The funeral was small, all-male in demographics, and over nothing more inspiring than a box full of ashes. J.D.'s thoughts turned to Veronica again. He'd gone to all her funerals, shouldn't she come to his? Then again, he'd have gone to see the results of his work even if she hadn't wanted to attend. And this funeral was for an exclusive crowd.

Veronica was outside the removalists' world, and he liked that about her.

The crew was six strong, not counting himself and his dad, four removalists and two clean-up guys. Walter and Steve had been there practically since the beginning; they remembered his mother.

She'd tried to tell J.D. what it meant to be a hunter. Not long before she died, she came home with someone else's blood still caked in her hair and talked about her two selves. People have trouble inflicting pain on other people, even things that look human and aren't, she said. There was a part of her that loved and a part of her that killed. Damp down on what you felt, become empty, and let training and reflexes guide you forward. A hunter saved lives, she'd say, a little sadly.

Mom had expected he'd follow in her footsteps, but she probably wouldn't have made him do it.

Dispensing with emotions wasn't something J.D. turned out to have trouble with, when he started in the field. Expressing emotions, however, was a problem. He was currently trying for withdrawn and hoping it passed off as shellshock.

He'd had about two hours of sleep in the last three days, sitting hunter's vigil over his father. It was an old tradition, to wait and watch after a seer died, so that any final indignity of a ghost rising from their corpse would be quickly ended. Perhaps something had already happened before he'd come back to the house that day. But even if that particular ghost had risen, he himself had nothing to fear from it. Hunters were invulnerable.

It was a professional and unruffled gathering. With Bud Dean, you always knew the score and the cost and the game, and the only surprise was how tightly he could screw you and still stay within the rules. The crew based their loyalty on paychecks and would only stick around long enough for the last rites, out of some testosterone-soaked code. Bud Dean was never the type to hire smarter than he himself was, so they weren't that hard to cope with.

Could Veronica have dealt with this any other way? Damn it, Veronica. She should have just stayed away. He should have been able to work something with his dad. Let himself get pounded in a training session or two, quit school and be a full-time hunter, pay in blood and time and keeping quiet about the stuff he'd seen his father do. He still had no idea how his father found out, which was dangerous.

And where the hell was Veronica? Find her later. Think about her later.

The service closed.

"It was out of the blue," Harry said. He'd been around for three years, a hunter, thirty-something and ambitious. "I'd no idea there was anything wrong with your old man."

The thin ice of a reason. J.D. had already learned that death let other people warp and shape the context into what suited them. Twirl around Bud's kaleidoscope and you got Mom's death, trying a new brand of semi-legal dietary supplements, and a life spent fighting and a body just starting to betray him.

"You never really know people, I guess," J.D. said. "Mom wouldn't have wanted this. What happened to her was an accident ..." It wasn't an accident and I don't know what she would have wanted. "Since we came here, I hadn't spent much time with him outside work. I should have noticed something."

"Yeah, you were off with the girlfriend, right? The girlfriend that I don't see anywhere in evidence here," Walter said dryly. He fit a seer's stereotype perfectly, with a piercing glare he'd probably worked long and hard on in front of a shaving mirror, and liked to act like he observed anything and everything. In truth, what he noticed correlated to people with half a brain rather than people with a seer's powers.

"She is a girl, isn't she? Just checking," Steve asked. His partner Harry gave him a bit of a glare, as if that crossed the line. Harry went in closer to J.D., making a move to dominate the conversation and draw him aside. It was easiest to hear out what he had to say now.

"Look, I'd like to make you an offer for the business, kid. Big Bud Dean Removalists earned a solid reputation for getting the job done, and I'd hate to see that go to waste," Harry said.

Bud Dean had last made a will a month after his wife's death. He had one blood relative left at that point and wasn't the charitable sort. J.D. wouldn't have put it past the old man to create a safety deposit with 'if I'm dead open this evidence' inside it, one final fuck-you, but nothing had turned up.

"All reasonable offers considered. He knew you wanted to start your own crew. I think this is what he'd want," J.D. said. He hoped he got the tone right. People were supposed to put the most convenient and sappy words possible in the mouths of those too dead to contradict them.

"I'll put a contract together. You decide if you want to join my crew, kid. You know what the hell you're doing, you're cheap, and I can hire you a new partner." J.D. was only an apprentice, and not even that without a living supervisor. That meant minimum wage.

"I don't know. I'm thinking about finishing the school year here," he said.

"Don't think too long. I need to move soon." Harry went in for a manly handshake and took to his car.

When J.D. got back to the house it was quiet, a lot quieter than he'd subconsciously expected it to be. Dark, cold, and surprisingly echoey with only one person there. He made some coffee, which was pretty much what he'd lived on for the past few days, and knew he was too far sleepless for it to do anything. He sat on the couch and waited for consciousness to slip out of his head.

The earth-shattering aural torture of the phone woke him up, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. He threw a cushion at the receiver and missed, then stumbled over to pick up.

"It's me," he heard. Took him a few bleary seconds to recognize Veronica's voice over the line.

"About time. I've noticed a shortage of breaking and entering in my room lately." He still wasn't sure whether he wanted to yell at her or make out with her. He understood why she'd done what she did, so maybe it was pointless to get mad. His father's way with women was something he'd never wanted to emulate. Bud was always cold and careful, infrequently choosing someone, so Veronica should have been off limits without the blackmail opportunity.

"If you want to see me, go to Il Pugnale at the mall tonight. I booked under your name for seven o'clock," Veronica said.

"It's not like we have to sneak around," J.D. started to say, but she'd hung up on him. He could call back, or sleep some more. Option two sounded like the best choice at this point.

You could tell the spaghetti joint catered to teenagers and extramarital couples looking for a little privacy. The booths at the back of the main dining area fit about four each if at full capacity, and were walled in on all sides. He ordered a drink so the waiter wouldn't feel obliged to spit in their food, and waited.

Veronica. Partner in crime. Partner in bed and a few other places, like her neighbors' swingset. Forger, lockpick, thief, shooter. Brilliant and acid and spike-tongued. A fire in the darkness, all smooth soft skin unbroken by the world, grasping and burning with body heat and need. She wished for the assholes at Westerburg High to go away and they'd worked together to make that happen.

He had almost called her back in Heather Chandler's kitchen to put down the cup with the drain cleaner, but changed his mind at the last moment. That time it was different. Curiosity, malice, breaking the pattern of seven schools in seven states and this time not letting the assholes get away with it. Chandler died, and the people she attacked were free, and he and Veronica won.

At the time, he thought Veronica maybe knew she picked up the wrong cup. Now he wasn't so sure. In any case, they had some good times. And when J.D. saw how blind the rest of the world was to what really happened, he realized the possibilities here.

He already made his mind up about those two jocks the day of Heather Chandler's funeral, watching them make that Martha kid's life miserable. Veronica needed something extra to send her over the edge. That night he knew those assholes had done something, she was barefoot and looked like she'd been dragged through the woods by her hair, but the emotion that boiled off her like waves of hot lava was triumph not fear. There was strength in her and he respected that. It took those jerks' next dumb moves to turn her over to his way of thinking. And they did it, pulled it off, killed those two assholes and ran to the car with their hearts racing, frantically reaching for each other.

But afterwards, when Veronica should have been even more victorious, she was angry and withdrawn. She touched her bare hand to her car cigarette lighter and screamed like she was surprised to find it burn her. Later, J.D. had understood that the cut on her arm probably wasn't from macaroni cheese, but she'd have to learn for herself that crap like that never fixed anything. He hadn't known how to deal with Veronica's resentful silences. It was like winning a glorious conquest only to have it all turn to ashes in your mouth, like a companion always whispering in your ear look behind you for you are mortal at a triumphal parade.

J.D. looked at his watch. She was a bit more than fashionably late at this point. If he thought about it, there was a weird kind of symmetry. He helped Veronica end the people who made her life miserable. She killed his father.

(Mom killed herself, and he'd known or guessed at the reasons why and didn't and couldn't do anything.)

Veronica could help him catch up on what new horrors were unfolding at Westerburg High. Hydra, he'd remembered the word for it. Cut off one head, and two more grow in its place. Two new interchangeable jocks going around with Heathers again. More assholes emerging to ruin everyone else's lives. More work for him and Veronica to do.

Or was she even coming? He shook his head and watched the door of the booth. Just give her a little more time. The stupid waiter popped his head in again. J.D. ordered two more drinks, idiotic, risible, hopeful optimism prompting him. Both glasses were still untouched in front of him when Veronica finally arrived.

She looked incredible, dressed like she was going to prom or something, a filmy fragile blue skirt that clung to her legs like silk, a long-sleeved jacket with painted panels, more war-paint on her face than usual. Frankly, I'd rather get you out of those clothes but it definitely makes an impression.

The booth slammed closed behind her. J.D. rose from the table and went to her. Her perfume was sharp and strong, pine and rosemary. She was close enough to touch, but she didn't reach back to him.

She looked him in the eye and spoke, her voice hard-edged and icy, as if she'd long planned what to say and struck it home like a dagger in the back.

"You murdered your father," Veronica said. "You touched the gun, the note. After I already wiped my prints off."

Not left handed my ass, J.D. thought. He was amazed at how utterly fucking adroit she'd been, manipulating him like a piece on a checkers board. He was more impressed than anything else.

"You had plenty of motive," Veronica continued. "I mean, I have literally seen him hit you."

No. She really didn't understand, J.D. thought, and somehow that hurt more. That had been training.

"Don't worry, I'm not dim," Veronica said. "I realized that Kurt and Ram didn't have a swordfight in your mouth. Heather never did anything to you. Now this one's all yours. We're breaking up. If I go down, you go down harder. Stay away from me."

He kissed her, held onto her. She didn't mean what she said. There was always that blast of raging hormones between them. He could show her, remind her what they had together. At first it felt like she was kissing back, touching him, the same electric heat as before, but then he realized that she wasn't playing. She pushed back, trying to get free, so he stopped. He sat back down while Veronica stumbled away from him, even angrier, her lipstick wet and smudged.

"Quit school, leave town," she said. "Go to Washington, go to Tibet. Just don't talk to me and don't come near me." Then in a flash she was gone, slamming the door of the booth behind her.

He'd been so fucking stupid. What should he do in a time like this? Get blackout drunk came to him as absolutely the best possible solution.

—

Note:

Veronica is following Quinn Morgendorffer's advice here: "Daria, if you look your best when you blow a guy off, it makes them feel like you care."

J.D. is one of extremely few characters who would consider 'you manipulated me into framing myself for my father's murder' a turn-on.

—