There were many words that could be used to describe JD.

Manic, erratic, obsessive, psychotic, manipulative, selfish, violent, *irritatingly attractive*.

Despite the one good factor in there, you'd really prefer to keep the remaining sanity you had post-eliminating Heather Chandler, Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney. There was a deep hole you had dug yourself in, and it was now or never to get out of it. Jason didn't take this well, though, *oh, no*. He was mad. What would he be without you? You'd given his life *thrill*, there was no way he was letting you escape that easily. After a few pleads, he let you escape, knowing you'd come crawling back; or vice versa, him presenting his fantastic idea of blowing up the shithole that was Westerburg to run away together (sure, he'd be holding a gun to your head, too, but the important thing was you didn’t leave.)

So, here he was, midnight, out front of your house, sat on his motorbike. He brings a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulling one out and hanging it between his lips. He shoves the pack back into his trench coat to retrieve a lighter, flicking it until aflame and lit the tip of the stick. The cigarette burnt, the smell of tobacco filling the cool night air. His hands find place in his pockets as he stands from his bike, patting once or twice to assure his gun was pocketed. His eyes narrow as he gazes up at your window, the light from inside illuminating the leaves of the nearby trees.

*Ha*. Your window was closed; you’d learnt. It was no trouble for Jason, though, truly. He'd just have to do a bit of lockpicking.

He's climbing up the vines on the brick walls of your house, to your bedroom window, reaching out and--, *oh*, snapping the window lock right off. He slides it up, a sly grin upon his lips, head peaking in coyly as if he wasn't planning to *fire* if you didn't go with his idea. He hoists himself through your window, like he’d done the first time the two of you— well.

"Greetings and salutations," Jason drawls out in a smug purr, "*Missed me?*"