AN: So when my flash drive freaked a couple'a years ago, this was one of the documents I…didn't get back. I had a backup copy, and it's not like I lost a lot, but still. Opening it was hard.

BUT then I had this thought at like, three in the morning after a fun bout of sleep paralysis, so here we are. Uh. Happy early Valentine's Day? I guess? I've been trying to post this ALL DAY but ff's been weird. Whatever...this is also on Wattpad and Ao3-know this, because if ff goes down (Heaven forbid) the sporadic updates, should there be more, will be there.

Title from the Valerie Broussard song of that name.

Jill likes this one.

Or.

She wants to keep him. Like butterfly collectors do-shove him up against the wall, with…oh, she's thinking a fencing blade, for romance's sake…shoved through his heart.

It wouldn't be very neat. Not like a real butterfly. But she thinks she wants that anyway.

Although. It would be…unfortunate, a little. Those eyes of his…they wouldn't be right, dulled over like that. Maybe a jar…hmm.

She's lying sort of near him, after, and he's fiddling with her hair in a gesture she'd resent if she thought it represented any sort of attachment, but the truth of the matter is that Jackson fiddles with everything. Pencils, pen drives, keys, his pocket knife…

It feels nice and it's not some sort of red flag for 'I love you' and 'I think we should be exclusive' or anything emotionally awful like that, so she'll accept it. For the moment.

Rebecca used to do this. Beautiful, Disney-princess Rebecca. Blonde, blue-eyed (oh, great, she's got a type), rosy-red lips that couldn't be natural but were anyway, somehow…

That car accident was a tragedy. But a necessary tragedy. She would have blabbed, about that man, and Jill's not about to lose her bit of fun over a skittish little mouse.

She wonders, though, if those red lips made drowning look lovely, like they do in films.

Slender, fiddle-y fingers suddenly grip her hair a little harder and turn her head. Well, well. This is new.

"Did you want something?"

"Got bored, wanted to see what you'd do."

She likes that. Likes this. No nonsense, no pretence about going out to dinner and acting like this is anything more than it is. Oh, there's dinner, because fucking burns calories, but it's an afterthought. A, 'I'm hungry and you're hungry and we both feel like Thai' sort of arrangement.

"Be nice to me or you'll lose a hand." she says, only half-teasing, because it's easier than you'd think, taking off a hand. Wrists are fragile, easier to snap and shatter so they're in bits and you can just saw right through.

"I know."

That's new, too. This just got interesting. And, potentially, disappointing. She wasn't really ready to-literally-nail him to the wall.

She rolls over, feels things crack, and lets her hand hang off the bed-towards a gun that she shouldn't have but, well…it's so easy to get things you shouldn't have.

And.

It's not there. Well. Shit.

"Those aren't just really, really realistic Halloween decorations in the other room, huh." He's not smart. You don't just go and admit you know things. You keep your mouth shut and leave. "Where'd you get them?"

"Murder museum."

He grins at her, loose and boyish and stupidly endearing. Or. It would be, if it reached his eyes at all.

"I killed my parents." he says, casual as you please. "Over dinner. Two weeks before I met you."

She wouldn't believe him, if it weren't for that casual tone and the still-tight grip on her hair. And. Well, she really doesn't know much about him. She knows what he likes, and that a couple of times there's been a blip of danger across her radar, like…she really can't explain why, but…the best way she's got to describe it is like a cat that's supposedly friendly but…but you know it's going to claw you.

"Aren't you special."

Now the grin reaches his eyes and he untangles his fingers from her hair, drops his hand back to the sheets.

"Is that why the sheets are black?"

"No." Idiot. "The sheets are black because I liked the black ones."

It's probably bad that they're not discussing their newfound similarity.

She really doesn't care.

Besides, now maybe she won't pin him to the wall with a fencing blade. Now he's interesting again, interesting enough not to keep.

At least for now, anyway.

THE END