Relaxing a little, his eyes closed.

            Time seemed to slow.  It was like a movie kiss, every moment stretched out to its maximum, giving him time to feel what was going on.  The kiss was awkward, but it wasn't light—her lips were pressed firmly against his.  Still, she felt so soft—almost plush.  Everything about the kiss was perfectly balanced—firm and soft, warm and cool at the same time.  He'd always heard of kisses tasting sweet, or at least they did in songs.  Like wine or honey, something like that.  Mostly this kiss just tasted warm and sort of clean, though that also could have been the thickly waxed lip balm that he had taken to coating his lips with.  It was considered cool, for some reason that he obviously had no inclination to ponder at the moment.

            Velma shifted a little bit, but it was a quick movement, as if she was afraid Fred would break away if she lost contact for even a second.  By that time, though, leaving the kiss was quickly becoming one of the last things he wanted to do.  When she moved it brought their bodies perhaps a half-inch closer to one another, and Fred could then feel the vibration of her heart racing, rabbit-fast, and knew that she was as nervous and exhilarated as he was.  He wanted to protect her, suddenly—Fred was always, and would always be, a protector.  That, and nature was asserting itself, pure and simple.  The kiss felt far too good to leave it.  

For a handful of seconds the dynamic of the kiss shifted, the power changed.  Fred's hands found their way around Velma's waist and circled there in an infinitely sweet gesture.  He was aware more than ever how small she was, and it made him feel tender and gentle in way that was like a man, not a boy.  At his lead her hands came up to lay palm-down against his chest, fingers curled at first but then flattening, as if she was trying to leave her handprints there.  He put his arms around her-- experimentally, innocently—just as she was taking her lips off his so she could get a full breath.  Their eyes opened and they looked at one another.

            Then the spell broke and he was pushing instead of clinging, holding her by the arms and disengaging her, moving her back.  It was hard to tell if his fear started when the kiss ended or whether it had been hovering like a specter all along, but whatever the case he knew then that he was afraid, discomfited.  But why?  Was it just too new?  Was he not ready?  He'd been dreaming of kissing a girl for a good year by then, and now he had. 

But the girl in his dreams had never been Velma—his childhood friend whom it had never even occurred to him to associate with anything romantic.  Was this too strange because she was his friend, or was it something older and less noble... something that told him Velma was not the sort of girl that he was supposed to pursue?  He didn't know. 

Would he be feeling this way if it was some pretty girl he'd admired at the city pool?  Would he be feeling this way if it were Daphne?  She was his friend, but she'd always been separate, too.  She'd always been a little woman.  She was the kind of girl that a guy knew he was supposed to like... that way. 

Velma knew at once that something was wrong and faced him—hurt, expectant, waiting for the axe to fall.  Deep in her eyes, though, there was hope as she looked up at him, waiting.  She didn't look ashamed of what she'd done, though it had surely been against the sense of decorum that she'd been taught, maybe even that she'd believed herself.  Harold and Marilyn were conservative, old-fashioned people—they would have counseled Velma that a lady lets a man make the first move.  Likely Velma believed this as well, but she'd simply gotten to the point where she couldn't wait anymore.

            Looking at her only reinforced the point for Fred, drove it home. At the height of the kiss, he could have been in the arms of any girl, but now he looked right at the one he'd experienced it with.  Velma.  Precious, geeky, plain, tomboy-ish little Velma.  Still, though, he felt the tug of a wild instinct to grab her back into his arms again, and he fought it.  She was all womanly curves and softness... what did it matter if it was her?  His body—and maybe even some of his mind—craved the feel of another kiss, wanted to experience that surge of chemistry between them.  It further confused and frightened him.  Their kiss had not been this way.  It wasn't a child's kiss, but there had been sweetness and innocence to it, even romance.  Though born of desperation, it didn't contain the hunger that he felt now. 

            Fred had to find a way to escape, to make her understand why this just couldn't work.  He didn't want to hurt her, and yet, unknowingly, he would hurt her terribly.  A casual cool crept into his voice, pushing her back farther than his hands had. 

"Whoa, hey, Velms..." he began, raising his hands in a 'slow down' gesture.  "Look, I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but you're... you're not really my type."  He thought it was the truth, but it was not all the of the truth.

            He was trying not to look at her, but he saw it anyway.  Her pain, swift and fierce.  She looked like she'd taken a hard hit, like he'd slapped her in the face.  Shell-shocked, it took her a moment to speak, and then she only got out one word. Her voice cracked with hurt between the syllables.  "Daphne?"

            He didn't answer—not verbally, anyway.  He wasn't sure what to say, or even quite what she meant.  If it was that he didn't want her because he was already smitten with Daphne, the answer was no.  His relationship with Daphne at that point was still in the earliest stages of fantasy.  He couldn't deny, though, that she most definitely was his type.

            Velma did the only thing she could, and that was to bolt.  "I have to go," she said quickly, getting up off the bench. "You'll do fine on the project.  All you have to do now is put the results on the chart we started."

            "Velma..." Fred trailed off, helplessly, but it was too late.  She was already out the door and running down the road.  And she was crying.

            Fred watched her go and somehow knew he'd done wrong.  He should have been more gentle with her feelings, at least.  Should have told her that he was flattered by her attention, but that he wasn't ready for a relationship yet, or didn't want to risk their friendship.  Or he should have tried.  Just tried.  His dad had told him this would happen, and now it had.  He should go after her, try to explain.  But explain what?  What had happened could never be undone.  Velma's pain at his words could not be erased... lessened someday with the passage of time, but not erased. 

Fred, hopeless, looked over at the table where the whole sad scene had happened.  The litmus strips were done, finally.  Numbly, he put the results in the chart, like Velma had instructed.  The project, and the school year, was finished. 

Tomorrow, the summer would begin.  Their last golden summer.

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As Fred could remember it, that summer went on, and in many ways it was the same as those before it.  They played in the park.  They swam.  They hung out at the Malt Shop.  And Daphne, as promised, came to his baseball games to cheer him on.  It was a beautiful, carefree time, and with it they left behind the last remnants of their childhood. 

            Though he and Velma never spoke of what happened that day,  it followed them nonetheless, like a ghost far more real than any of the ones they would unmask in their travels.  It wasn't that they wanted to hold to it, but the subconscious wall remained between them, held up partially by the fact that Velma was still attracted to him even beyond that day.  It wasn't desperate or clinging, but something that she had in spite of herself, something in her nature.  It had even been there still a year ago at Spooky Island, and that was surely in spite of herself, for Fred knew he'd done her great wrong by then, stealing her credit the way he had.  They'd made their peace on that island, though, and as far as Fred could tell, she'd left that attraction behind there as well.  It made sense, for it was then that Ethan came into her life, and Daphne more prominently into his.   

What Velma didn't know, and that he never planned to tell her, was that in making his peace with her that first day on the case, he'd discovered something startling... that the attraction wasn't, at least then, one-sided.  As they'd stood there side-by-side in the castle ride's secret room, having just faced death together and horribly uncomfortable with their brush with intimacy... he'd almost kissed her.  It was probably the alarms going off in the building that stopped him, rather than alarms of the mental variety. Later, when he thought it over, he tried to chalk it up to some basic possessive instinct he had with the girls—like a rooster in the hen house—and that could have been part of it.  Still... there was no denying the electricity, the challenge between them.  He wondered if it had been there all along, even back to that sad day when he'd rejected her so cruelly.  

That spark had faded in the last year, however, as he and Daphne's relationship grew deeper.  That was all for the best, really.  In its place had come a bond, a very deep bond, which they never acknowledged or spoke of but was felt strongly by both.  It was, in fact, as strong as the connection he had with Daphne, but different.  Older.  It was friendship, old friendship.  He'd always be big, strong Freddy, her protector, whether she needed him or not. 

Maybe, it occurred to him, she needed him now, but in a different way than she had when they were children on the playground.  Maybe, since he'd helped to put up her walls, he could help now to take them down, rather than just pass along her excuses like before.  Her relationship with Patrick need not end like all the others, over before it really begun.  That had been the case with she and Shaggy, though Fred in all honesty couldn't see that one working out anyway.  Still, they'd wanted to try, many years ago.  Velma's fear of intimacy combined with Shaggy's immaturity had quickly ended that.  Ethan was the most recent case. He'd been head-over-heels for her, and Velma had been seriously interested in him as well, even going to his first concert at a Coolsville nightclub.  That romance ended as soon as Ethan tried to ask her out on a private date, and was turned down.  He tried again, with the same result, slowed down, and tried again.  Finally, frustrated and hurt, he gave up.  He never knew how Velma cried on Daphne's shoulder for an hour after rejecting him that last time, and Fred didn't think it quite right by Velma to tell him.  Ethan was still around; Fred hung out with him occasionally, sans Velma.  He knew that the musician could still love her, happily, if she'd give him a chance.  Evidentially, when a man fell for Velma, he fell all the way.

            And here was another one, coming into the living room.  Patrick was shuffling nervously, his hands stuffed in his pockets, grinning like a fool.  He seemed like a nice enough guy from what Fred could tell, and Velma certainly thought he was pretty darned wonderful.  Then again, that had never helped a man in his pursuit of her before.  With his new objective in mind, Fred greeted the curator, then poured them some sodas while they waited for Velma to appear—if she did at all.  Patrick was telling him something about the museum that he didn't' fully absorb, busy as he was formulating a plan.  If he could get the two of them alone together before Velma could find an excuse...  It was worth a try, though Fred was finding himself with an odd lack of enthusiasm for the project.  Well, Daphne would help, no doubt doing enough for both of them—

            Fred's thoughts were cut short by a strange clicking at the top of the stairs, and when he turned to look, his jaw dropped at the sight that awaited him.  Beside him, Patrick's jaw hung slack as well, his eyes open wide.  Daphne had "helped" already, it seemed, in the way she knew best.  The clicking noise Fred heard was from a pair of stiletto heels on the hard floor, a common enough sound in the headquarters.  Only this time, it wasn't Daphne wearing them, it was Velma—sensible Mary-Janes Velma-- and the shoes made up the very least part of the transformation.  She was clothed from head to toe in an absolutely skin-tight, shiny red vinyl catsuit.  A catsuit of all things!  Even her hair was different, longer.  Extensions, they had to be.  Daphne had gone all the way this time.  Finally, her unfulfilled dream of making over her bookworm best friend had come true... but Fred didn't like the results.  Despite some involuntary warming of his body at the sight of her in the clinging outfit, the rest of him resisted.  This was not Velma—not anything like her.  He remembered the one other time she'd changed her looks for a man—when that man had been him.  That had been nothing like this.  The first time, it was a normal reaction and a part of growing up. She'd been a young tomboy who, having discovered boys and her first taste of infatuation, decided to dress more femininely in reaction.  There was nothing wrong with that.  She'd still been herself.  Nothing of Velma remained in the would-be temptress that now stood posed on the top of the stairs. 

            As she struck a hip-thrusted pose and began to speak to Patrick in a sultry, purring low voice, Fred knew that she was altering more than her looks.  Even the words were not her own—Fred could hear Daphne's instructing whispers from behind the doorway before Velma parroted them as best she could.  For an awful second he was ashamed for his girlfriend and what she was doing, but then reminded himself that she meant well.  She loved Velma as dearly as he did, and so was helping her in the best way she knew how.  Blaming Daphne for making someone over was like blaming a lion for eating a deer—you might not like it, but you couldn't blame them, either.  It was just nature.  Velma had allowed this, trying to make herself alluring for Patrick.  But her act wasn't alluring; it was just plain sad.  Fred was embarrassed for her as he watched her clatter awkwardly down the stairs on those awful spiked heels, trying to move in the binding catsuit.  He practically winced when she tried out her seductive lines on the obviously dumbfounded Patrick.  She couldn't pull it off, but she was trying so gamely that Fred's heart ached in sympathy at the pathetic ness of it all.

            Another feeling was strong in him as well--  a new camaraderie with the young curator, whom he suspected felt the same way he did about Velma's big transformation.  Patrick was still looking utterly confused as Daphne whisked her friend to the side for some hair touch-ups.  Somehow, through the complete other-worldness of the past minutes, they'd determined that he would ride with them to the museum for some investigation.  Fred could understand the confusion.  Patrick, after all, barely knew Velma, and now what little he did know had been turned upside down.  He probably didn't have any idea what to think, or how to know which of these two drastically different images was the woman he enamored with.

Wanting to test his suspicions, Fred came up to his side with a question.  "What do you think?" he asked, trying to sound macho and neutral.

            "Uh... wow," the curator answered, still staring in Velma's direction, then shaking his head as if to clear it.

            "Yeah," Fred replied, a little flatly.  He wasn't sure if the other man's statement had been merely an impressed compliment to Velma, or an expression of bafflement.  Perhaps it was both.

            Patrick opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated.  "Fred?  Can I ask you something?" he finally spoke, quietly.

            "Sure."

            "Is she... always like this?  I mean, before she was..." he trailed off, reading Fred's expression, then hurried on as if afraid he'd said something offensive.  He scarcely knew Fred, after all, and wasn't sure of his reactions.  "She's  beautiful, don't get me wrong, it's just that..."  He ended on a helpless, gesturing shrug.

            "I know what you're saying, it's okay," Fred assured him, but added nothing further to answer his question.  Wrong or not, he wasn't sure he could answer without undermining Velma's trust, and that he would never do.  Besides, he was thinking over Patrick's words.  Suddenly, he knew there was something he had to do.  He knew how he could help, and it wasn't with putting her and Patrick together or new hairstyles or anything.  As Mystery, Inc's leader, he was good with pep talks, and now he had the words to say... and the courage to say them. 

            He had something to resolve. 

            "Velma, can we talk for a sec?" he asked, including Daphne and Patrick in the question. Daphne, assuming correctly that a pep talk was in order, smiled and moved off a ways with Patrick in tow.  Fred waited until the two were in a properly diverting conversation before facing Velma to continue.

            "This is about the outfit, isn't it?" she grimaced, half sarcastically dry and half almost apologetic.  "Give me the truth—it looks bad, doesn't it."  She didn't add that Daphne hadn't let her look at herself, knowing if she had that she'd lose her nerve.

            "Nah, you look good!"  Fred countered encouragingly.  It was the truth in a way.  She did look good, but... "But, Velms, you don't need to do this.  All this..." he gestured over her "it isn't you."

            "I know," she replied after a long moment, but gave no further explanation.  This threw Fred for a bit of a loop, hearing her admit it so freely.

            "Then why?"

            She shrugged.  "Patrick said that I was mysterious and exciting and... and beautiful... and I'm not," she explained sadly, shrugging again.

            "So you made yourself that way."  Velma looked immediately downcast, and Fred wondered if he had sounded too harsh.  Obviously, she was already beginning to regret this facade she'd put up.  "Velma," he began gently but earnestly, "you're already beautiful.  Before you did this."  It was the complete truth, even if during their growing-up years he hadn't thought so, or hadn't even considered one way or the other.  She'd softened up so much in the past year, and it showed in her face, in her clothes, her bright smile, even in the softness of her hair.  These days she practically glowed.

            Velma just stared at him, unable either to believe his words or to absorb them.  A phrase flashed into his head, one from long ago, on the playground of Coolsville Elementary.  "Velma... you're the prettiest girl in the whole world," he stated, wondering if any man had told her that before.  Ethan had, he knew, but he knew as well that she hadn't believed him.  Would she trust the word of someone she'd known since babyhood?  He couldn't read her at all, but he knew he had to keep going.  He had to fix something that should have been fixed long ago.

            "Patrick would be one heck of a lucky guy to have you. Or Ethan.  Or whoever you want."  He looked solemnly into her eyes, which were dark and troubled.  It was time.  Fred sucked in a breath, then in one simple movement he broke through one of the barriers that had followed them since that fifteenth summer. He took her by the arms, holding her.  They hadn't touched, really touched, since that kiss.  Nothing beyond an occasional brush or bump during a mystery, always totally accidental or reflexive.  Velma realized the significance as well as he, her expression clearly startled.  Fred wasn't done.  He  was going to break the second unspoken rule, was going to shatter the years-long silence, before he was through. 

"Velma... I would have been lucky to have you."

Their gazes froze on each other, her eyes showing something that looked like shock.  Her mouth was open, but she wasn't speaking.  For a fleeting second she looked the way she had so many years ago, when they'd met in the yard, grown up and new to each other.  He thought he heard her whisper his name, but he couldn't be sure it wasn't his imagination.

Then voices that certainly weren't imaginary were filling his ears, amplified as if he was in a dense fog.  Daphne and Patrick were back, gathering their two friends for the trip to the museum.  Velma threw a smile in Patrick's direction—her good, old smile—then looked back at Fred for the most fleeting of moments. 

When she did, he literally felt an understanding pass between them.

He'd done right by Velma, whatever good it might do.  Just as he hadn't caused all of the damage, neither could he undo it all, and neither would it happen overnight.  Clearly, it all wouldn't happen today, Fred realized as they left the headquarters, for Velma, though with less enthusiasm, appeared to be trying to keep up her new pseudo-Bond girl image.  Perhaps she felt that she was stuck with it; Velma's pride would probably not allow her to admit she'd made a mistake at this point.  Pride—another way they were alike.

But there was tomorrow, and the day after that.  Patrick might turn out to be the man to finally win her love, or he might not.  It might be someone else, someone new or someone...

Well on that, Fred knew, only time would tell.  

Author's Notes on the ending:  Yes, I purposely left this fic open-ended, and I hope this is not too frustrating for some of you readers who like super-definite endings (like me, actually.)  If you follow the plot of SD2, Velma does get together with Patrick, but not in any kind of permanent way.  It's up for interpretation what happens there.  This fic could just as easily lead to Velma getting back together with Shaggy, or the ever-romantic Ethan.   Or, the "understanding" that passes between she and Fred could be that they love each other romantically.  Velan and Frelma shipper though I may be, I'm leaving the ending for you to decide for yourself.  In fact, if you'd like to put a note about how you feel it ended in your review, I'd love that as I'm rather curious about it myself!