Chapter Text
Veronica’s room smelled like blood and smoke.
At first, she thought it was just her. She hadn’t had the chance to change clothes since she got back from school, and it covered every inch of her in ash. The blood? That was all his. It had splatted on her like some bad B-Movie horror gore when she’d shot him.
It felt weird to get changed, like a sign that it was all finally over. Despite wanting that more than anything, she hesitated. Most of her clothes were hanging in the small walk-in closet, along with her makeshift noose and the paper torn from the faux petition.
After a few moments of sitting silently on her bed, she got straight into her pajamas instead, deciding to spend the rest of the evening alone in her room. The scrunchie was pulled out of her hair and thrown to the side.
She showered first. Washed the debris and dust out of her hair and the black smoke off her skin. Once out, she prayed that the smell would go away, but it still clung to her.
She didn’t want to think about it, not now. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow she would write in her diary about today, but right now she didn’t even want to remember his last words. The same words that had been ringing in her ears, over and over, since the morning they killed Kurt and Ram.
She hadn’t explained it to anyone yet. They didn’t ask, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to lie or not. She could paint him as the murderous psycho or as another case of tragic teen suicide. Or she could say nothing. Just wait for them to find whatever remains were still littering the football field and realize it wasn’t a gas leak. Pretend she wasn’t even there.
Deciding once again to sleep and figure it all out tomorrow, she laid down on the top of her bed, not bothering to get in. It was still light outside and the blinding evening sun was shining directly at her, turning her white pillow a golden fiery yellow. The window was open as well, letting a light breeze in. He’d opened it when he’d snuck in earlier that day. So much for not thinking about him. Her entire room is a constant reminder. In every direction she looked, she could see another piece of him. A framed photo of the two of them. A book of French poetry. An empty Slurpee cup she had yet to get rid of. Even the bed itself. His smell still stuck to her pillow from all the nights he had snuck in, seeking rest and respite from his own home. All of it made her feel sick and tired.
She probably would have fallen asleep in a matter of minutes, god knows she needed it, if not for a sudden violent coughing noise. Her parents were both out, so can’t have been them. Even worse, it seemed to come from her closet.
She instantly cursed at herself when she got up, walking across the cold wooden floorboards towards the closet. Praying that maybe it was her imagination.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. It swung right open. He’d probably broken the hinges when he kicked it open. The room was dark and she couldn’t make anything out apart from the outline of multiple blazers and a chair lying on its side. Telling herself that there was definitely nothing there, she turned to close the door. Then, a small whimper came from the corner of the room. Leaning in and flipping the light switch, she scanned the closet once more, almost trying to make herself not see anything. But now, in the light, she could see him.
He was crumbled in the corner, pale and trembling. His eyes were wide and staring right at her like an animal in headlights. He seemed scared, but of what she couldn’t tell why. If either of them should be scared, it was her.
“You’re dead,” she was half stating it to herself.
“Not yet,” He coughed. “I told you I’d hardly call it a bomb. I guess it just wasn’t as bad as I thought.” Was it? Despite being alive, he was in really a terrible state. The right side of his neck and jaw was charred and burnt. Blood and ash covered most of his face. His hands were tucked under his coat, but she didn’t need to see them to know they were probably messed up as well. She was surprised he’d survived the journey here.
“After you turned around I panicked and threw it across the football field. When I woke up, you’d gone. The entire school was about to come out and find me. I thought it was a better idea to get away. No one needs to see me like this. Also, there was no way I was gonna die at that school.”
“Why are you here?”
“I didn’t wanna go home,"
“So my closet was a better idea?”
“I don’t know, okay? Everything is fuzzy. I just found myself at your house. The door was open. Thought I’d look at the scene of the crime.” Reaching out, he grabbed the sheet she’d used in her ‘suicide’. It was stark white against his black clothes. For a moment, she was worried that he’d get blood on it.
“You said it yourself. The extreme always seems to make an impression,”
“Hmm...” He nodded, his eyes closed for a second before deciding against sleep and looking up at her again. For a moment, he almost looked content. “You fucked me up pretty bad, Veronica. How long do you think it will take?”
“To what?”
"To bleed out,”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not gonna bleed out.”
“Then I better hope kept that gun, cause I can’t stay like this,”
“You’re not gonna kill yourself either Jason,”
“Jason? Can’t remember you calling me that since the first day we met,” He laughed almost deliriously. “Didn’t think it would turn out like this, did you?”
“Just let me look at it,” Veronica sighed, wishing he would stop talking. As she kneeled down next to him, he hesitated for a moment. Then he slowly moved his bloodstained hands out of the way.
“It’s not that bad. Basically a graze,” He grunted as his body shifted for her to get a better look. Her eyes went straight to the bullet wound, ignoring the scorched skin that raised up like chewed up bubblegum. It was hard to make out in the dim light of the closet, but maybe that’s better for her. She doubted she could stomach seeing another bullet wound, especially one she’d made herself. “For once I'm glad you were never a good shot.”
From what she could make out in the dim light, it was bad. Not as bad as the small, ragged holes he’d put in Kurt and Ram, but there’s a lot more blood. It was smeared all across his shirt and fingers. As bright red as Heather’s scrunchie.
“Don’t,” J.D. leaned his head back against the wall as he studied her expression.
“Don’t what?”
“Feel guilty. I can see it on your face,” Kinda hard not to when you’ve shot your ex-boyfriend and then left him to blow himself up. Maybe Veronica shouldn’t have felt guilty. Especially when she’d felt like this so often that he knew what face she made when she did. Especially when it was his fault that she felt this way. When he’d killed 3 people and wanted to kill more. But all of his manipulations seemed to have stripped away the moment she realized how damaged she’d made him look.
“Don’t worry. All the pain is gone now.” His tone sounded more annoyed than comforting.
“Come here,” she told him, pulling on the edge of his coat. Taking the hint, he leaned forward so his back wasn’t against the wall, letting her easily slide the coat off his shoulders. “Can you lay down?”
He followed her instructions, lowering himself down onto the wooden floor. Giving up on the already blood-soaked sheets he was now holding close like a kid might hug a teddy bear, she looked through the pockets of the trench-coat for the penknife she knew he carried.
“I forgot about that. Would have really sped this up.” He laughed darkly, making a stabbing motion with his hand. Veronica ignored him, cutting into the sheet until she could rip a strip off.
He gritted his teeth as she pulled the strip under him and wrapped it around his torso as a make-shift bandage, pulling it tight in an effort to keep everything in. “Keep pressure. I’m gonna go call an ambulance,”
“No,” He whimpered. His voice was so quiet, but she heard it. With his free hand, he reached up to grab her hand. “No, please. Not yet,”
She thought about it, letting him have his wish. No ambulance, no recovery. She’d spent the last few hours thinking he was dead, anyway. It was meant to be over now.
Fuck it. There’s no way in hell she’d let him die a second die today. A third? And especially not in her house. It would have probably been easier if her Dad was in. She could borrow his Station Wagon and drive J.D. herself. But she doubted he would let her move him, and she needed more time to explain this all to her parents. He’d survived this long. He could survive the wait. So she pulled away from his grip, and he let her go. He watched as she ran out of the closet and listened to the beeps of the phone dialing.
When Veronica returned, his eyes were closed, and panic set in. Then she saw his chest slowly rising and falling. The panic stopped, and she was back to being unsure of the whole situation.
He almost looked peaceful. Smaller without the trench-coat. Curled up on the floor with the white sheets, which were staining deep red underneath him. She knew he was damaged, but now he looked broken. Completely shattered on her closet floor.
The function she had built into herself over the past few weeks kicked in. Her morals disappeared. Before she could stop herself, she was kneeling on the floor, holding him in her arms. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open to look at her as she took his hand in hers.
“You’re still here. Why are you still here?”
“Maybe because this is my house,” He nodded slowly, lethargic and satisfied with her answer. Then, after a moment, he looked back up at her, studying her face.
“I don’t deserve to live, Veronica,”
“I respectfully disagree,” she repeated his words from earlier that day. He tried to laugh, but it just ended up turning into a coughing fit. Her eyebrows furrowed in concern as she waited for him to stop. “I don’t need any more blood on my hands,”
“You never had any. It’s all on me.” He stared at the ground, refusing to look at her. Eventually, he gave up looking at anything, his eyelids flickering shut.
"Hey, eyes open,” she lightly slapped his cheek a few times, forcing him to look at her. For a moment, he refused. Scrunching his eyes shut. Then he gave up being childish and looked up at her tearfully. “Look at me, just keep looking at me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,”
He sucked in a breath, preparing to speak. Preparing to call her a liar. Then Veronica felt a tear fall down his cheek onto her palm. She expected it to just be that, a few tears. He’d cried before and that was all it had been. Then his chest heaved and his hands reached out to grab the side of her pajama shirt. A sob wracked him. Tears soaking her hand. It was hard for her to see him like this. All charm and confidence, and even madness, had been ripped away until he was a shaking, sobbing wreck. Veronica stroked his hair back in a desperate attempt to comfort him. Her fingers brushed over his forehead a couple of times, over the freshly burned skinned. If it hurt, he didn’t react.
“It hurts, Ronnie,” He sobbed, his shaking frame forcing more blood out of his body. She searched for another way to comfort him. To tell him he was fine, that it would all be okay. But would it? Would he? Was there any way of coming back from this? Not only physically, but mentally.
When she realized there weren’t any words to comfort him, or at least any she could make herself say, she just pulled her arms tighter around him. Rocked him back and forth and tried to distract him from the wound in his gut and burns on his body. And she prayed and prayed for the ambulance to arrive, and for no one to ask questions. For a chance for her to start again, safe and sane. For them both to have that chance.