Work Text:
“Veronica?” A thick head of dark brown hair peaks through the slightly ajar door, a crooked grin prominent on J.D’s face.
Warm air rushes through her pursed lips in a sigh.
“J.D, I’m not doing this right now. I can’t.” Trying to keep her voice from shaking, she crosses her arms, hoping he’ll get the message and back off.
He doesn’t. Instead he strides into the room, trench coat flaring slightly at his quick speed, and lays his hands gently on her shoulders, “Is this about last night? With Kurt and Ram?”
The memory of the gunshots surfaces uninvited in her brain.
“You murdered two people.” She fixes him with a cold stare, her words a challenge, daring him to deny it. Something inside her wishes he would. That he’d admit it was an accident, that he’d mixed up the bullets, that he wishes it hadn’t happened.
But she saw the look on his face last night, the callous manner in which he’d shot Ram. The calm yet slightly manic smile he’d had while Kurt begged for his life. His unfaltering conviction as Kurt fell dead next to his best friend.
“Personally, I prefer to think of it as ridding the world of two sexually immature jocks, but I suppose you could phrase it that way,” he muses. Despite the macabre topic, his grin never falters.
“Do you think this is some kind of joke, J.D?” Her voice comes out shrill, and finally, the smirk disappears. He looks at her, eyes raising to meet Veronica’s, solemnity evident on his face. He doesn’t respond, but she can see his concern in the way his brow furrows slightly, the way his gaze wanders across her face, searching for the problem.
“Ronnie…darling, are you ok?” He takes her shaking hands into his own, and despite the hysteria clawing its way up her throat—in part because of him—she grips them like a lifeline. As soon as she steadies her breathing she glares at him.
“No! You murdered three of my friends—” Ok, they weren’t exactly ‘friends’, “—in front of me! I don’t know why this is surprising to you, but that’s upsetting to most people!”
He shrugs, hands falling to his pockets. “I’ll remind you that it was you who actually handed Heather the drain cleaner.”
At this, she’s incredulous, and she feels her face flushing, “I didn’t mean to! And it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t poured it into an identical cup in the first place!”
He looks at her, a calculated yet curious look in his eyes.
“Did you not write the note framing their murders as suicides? You chose to cover it up, dearest.”
“We’d both have been arrested if I hadn’t!”
J.D holds his hands up in surrender, “I’m not saying you were wrong to do so,” he flashes another grin, “I myself think it was brilliant. You are brilliant.” He looks at her with reverence, and she is reminded of the words he had spoken, several times, last night:
I worship you…
Despite the butterflies flooding her stomach, she can’t get over the sickening feeling blooming in her gut at his praise.
She steps backward, away from J.D, and he looks hurt. The irony of the situation hits her, this boy pouting like a child while discussing the murders they’d committed, and a dry laugh escapes her, carrying no mirth.
Her boyfriend clears his throat, “Look…I just wanted to protect you, and you said it yourself: The world would be a better place without Heather—you said you wished for a world that was free…”
“I didn’t mean I wanted to kill her! Christ, J.D—”
He cuts her off, “—and then we went in there, and she made you kneel. Like a fucking dog.” His tone is furious, but she knows his anger isn’t directed at her. “Heather got exactly what she deserved, and you know it.”
“No…she didn’t deserve death,” she chokes slightly, trying to hold herself together, “She was messy, she was kind of an asshole—”
He raises a brow, “Kind of?”
Rolling her eyes, she presses on, “But she didn’t deserve to die! None of them did.”
J.D doesn’t respond, leaving them both in a bout of silence. Veronica had been hoping for some sign of remorse, however slight. She finds none. If anything he seems…amused. As if her feverous belief in her peers' right to live is a trait he finds endearing. Her disappointment, if that’s what it is, she can’t quite tell, must show on her face, because he presses his lips together in a contemplative manner, looking conflicted.
“V…it’s people like them that drive others to actual suicides. They were shitty people, and given long enough I’m sure they’d have their own body count. Nothing will change that. Bullies stay bullies. And anyways, it’s not that big of a deal, if anything we made the world a slightly better place, getting rid of those jer—”
“It is a big deal! J.D we killed three people,” her voice is wobbly, and tears begin to spill down her cheek, but she continues, a fiery determination pushing her forward, “they were kids, just like us—they were seventeen! They still had time to grow and to get better but that won’t happen because we killed them.”
They both pause, and in the silence their heavy breaths sing a duet of exhalation.
“They tried. To. Rape. You.” JD’s tone is sharp and dangerous, but he speaks quietly. His hands are balled into fists, squeezing so tightly his knuckles are white.
“I’d kill them a thousand more times…a peaceful death is a mercy they don’t deserve.” His face is stony, and she doesn’t understand how he can be so full of wit and love one moment and consumed by hate and cruelty the next.
He reaches for her arm, fingers shaking slightly.
She jerks away from his hand, eyes narrowing.
His gaze falls heavily to the floor, and she can’t help but think that he looks like a kicked puppy. The next words that leave his mouth are soft, almost mumbled.
“Veronica…I love you. More than I can possibly explain. You are the sun lighting up the darkness that consumes my life. You are my everything. And no one gets to hurt you. Not that bitch Heather, and definitely not Kurt and Ram,” He goes quiet for a moment. His hurried breaths become slower and his eyes water slightly, “Ronnie…I’m not sorry for what I did, they deserved it. But I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I lied.”
Her boyfriend lifts his eyes hesitantly, meeting her own. He must see the conflicted feeling raging inside her surface on her face, because his eyes squeeze shut, and a tear forms in the corner of his eye, rolling slowly down his cheek. He swallows audibly. His trench coat suddenly seems huge, dwarfing his hunched frame.
“If you’re done with me, with us, I’ll understand. I love you…” his voice breaks slightly, “but I would never ask anything of you that would make you unhappy.”
Veronica bites her lip, but remains silent.
“…While I’d love nothing more than to stay by your side—I leave it up to you whether or not I am deserving of forgiveness. If it’s what you want…I’ll leave.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and his breath catches in his throat, as though it too is scared to hear her response.
She looks away, fuming at the audacity this boy has.
The first murder…well it wasn’t exactly dismissible, but she could at least chalk it up to an accident on both their parts…most likely…and she had to admit, although it was extremely fucked up, it was sort of sweet, in a very twisted, J.D typical kind of way.
But Ram and Kurt? That was no accident. That wasn’t some prank gone wrong. He knew those guns were loaded with real bullets, and the part that upsets her the most? He lied to her about it.
He lied.
Looked her dead in the eyes and wove some fanciful tale of sedatives disguised as bullets. Non-lethal he’d called them.
She hates being lied to more than anything. He’d known that. He’d done it anyway.
And yet, despite everything, she still loves him. Her heart still races when she thinks of him. Despite her common sense, and every logical part of her brain telling her to run, to leave behind this boy and his psychotic tendencies—thinking about the fact that he murdered three people to protect her sends her heart racing. He does whatever he thinks will make her happy, and though his methods are questionable at best, something about it is intoxicatingly alluring. Sure she’s angry—she’d be crazier than J.D not to be—but anger will subside over time, forgiveness will bloom eventually…hopefully.
And, despite the illogical—or perhaps madly logical—basis through which J.D has justified his actions, some part of her understands.
This is how he shows he cares. This is a broken boy’s love language.
This isn’t a malicious psychopath. This is just a kid, one who’s had everything taken from him. One who’s been hurt so badly that he’d rather be numb than face the world.
She feels the anger coursing through her veins begin to ebb.
“J.D…I’m not going to abandon you. I am angry—you have a long fucking way to go before I forgive you—but…” she sighs, “I love you.” She reaches forward, grabbing his hand and entwining their fingers.
He lowers his head and presses soft kisses into the back of her hand, murmuring something inaudible.
She waits for him to meet her eyes again before speaking, “But Jason Dean, for the love of God do not murder anyone else or so help me…”
He laughs quietly, and a small smile appears on her face. She can feel the tension between them beginning to ease.
His hand reaches towards her once again, and this time she doesn’t resist. His fingers come to rest gently on her cheek, cupping her face in a tender gesture.
He hugs her tightly, nuzzling his face softly into her neck, holding her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear. Maybe he is. A thrill sweeps over her with his touch, and she knows that no matter what he does, she won’t leave him. She can’t, and neither can he. She loves him, and his psychotic streak is enticing in its own way.
The earnestness in which he speaks of murder should be terrifying—who is she kidding, it is terrifying—and yet, she can’t help but feel a rush of elation with this boy.
He leans back slowly before pressing his forehead to hers.
“I love you, Veronica Sawyer. So much. You are my goddess. Let me spend the rest of my life living for you, loving you, worshipping you.” She closes the distance between them, pressing her mouth against his.
He kisses her back, long and tender, his lips quite soft for the threats they spew. The kiss conveys all they’d said and all they’d kept silent. She leans into his warm embrace, feeling the rough fabric of his trench coat brush against the bare skin of her arms.
When they finally pull apart, both gasping slightly for air, she laughs, an easy laugh that dances slightly like a gentle breeze.
“Tell me every horrible thing you ever did and let me love you anyway.”
He chuckles at her quotation of Edgar Allan Poe. “Gladly my love, though I’d think you know I prefer—”
“—Baudelaire, yes I know, but you could certainly do with some diversification of your taste in poets.”
“What’s wrong with Baudelaire?” He throws her a mock injured look that sends her into a fit of giggles.
Oh, it feels good to laugh. The last week has proved to be quite a shit show, one that had rendered her an emotional wreck, and it occurs to her that this is the first time she’s laughed, really laughed, since Heather Chandler had first fallen dead at her feet.
Her laugh is quickly stifled when a pillow hits her squarely in the face. J.D looks at her coyly, feigning innocence from where he now stands by her bed. The blankets are slightly disheveled from his rushed acquisition of a pillow.
Her mouth hanging open in surprise, she must look ridiculous because now it’s her boyfriend’s turn to snicker. His laughter is infectious, and she can’t stop herself from chortling with him, their laughter ringing in the otherwise quiet house.
She joins him next to her bed and pulls him into another embrace, tugging his arms around her, as though they can shelter her from the horrors of life in high school. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, she can feel his breathing, slow and slightly shaky, the nervousness not fully dispelled. Her lips curl upward, and she smiles into his chest.
I love you, Jason Dean.