Nicholas: Um...I have no excuse. I guess all I can say is that I am one of those sick twisted people who really wanted Veronica to go back to J.D. and start killing all the scum of the school again. This isn't really as much dark humor as the movie is. It's mostly just dark. REVIEW!

Disclaimer: I'm not that crazy. I'm only this crazy. That? That's all them.

Rating: T...language, mentions of violence and murder, dark thoughts

"I knew you'd be back, Veronica." It's always so warm in J.D.'s arms. I remember wondering how someone with a frozen black hole where his soul should be could possibly be so warm and comforting. "I knew it, I was positive."

He kissed my cheek, running his lips back and over my ear while his hand gripped my shoulder softly. I fell against his chest and let him hold me. Just for a moment, I told myself. Just another minute and I'll jab him in the side and walk away. "I was sure."

But part of me knew that I couldn't shove him away. That tingling feeling started to creep down my side where he was pressed against me, and my hands were itching to reach out and touch him. I took a deep breath and tried to solidify myself. My eyes fell closed just as his tongue flicked over the edge of my earlobe. I practically melted.

"Can I have you back, my darling?"

His voice was a whisper, an airy hiss that lit over my skin and seeped into my very being. I suddenly remembered why I had wanted him in the first place. I could see him in my mind's eye, sitting alone in the corner of the caf with that stupid, superior smirk on his face. When our eyes met, I knew that he was different than all the rest of the drab, dull creatures of the school—the Heathers, the jocks, the geeks, the losers; he defied known category. His very existence seemed to challenge everything I knew, everything that Heather had taught me about the way things were supposed to be in high school. Most of all, though, he was cool. He was probably the coolest person alive, and he said all of the right things. He knew exactly what he needed to say to get me so turned around I wouldn't question Heather Chandler's mouth turning blue or "ich luge" bullets.

Jason Dean was the serpent. Here he was, offering me everything that he knew I wanted. Everything that I knew I wanted; he was trying to give it to me on a silver platter. He had killed, would willingly kill again, for me. He was ready to weed out every living thing on the face of the planet that offended me and put it out of existence for me, and I really wanted to let him. Barring the fact that he is completely insane and in his mind homicide is the equivalent of a nice date, he loves me. All I had been doing lately was throwing that into his face like an ungrateful bitch.

I was aware that he was getting into my head again. Under normal circumstances, with anyone other than J.D., I would have enough sense to know that killing someone wasn't a romantic gesture. He was far from normal, however, and it rubbed off on me like a drug—my own, personal brand of heroine. He was going to be the death of me if I let him.

"There's a cherry slushy in it for ya."

When I laughed, the tears came out, and I held onto him. I felt myself slipping, stumbling, falling ass over teakettle into some terrifying darkness. He kept me up, balanced on the edge, with an iron grip that I shouldn't trust, but I do. And he's just so damn warm.

"Okay," I muttered, turning my head so that it was buried into his shoulder.

He propped his chin up on my head and stroked one hand through my hair. As I wrapped my arms around him under his coat, it occurred to me that I didn't really feel any better now that I'd given in. I didn't feel worse, and some of that stress was gone. Maybe I felt relieved, but not better. My heart was still aching and my conscience was screaming in agony as I mutilated it. I sighed into his shoulder and took in a deep breath of his scent. Then I waited, waited for that moment when everything unraveled and all the pieces fell into place and I stopped being so broken.

J.D. kissed the top of my head and hummed lightly. His hand rubbed circles into my back and his warmth enveloped me. When he spoke again: "I haven't been lonely since I met you," I held him a little tighter.

There is no better. This is high school, not a fairytale. J.D. is a sociopath, not a knight in shining armor. And I want Heather Duke dead. Why the hell should I feel good about that?