He doesn’t sleep without the pistol under his pillow. Incidentally, you can’t sleep without yours, slotted against your side of the mattress. (You’d made him pay for it. How else could you feel safe, after all? From the world. From each other. Hey, even if you don’t end up blowing each other into pieces—it sees a hell of a use in the bedroom, anyways.)

A couple’s detenté. Not that either of you have anybody except each other. With a gravestone in the back of Sherwood's church and a complete wipe on your record, the alternative for both of you would be being completely fucking alone. Dead bodies don't speak. Except to each other, of course.

It’s hard enough you died before turning legal. Shit. Maybe if you turned yourself in, they’d still try you as a kid. Or perhaps the judge would bang his gavel and they'd bury you a second time.

However, if you were six-feet under, you wouldn’t get to be here—JD’s arm lazily slung over your side, nose nuzzling into the nape of your neck. He smells of cologne and cigarette smoke. The mysterious bad boy schtick has long worn off, but you can’t deny that it suits him.

“Mornin’, baby.” He husks into your neck, grasp tightening around your waist. You’ve been jumping motel to motel since Westerberg blew to bits in a fiery pit of angst and acne-ridden teenage hell.

Seventeen, with a death-count of eight-hundred and fifty. Bonnie and Clyde don’t have shit on you.