Chapter X

The Devil in the House

Note: First of all, I apologize for the wait. I haven't given up or been slacking off either; it's just that there's this thing called college and sometimes it likes to take over my life. Particularly when you have to sit in the Library of Freezing-Ass Cold for three hours watching dreary, old French films about WWI because certain professors of yours didn't bother to tell you that you had to have the damn thing watched before midnight and, oh, by the way, that's when the online quiz is due. *cough* But, anyway, I digress. There have also been about six Harley/Jonny-related one-shots that I've been writing on the side, so they've taken up some of my time, as well.

On another note, if any of you are video game fans and you haven't done this already, go out and rent/buy Batman: Arkham Asylum, if only because somebody finally got a brain and decided to make Jonathan a badass for once. Or, if you're like me and don't play video games, go to YouTube and look for clips. I especially recommend any of the asylum interview ones, mainly because they're rather amusing and also because that's pretty much exactly how I imagine Jonny behaving toward the doctors in Arkham (though my version isn't quite as melodramatic, but that's only because he feels that he needs to preserve his dignity, silly thing). And while we're at it, I hated Harley's costume. Everything from the neck up was fine (in fact, I really liked it), but everything below that was just…no. Honestly, she looked like some Swedish milkmaid went crazy and took a bunch of steroids and got breast implants, then decided to borrow a slutty nurse's outfit from one of the Playboy Bunnies. Anyone else feel this way?

But, anyway, all ranting and fangirl-ing aside, this is the chapter that I've been dreading. I didn't want to write it, and I didn't enjoy writing it. While this installment does not include any physical abuse, once again, I feel I must warn you all about the psychological damage, though it doesn't really happen until the end. Let's just say that, if you didn't hate Susan Crane already, I'm fairly certain that you will now. You'll also know why I can feel sympathy for awful OCs like Breedlove, Daniel, and 'Stephen,' but I can't bring myself to do anything but despise her.

The minute he woke up, Jonathan knew that it was going to be a bad day. His head felt hot and fuzzy, and he could barely bring himself to lift it from his pillow; it was hard enough keeping his eyes open. He wanted nothing more than to pull the blankets over his head and go back to sleep…

Except he couldn't do that, he remembered, because it was Sunday. Which meant getting up early in the morning to attend Mass. And Jonathan knew that if he didn't get out of bed soon, Grandmother would come for him, and that never ended well.

Still, it was so tempting to just let go and fall asleep again… No, that wouldn't be good. Hugging his rabbit one last time, Jonathan forced his eyes to open and slowly uncoiled himself from the curled-up position that he always slept in. With slightly shaking arms, he pushed himself up, carefully swinging his legs around so that they dangled over the side of the bed. He shook his head to clear it, which wound up making his distortion much worse, as the rapid motion made his room spin.

He kept still for a moment, wincing slightly at the sudden tightness in his chest and weakly gripping the edge of his mattress for support as his vision swum.

When his head finally cleared (at least, as much as it was going to), he gingerly slid off of the bed, gasping a little when his bare feet made contact with the icy, hardwood floor. Shivering all over, he cast a longing look back at his bed, at the scratchy blue sheets and the single, lumpy pillow and his rabbit's ears poking out from beneath a faded quilt. It had never been a warm bed, but it must have been warmer than he felt now.

He bit his lower lip, considering. Would Grandmother know if he tried to sneak in a few more minutes of sleep? Was it worth the risk? What if he overslept and she came upstairs and found him still in bed? That could be disastrous… And he had been sick before (though, in truth, he had never felt quite this awful in the past), and he hadn't risked sleeping in, then. This was no different, and he knew better than to try and tempt fate, especially if doing so might have made him late for church. If that were to happen, Jonathan thought that his grandmother might finally kill him.

With a dejected sigh, he slipped on his thin, tattered bathrobe, hoping to stop the chills that racked his tired, achy form, and began to make the bed.

It had been seven years since he had last visited his hometown. That wasn't to say that he wouldn't drop in on occasion, if, for whatever reason, he had to go through the area, stopping just long enough to say hello to his family before he was on his way again. During winter and spring break, he had often been able to find excuses to remain at college—papers to finish, studying to do, research to gather, and the like. And when summer came around, he took on a second part-time job, ran errands for one of his professors, and continued to take classes. His parents and siblings always accepted that he could rarely find time off, even if they didn't quite believe it. In truth, he had always felt that they preferred it when he didn't come home, even though he was sure that they missed him. For all involved, it was simply better that he stayed away. It kept the neighbors from bringing up nosey questions and bad memories.

And yet, here he was, seven years later, sitting in church, of all things. He had been questioning the existence of God since high school, and by now, his years spent studying to become a brain surgeon had pushed him very close to the side of Atheism. Still, he wasn't quite there, yet. Something—an optimistic, childlike idealist part of him—kept him from completely losing faith in a higher power.

Regardless, he didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be in this town at all, but he especially didn't want to be at church. It was the ideal place for spreading rumors and gossip, not to mention running into people who he would have much rather avoided.

Unfortunately, he felt that there had been little choice when his mother had phoned him. That wasn't anything out of the ordinary—his family called him every other week or so. Their conversation had started out well enough, and then, the next thing he knew, his mother had begun to cry, saying that she missed him so much, that she couldn't stand only seeing him a few times a year, and that she wasn't asking him to come home, but if he had some free time during his spring break, would it be possible if he came back and actually stayed for a while? She had promised that she didn't care what the neighbors would say.

He had tried to explain to her that he didn't give a damn about the neighbors either; it was the fact that returning home would mean thinking about what had happened, confronting what he had tried to forget, facing her…

"Sweetheart…Susan's gone," his mother had said. "She skipped town over night and hasn't been seen in over a year—married a lawyer, I think."

And so he had agreed to come home. It had been that simple. Remarkably so. Almost pathetic.

He had even agreed to accompany his family to church, of all things, even though he hadn't once attended Mass during his entire stay at college. He had forgotten how uncomfortable the pews were, how cold and stale the atmosphere of all churches seemed to be. When they saw him, people stared, giving him dirty looks and muttering loudly under their breaths. He grit his teeth and did his best to ignore it, telling himself that he would be fine, as long as he didn't have to see her.

During the service, he grew increasingly bored—and irritated. As immature and blasphemous as it sounded, he rather wished that he had thought to bring one of his text books along; at least that way he could have been doing something progressive instead of sitting here, listening to the priest drone on about topics that he hardly even believed in anymore. There were several moments when he had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. His parents would have been appalled, thinking that he was setting a bad example for his younger siblings, who, from the look of them, were just as bored with the sermon as he was. Their glazed, uninterested expressions amused him, but only briefly, and he quickly lapsed back into his previous state of nerve-grating ennui.

Just when he was about to go through the periodic table in his head for a third time, someone started coughing, loud and painful. A child, from the sound of it.

There was silence for a minute or two, but then the coughing started up again, this time sounding even more painful than before. It didn't really bother him like it did several other, older members of the congregation; he was merely curious as to what kind of parent would bring their kid to church when it was clear that he (definitely a he) was pretty sick.

When it happened a third time, he couldn't resist turning around with a few others, though, unlike them, he had no intention of glaring at the source of the noise. He only wanted to see what the child looked like.

Of course, when he did, he instantly regretted it.

It wasn't that the boy was sitting where Susan and her family had always sat (a fact that he should have noticed when he figured out that the coughing was coming from behind and to the left of him), or even that he was sitting next to Susan's mother. It sounded cliché, but he didn't know anyone else with eyes like that, and that was what told him whom the child belonged to. Susan. And himself. Them. Both of them. Their son.

And it wasn't just the eyes. Even from his position six rows in front of him, he could make out all of Susan's features in the boy. Too small, too thin. And delicate. Seemingly breakable. Long lashes, high cheekbones, full lips, tiny nose—all hers. Yet the boy's hair was dark, like his.

He faced forward again, wishing that he had never looked.

He could have left it at that. It wasn't as if he needed or desired any more confirmation, and over the years, he had convinced himself that it was better that the boy didn't know who his deadbeat father was, why he wasn't around, why he didn't help the family. He couldn't have watched that child grow up and know that there was nothing he could do to support the boy. No, it really was better if he stayed out of it.

And he could have. He could have turned around, kept facing forward, and then made a quick escape once the service was over. But he didn't. For whatever reason—maybe it was the sickly state of the boy, maybe it was the shocking realization that Susan hadn't taken him with her like he had previously thought, or maybe it was his own damn conscience—but whatever it was, it made him rise from his seat after the congregation had been given the final blessing, it helped him tell his family that he wanted to stick around to talk to someone and not to wait for him (he didn't mind walking home), and it kept him moving until he found himself standing awkwardly in the isle, waiting for Susan's mother and his son.

Mrs. Crane was dragging the little boy along by his wrist, all the while scolding him vehemently for being noisy during Mass. That…bothered him. He knew that silence was asked for during the service and he knew how strict and fanatically religious Susan's mother was, but to reproach the kid for coughing? He was sick—anyone could see that, MD or no.

Seeing that, he would later reflect, was most likely what had given him the final push that he needed to actually approach them.

Mrs. Crane had never liked him (Susan had once told him that her mother had always warned her not to trust a man who was too educated), and he doubted that impregnating her daughter, whether he had meant to or not, hadn't helped to change her opinion of him, except perhaps to lower it even further. And, somehow, even after seven years, he doubted that he would be earning her favor any time soon.

He watched silently as several older women clustered around her, wanting to talk about idle things, swap recipes and such, and to fuss over the little boy.

"Isn't he just darling?" one of the women cooed. "I swear, he gets cuter every time I see him."

Her eyes quickly darting to him, the overbearing Mrs. Crane smiled politely at the other women before sitting the boy down on one of the benches and giving him firm instructions not to move while she went off to chat with her friends.

And there it was, his last chance to leave before he did something that he would…not regret, that wasn't the right word. It was that he knew that, if he went through with it, it would be an experience that would fill him with a wistful sort of sadness whenever he thought back on it in the years to come. But he knew as he looked at that pale, sickly little boy that he couldn't simply walk away from this, not again, not without at least speaking to the kid. He didn't even have to know who he was.

So, trying to act as casual and unobtrusive as possible, he meandered down the isle to where the child was sitting. The boy coughed painfully, trying to muffle the sound with his arm, and when he looked up, he saw that the kid was watching him warily, blue eyes watering slightly.

He gave him what his graduating class had voted 'Most Charming Smile' for their yearbook's senior superlatives.

"Hi," he began, hoping he seemed nonchalant.

The boy continued to watch him guardedly, though he did offer a meek "Hi…" in return, a pitiful rasp that hurt even to listen to. He quickly pressed on.

"Don't mind me. I was just looking for something."

Most children that age would have immediately responded to this statement by asking to know what, exactly, he was looking for, but the boy simply muttered a soft "Oh" before falling silent once again.

Surprised, he feigned a shrug of helplessness.

"Can't seem to find it, though… Oh well. Is it okay if I sit down?"

"I—" the boy winced, clearing his throat "—I guess so—" and he abruptly began to cough again.

He bit his lip, wanting to reach out and pat him on the back but afraid that he might startle the poor kid.

"Geeze, that sounds pretty bad," he said sympathetically once the coughing had subsided to a feeble gasping. "You feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," the boy mumbled, though he had begun to shake with an unnatural cold and his eyes were glassy. He looked exhausted.

"Well, you don't look it. Here…" He slipped off his jacket and moved to put it around the small, trembling frame, but the kid shook his head.

"No—thank you," he added quickly. "I shouldn't—"

"I don't mind. It's too warm in here, anyway."

Even though he looks like he's freezing… He sighed, slipping the jacket over thin shoulders despite the boy's weak protests.

"You should save your voice—it hurts to talk, doesn't it?"

The kid gave a tiny nod.

"Okay, well…" He cleared his throat. "As a doctor, I'm telling you that you should try not to speak." It was a lie, he was still working on getting his MD, but the boy didn't need to know that.

"You're a doctor?" he asked.

"Yeah."

The child frowned, shaking his head.

"No, you're not. You aren't old enough."

He smirked a little.

"That doesn't matter if you're smart enough."

"Really?" the boy asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes as he pulled the coat more tightly around himself, still shivering.

"Absolutely," he said, then stopped himself before he began to sound too much like a teacher lecturing the kid about the importance of staying in school and studying hard and not letting himself be distracted by stupid things like girls. It was bad enough that he had abandoned the boy; he didn't need to be a hypocrite on top of that.

The boy sniffed, rubbing his nose a little.

Pursing his lips and scowling slightly in concern, doctorly instinct taking over, he reached out to feel the his forehead.

The kid flinched at the unexpected touch, and he quickly withdrew his hand.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "I just wanna see if you have a temperature."

"Everyone's got a temperature."

"Well…" Actually, he had a point. "What I meant was, I think you might have a fever and I wanted to check. It won't hurt, if that's what you're worried about."

There was a moment's hesitation, but eventually the boy nodded. He reached over, brushing dark bangs out of the kid's face, and laid the back of his palm against his forehead. Feeling the burning skin, he cursed under his breath.

"Your grandmother has to have realized that you're sick—why did she bring you to church?"

"Because she says church is important, and how do you know my grandmother? You're not from here because I've never seen you before." The boy glared at him, surprisingly untrusting for someone so young.

"I know her through someone, an acquaintance of mine. And I am from around here; I've just…been away, for a while," he explained. "So, I take it you live here all the time? You aren't just visiting?"

The boy wrinkled his nose.

"Why would anyone wanna visit here?"

The obvious resentment in the question got a weary laugh out of him.

"All right, I can see your point. What I meant was, are you here visiting your grandmother?"

"No, I—"

"Jonathan!"

They both jumped and whipped around to see Mrs. Crane standing behind the pew, shooting them both a murderous glare.

"Just what do you think you're doing, young man?"

At first, he thought that she was talking to him, but then the boy spoke up.

"Nothing, Grandmother," he said, scrambling to his feet. "I've been sitting here, like you told me."

"It's my fault," he quickly intervened, taking responsibility for whatever 'it' was. "I started talking to him."

He stood and watched as the petite woman's lips pressed into a thin line and her nostrils flared, her eyes becoming, if possible, even more icy than before.

"You."

He smiled weakly.

"Hello, Mrs. Crane. How are you?"

"You have some nerve—"

"Listen, I don't want to start anything. I only came over because I heard the boy coughing—"

"Disruptive little—"

"—and I thought he might be sick," he finished with a glare of his own.

"He's fine," Mrs. Crane replied just as the kid said the same thing.

"No, you're not," he said, addressing the boy—Jonathan, he noted—who was looking worse than ever, gray-white skin shining with perspiration as he swayed on the spot. He looked back to the grandmother. "He's not," he said again, more firmly. "I think it might be the flu, which can be life-threatening if it's not treated."

"I'm not wasting good money on a doctor when he doesn't need one," the woman stated adamantly.

"He does—"

"I doubt it. This is another one of his tricks to get attention—isn't it?" She was looking at her grandson, now, who was shaking his head emphatically. "He's always doing this, misbehaving, acting up in school…"

Jonathan hung his head, face grim with shame as he wrapped his arms around himself.

He watched as the light fabric of his coat became spotted with tears and he ground his teeth, trying to remain calm.

"Regardless of that, he's sick now and he needs a doctor. Please," he entreated more gently, "let me help this one time and then I'll be gone. I can get my medical bag from home and stop by later—it won't cost you a thing—"

"I won't have you set one foot in my house," the woman spat.

"Then I'll find my own way inside, if it comes to that," he told her, growing more frustrated by the second.

"I'll call the police!" she exclaimed.

"And I'll have them arrest you for negligence," he shot back, livid.

Mrs. Crane gave him a humorless smirk.

"They won't believe you, not with your reputa—" She broke off abruptly, eyes flicking nervously to her grandson, who was leaning wearily against the back of the pew, barely paying any attention. But he saw the look, and something suddenly occurred to him. With a glance back at the kid, he took a step toward her, reveling slightly at the sight of her fearful expression as she backed away.

"I'll tell him," he said softly, so that only she heard him.

She blinked, feigning cluelessness—it was the same transparent expression that he had seen far too often on her daughter's face and it only served to incense him further.

"I don't know what you're ta—" she began, but he cut her off.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he whispered. "For whatever reason, you don't want him to know who I am. And if you don't let me help him, I'll tell him everything."

Susan's mother looked ready to claw his eyes out, and he had to hold back a nasty smile when he saw this. Though it wasn't entirely clear why she didn't want the boy to know his identity, he had a few theories, his best bet being that the older woman didn't want him corrupting the kid with his vile, educated ideas and loose morals. At least, that was what he imagined she thought of him.

Several seconds passed in which he endured Mrs. Crane's frosty, indignant glare. Eventually, however, she capitulated.

"Fine. But you won't utter a single word to him, do you understand? The boy causes enough trouble as it is. I don't need him getting any ideas from you. Unless you've finally decided to do your part and take him off my hands?"

Regretfully, he hung his head. Mrs. Crane sneered.

"That's what I thought. You never did have much of a backbone for all the brains you supposedly posses." She shook her head distastefully. "That's one nasty trait he's certainly inherited from you. Among others."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"My character make up is not the issue, here. The kid's health is." He refrained from saying 'your grandson' because, in his mind, that would mean openly rejecting Jonathan as his son. And he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Abandonment and rejection were two different things.

Another round of glaring ensued before one of them spoke again.

"How long are you going to be here?" Mrs. Crane asked.

"A week," he replied. "Spring break."

She nodded, considering this. "Well then…" She motioned to Jonathan. "Go on."

With a final look at her, he turned around to face the boy, who was still shaking but rubbing at his eyes, desperately trying to get rid of his tears.

"Hey," he said, crouching down next to him. "It…it's all right, y'know? You'll be okay."

The kid nodded, looking sick and miserable and like he was only half-hearing what was being said.

He sighed a little. "Um, listen, I'm…gonna take you back to your grandma's place and…" He wasn't really sure what to say. 'Take care of you' seemed entirely too familiar for two people who barely knew each other. "Um, well, you know… Be a doctor."

The boy sniffed, shaking his head.

"I still think you're too young to be a doctor."

"Yeah, well…I think you're too sick to walk, so…" Feeling awkward, he raised his arms, hovering somewhere between holding them out to him and reaching for the boy himself. Jonathan simply stared at him, as if he had no idea what to do.

He gave a small cough, swiping his tongue nervously over his upper lip.

"Uh, well… Come here?" he tried hopefully. "You don't really want to walk home, do you?"

The boy cast a wary glance at his grandmother.

"Hey, don't worry about her," he assured him. "I'm a doctor, remember? So she automatically has to go along with whatever I say."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"That's how it works." The sad thing was that that was somewhat true. Some of the doctors that he was interning under didn't exactly offer the best treatment, yet people went along with what they said and rarely questioned it because they had MDs.

Jonathan bit his lip, looking thoughtful and uncertain, not stepping forward. But when he moved to touch his shoulder, the kid didn't back away.

Ignoring Mrs. Crane's look of disapproval, he carefully lifted her grandson, who remained perfectly still, as if unaccustomed to being picked up and held. He assumed that this was because they were strangers and raised a hand to lay the boy's head against his shoulder, smiling nervously. Jonathan seemed just as uneasy, and yet he also had a look about him that said that he knew how ill prepared this too-young, supposed 'doctor' was for dealing with children.

It was true, but discomfiting though the situation was, as he carried the little boy out of the church, he tried not to think about how it could have felt almost natural.

The boy had fallen asleep while he was being carried home. It was just as well; if Jonathan had been awake, he would have felt…not guilty, but actually somewhat…stupid about dropping him off, then leaving to retrieve his medical bag, only to return to the Victorian-style farmhouse a few minutes later. He wasn't sure why, exactly. The kid was seven years old—there was no reason for him to have felt embarrassed about doing something silly and redundant (but necessary) in front of him. Maybe it was because the boy was so smart.

He was more than relieved to have discovered that. While he had been away at school, there were times when he hadn't been able to help but wonder what had become of his and Susan's child, and if it had turned out to be as single-minded as its mother or if, supposing the kid had inherited his intelligence, Susan and her mother had seen fit to steer it away from all things educational. It seemed as though the latter was the case, though, thankfully, from what he could tell, Jonathan's intellect was being nurtured, if only by the boy himself.

He hoped that the kid stayed that way, he really did. There were so many people, children and adults alike, with no desire to learn—Jonathan's mother was a perfect example, as were most of the people in their town. It was depressing to think that the boy was most likely teased enough as it was for having an absent father and a wanton, runaway mom; being a geek probably only added fuel to the flames.

Regardless of the negative connotations that came with being intelligent, he wished that there was something he could do to further the boy's education, maybe pay for his tuition if and when he became a successful neurosurgeon and finally had the means to help him out. But only if Jonathan's grades continued to be above par; there was no point in sending him to college if the kid had no ambition or work ethic, not when there were other impecunious children who were more deserving.

Perhaps he could also get him some decent books before he left, as there weren't many in the boy's collection. Although the ones that he did have were not what one would have expected a seven-year-old to read. The ancient copy of Washington Irving's the Legend of Sleepy Hollow was particularly impressive. When he had asked Jonathan if his grandmother had read it to him, the kid had looked at him blankly and said that no one ever read to him, that he had basically taught himself.

Floored, he had left it at that, not knowing what else to say.

"Well, uh…well. I'm gonna feel around your throat a bit, and you tell me if it hurts at all. Okay?"

The boy nodded silently, though he was asking questions a moment later.

"Why d'you need to feel my throat?"

"I'm checking to see if your lymph nodes are swollen."

He scrunched his nose in confusion.

"What're they?"

"Uh…well, they're these organs that you have all over your body, and they make lymphocytes—which are like these small white blood cells—"

"Those are the ones that fight germs, right?"

Frowning a little, he paused in gently massaging the area beneath the boy's jaw line. Were seven-year-olds supposed to know that? Jonathan seemed to sense his confusion, because he looked away, squirming a little.

"Sorry. Everyone says I ask too many questions."

He shook his head.

"Don't listen to them. Most of the people in this town are happy knowing nothing, but that doesn't mean that being smart and asking questions is a bad thing. Anyway," he continued, "you were right about the white blood cells. And lymph nodes make them and they also sort of…filter out bad stuff. And sometimes, when you have certain infections, like in your throat, they become swollen and kinda hurt when you touch them, like a bruise, almost. I mean," he corrected himself, "they feel like a bruise, not that they look like one. Get it?"

"Uh huh…" Jonathan murmured, his eyelids beginning to droop.

He winced.

"Sorry. This is probably pretty boring."

"No," the boy told him, rubbing his eyes. "'M just tired…"

That much was obvious, given the way that he kept jerking his head up every time he started to nod off. 'Tired' didn't begin to describe how exhausted he must have felt (he suspected that he, himself, was the only thing keeping Jonathan upright). Yet the poor kid was making such an effort to pay attention, it was almost… He didn't know. The word escaped him.

It felt like this was the part where he was supposed to maybe give the boy a hug or at least clasp his shoulders or something, but instead all he did was give a resigned sigh and help Jonathan into bed, wordlessly handing him the gray, floppy-eared bunny when the boy reached for it.

His eyes lingered on the toy for a moment, on the child that clung to it, on the innocent, sleeping face, so small and fragile…

There was a strange tightness in his chest, but he tried his best to ignore it.

When he arrived at the once exquisite Victorian farmhouse the next day, he found that Jonathan had gotten worse. The boy's fever had risen to an alarming rate, his frail body drenched with sweat even as he laid there, shivering.

He did what he could to make the kid comfortable, throwing blankets over him whenever he was overcome by chills, laying a damp cloth across his forehead whenever he felt too warm, running out to pick up a variety of medicines (Robitussin for coughing, Dimetapp for congestion…). Really, though, taking care of him wasn't what was difficult; it wasn't even those uneasy moments when he could see Susan in the boy. But sitting there, learning more about him, marveling at how clever he was and finding traces of himself…and all the while knowing that he was going to leave that behind…that was what made it hard. He couldn't explain why—after all, he had only known Jonathan for a short time, and yet he was already growing attached. Paternal instincts, maybe. Ones that he hadn't even known that he possessed.

And maybe that was why he did it—why he had approached the boy in church, why he had given up his spring break to look after him, and it had to be why he called her. He couldn't think of any other reason for doing something so insane.

He had learned that Jonathan had been born in poor health and was often sick (or faking illness for attention, according to the boy's grandmother), but soon it became obvious that he had never been quite this bad before. The poor kid was beside himself with worry (which did nothing to help his already delicate condition), thinking that he was going to die, and…he couldn't ignore the boy's plight, no matter how painful the request might have been.

The boy was laying there, drawing pitiful, ragged breaths and looking as white as a sheet, save for a sickly flush to his cheeks, and in his delirium, tears had begun to course down his face.

Unsettled, he had reached out to take the tiny, ashen hand in his own, only to shrink away. Such a gesture was too familiar. So instead he chewed his lip and tried to make small talk, asking Jonathan if there was anything that he could get him.

He saw the kid's mouth move, but the voice was so weak, it was impossible to make out.

"What?" he asked, leaning closer.

Dry and cracked, the boy's lips parted to utter a single word:

"Mommy…" His voice cracked and suddenly he was sobbing outright. "I want my mommy…"

Feeling helpless, he glanced around, looking for an answer, an outlet—something—and found himself at a loss as to what to say.

"Where is your mother?" he finally asked, voice hollow. "Why isn't she here?"

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut.

"She doesn't want me. I'm bad."

"No, I'm sure that's not true," he murmured, almost to himself. "I hear you're very good in school…" He trailed off, watching the boy with something akin to pity. "Do you know where she is?"

"No… She's been gone almost a year."

"Does your grandmother know?"

The boy shook his head and hiccupped.

"I don't know. She gets mad when I ask questions."

It wasn't very loud, but there was a request in that statement, one that he didn't want to fulfill but couldn't ignore. Inhaling deeply, he let time stretch on, the unspoken plea hovering between them.

"Maybe if I spoke to your grandmother…" he half asked, half suggested and left it at that, watching as Jonathan didn't dare look hopeful, merely whispered:

"Maybe."

It occurred to him how easy it would have been to lie to the kid, but he hadn't been able to do that, either. Deadbeat dad though he was, he wasn't without a conscience.

The boy had asked, and he had found himself unable to do anything but comply.

With a weary sigh, he nodded once.

"I'll see what I can do."

In the seven years that had passed, Susan Shapiro, née Crane, had thought that she would never hear from her—heartless, good-for-nothing—Handsome Stranger again. By that point, she had all but driven him from her mind, and of course, as luck would have it, that was when he finally got up the nerve to call her. Lousy scumbag.

That she was secretly delighted to have heard from him was a fact that she would never admit. Yet at the same time, Susan cursed herself for giving her mother her phone number.

What was she supposed to have said to him? She had no idea, though Nathan certainly did, and he had loudly voiced his opinions from his seat at the breakfast nook once he had figured out who she was having a conversation with and what it was about.

Upon hearing this, Handsome Stranger had scoffed, saying, "See you bagged yourself a new man. He sounds charming."

"He's a lawyer," she blurted out defensively, "with a decent income who takes care of me."

"And that's really all that matters, isn't it?"

Bristling, Susan had narrowed her eyes, but felt the blush warm her cheeks despite her frosty tone: "What do you want? I have a new life now, and it's a better one because doesn't include you, so why did you call me?"

"Certainly not to hear your lovely voice," he had muttered, then sighed, and Susan pictured him running a hand through his dark hair. "It's about…Jonathan," he finally murmured. Susan gasped.

"What? What about him? Do you want him?"

"What? No." Then, as if realizing something, "No! That's—I didn't mean to say it like that, it's not that I don't, I mean—" he growled "—shit!"

"Do you have to swear like that?" she had demanded, feeling flustered. No matter that Nathan cursed like a sailor on a regular basis.

"You'd swear, too, if you were in my position," her Handsome Stranger had snapped, then sighed heavily. "Look, Susan…I know better than to try and understand your messed up logic."

What was that supposed to mean?

"But the kid, y'know…he's really sick and he wants to see you."

Susan had gone rigid. She knew that she should have no longer cared what her high school sweetheart thought of her, especially when he was too much of a coward to stand behind her and help raise their child. But there was a part of her—the part that had been thrilled when he had called—that didn't want him to think her a bad mother. It wasn't that Susan cared about the boy—she knew that she could have gone the rest of her life and been perfectly content to never know what became of him—and she certainly didn't feel guilty for leaving him, not when Nathan provided for her and even let her send her mother enough money to get by, so long as she didn't interact with her bastard son. Yet for some reason, the thought of her Handsome Stranger knowing that she felt no remorse for her actions made her feel uneasy. So when she finally replied, she had tried not to sound quite as snippy as she had before.

"Well, I…you're there, aren't you? He has you."

"I'm leaving at the end of the week," he informed her. "And besides, he doesn't know who I am. He just thinks that I'm a doctor his grandma hired. You're the one he wants to see."

Well what am I supposed to do? she had wanted to shriek. You can't expect me to go over there! Nathan would never allow that!

Out loud, she said: "I…I mean, I'm not sure if…"

"Come on, Susan," he had said in that gentle, pleading tone that made her want to kiss him and rip his throat out at the same time. "He's a little kid. He's scared and he doesn't feel good, and… He just wants to see you, y'know? It's that whole 'Dr. Mom' concept—the idea that you can make him feel better just by being there?"

She had said nothing, having no idea what he was going on about. Certainly, she had never felt that way about her mother…

"And he won't stop crying," her Handsome Stranger had added, sounding as if this was something unusual.

Susan had rolled her eyes. If you think that, you obviously haven't been around him very long.

"I mean…I get that you didn't wanna have him, and that you left him with your mom because she knows more about raising kids than you and that lawyer do, but would it kill you to come and visit him now? He doesn't think you're a bad mom, if that's what you're worried about. If anything, he seems to think it's his fault…"

Have you spent any time with that little brat at all? she thought furiously. Of course it's his fault, all he ever does is cause trouble—like you!

Susan hated him, but she might have loved him, too. And that was why she had eventually agreed to go and see the boy—though at the time, she had told herself that it was only because she couldn't stand to listen to her Handsome Stranger's voice anymore; she knew that if he had gone on for one more second, she would have burst into tears.

"Will you be there?" she had asked before she could stop herself. Thankfully, Nathan had left for work by that point.

He hesitated, "I…"

"I don't…I don't think you should," she cut in before he could finish and break her heart again. She cleared her throat. "I don't think we should see each other."

"…Right," he had murmured quietly, and Susan told herself that that was not disappointment she heard in his voice. But she pictured him staring at the floor, dark hair hanging in his eyes as he chewed on his thumbnail and nodded to himself, the way he always looked when he was resigned.

"I don't want to see you," she said, clipped. "I don't."

A sigh, and she imagined him nodding.

"It's probably better that way."

Nathan had insisted on going with her, both to make sure that "that womanizing bastard keeps his hands to himself" and to protect her if her mother decided to go after her with a cane. Susan had assured him that her Handsome Stranger would have returned to college by the time they arrived, but she wasn't entirely certain about the latter. Her mother had always been strict, and she tended to hold grudges. But when Susan had spoken to her on the phone, her mother hadn't sounded angry, just cold. But then, Susan could barely recall a time when her mother hadn't sounded like that. And besides, it wasn't as if she had completely abandoned the woman—she and Nathan sent her money on a regular basis, so her mother couldn't have been too upset with her.

"Not if she wants those cheques to keep coming in," Nathan had warned on the drive over.

When they arrived (true to his word, her Handsome Stranger was nowhere to be seen), Nathan agreed to wait in the foyer with her mother while Susan went upstairs.

This was ridiculous. She didn't want to be here! She didn't want to see that filthy little brat who had done nothing but make her life miserable. And yet, she knew that, for him, she would go through with it. He wasn't even there to see if she had kept her promise, but she had. She'd made the ninety-minute drive to this hated town, entered the miserable old house where she had grown up, ascended the creaky staircase, and now found herself standing outside the bedroom of something that she had hope to never see again. For him.

"Mother?"

The frail, raspy voice—heavy with disbelief and barely tinged with hope—startled her from her thoughts and made her look inside.

Susan had never thought that her son was a particularly attractive child—too skinny, too girly—but looking at him now, she felt that that was especially true. She couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the sight of him: Waxy and colorless, but blotchy around his sunken cheeks; nose swollen, red, and running (and he wiped it on his sleeve, the little idiot); his lips were chapped and too big; a tangled, greasy mess, his hair was in his face, plastered to his forehead; ratty pyjamas clung to his sweat-sticky body; and he was watching her, bug-eyed as always, only now they were watery and bright with fever.

Seconds passed in which the two just stared at each other.

"Well?" she asked finally, wanting to break the unnerving silence. "I'm here. What do you want?"

Susan thought that it was a reasonable question—the little bastard had obviously wanted her here for some reason; she had a right to know what it was. But he only glanced around the room, toying with the ears of that filthy old rabbit of his and looking utterly confused.

"For goodness sake, it's not a hard question—what do you want?"

He bit his lip, seeming nervous.

"I-I, I mean…um…"

Her patience was wearing thin. She had promised Nathan that she would see the boy, do whatever it was that he wanted, and then leave. Quick, simple, over within an hour or so. But as always, that horrid little beast was making things difficult, sitting there sputtering and wringing his hands, as if he had no idea what she was talking about, like she was supposed to know what he wanted her to do.

Susan gritted her teeth, feeling beyond annoyed.

"I came here for a reason, Jonathan, and I would like to know what it is."

"I…I thought—"

"Well?"

He flinched, holding the rabbit tighter. Susan sighed in frustration, having half a mind to go and rip the toy away from him and keep it until he gave her an answer, and she would have if that hadn't meant going near him. She had another threat, however, one that she would have been more than happy to carry out.

"If you don't answer me in the next three seconds, I'm leaving."

He stared up at her, shocked and trembling. She narrowed her eyes.

"One..."

"Mother, I-I—"

"Two…"

"I don't…I don't…"

"You don't what?" she snapped. "Do you mean to say you don't know?"

He looked away, and Susan could almost see the shame burning on his face.

"I thought you would know…" he whispered, looking close to tears (like he always did).

Susan gaped at him, flabbergasted.

"You thought… Why would I have any idea what you want?" she demanded incredulously, her confusion demolished by uncontainable fury.

He was silent, staring at his lap as he shrugged helplessly. She shook her head in disgust.

"I can't believe we drove all the way out here, Nathan's going to be furious…" she muttered, turning toward the door.

"Wait—no, please don't leave," he called desperately.

Susan whirled around, eyes blazing.

"Why? Why shouldn't I leave? I obviously have no business being here—"

"No!" he exclaimed, looking horrified. "No, I mean…I'm sorry I made you mad. Y-you don't have to stay, just…could you…maybe…"

"Out with it, Jonathan, I don't have all day—"

"…kiss me goodbye?"

His voice was very small, and his eyes kept looking to her, then darting away quickly.

There was no mistaking it, however soft it might have been—she had heard him correctly, even though she wished that she hadn't. Susan closed her eyes, unable to think, yet at the same time, feeling overwhelmed by thoughts. Images of herself and her Handsome Stranger, flashes of Nathan, and then, in between it all, this despicable, worthless little boy who had brought her nothing but misery since the day he was born. She hated him, just as she hated his father, the only person she had ever let touch her. Nathan did, but she never liked it. Nathan was clueless, rough and sloppy, his beard and moustache scraping against her soft, white skin. But him…he had been sweet and gentle, and he had known what he was doing, one hand on the small of her back while the other caressed her cheek, fingers playing with her hair…

Nathan took care of her—that was what really mattered, and it was something that her Handsome Stranger, for all his gentle touches, could not and would not do. Spineless, lying letch that he was… And now his son wanted her to remember all of the times she had spent with him? To bring back all of those terrible, wonderful memories of touching, holding, kissing—memories of a time when she thought that she might have been in love? No. It didn't matter that the boy probably wanted her to kiss him on the forehead; it was too close. There were things that she had been fighting to forget about for over seven years, and she refused to give up the battle now when this misbegotten child was asking her for a kiss. No. Absolutely not.

"Mother?" Jonathan asked, looking worried.

Susan closed here eyes.

"…what did you say." It was a statement, and she did not know why it was said when the request was one that she never wanted to hear again.

"If you could—" he swallowed "—kiss me goodbye. Y-you've never done it before, and, I just, I thought that—"

"No," she interrupted, barely able to keep herself from shouting. "How could you ask such a thing? You know, Jonathan. You know that I hate being touched—"

"I know, Mother, I'm sorry—"

"—especially by you," she finished, and he shut his mouth, hugging his legs to his chest. Susan shook her head. "I hate you—can't you understand that? I hate you. I can barely stand the sight of you, you filthy, disgusting little—it's a wonder your grandmother lets you live in the house." She paused, glaring steadily at him. "Do you think I even wanted you? You ruined me, you destroyed my reputation—no one wants an ugly, overweight whore who's tied down to a little freak with mental problems. You have no idea how lucky I am to have found Nathan—he loves me no matter what—"

"I love y—"

"Don't," she hissed, pointing a threatening finger at him. "Don't you dare say that to me." Hearing him say that would be too much like hearing his father say it. Susan didn't think that she could take the pain of that.

She drew a steadying breath. "I'm going to leave, and I have no intention of coming back, nor do I want to see or hear from you again. Am I making myself clear?"

He nodded weakly, chin resting on his knees.

"Do you understand me, Jonathan? I want to hear you say it."

"Yes…" he finally whispered, staring straight ahead rather than gazing pleadingly up at her like normally did. His voice was quieter, too, no longer the quickly stammered ramblings or the endless, piercing wail that it usually was.

Suspicious, Susan arched an eyebrow at him, but gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement.

"Good."

She turned to go and noticed that he wasn't even shaking anymore, merely sitting there. Crying silently. Staring at nothing. It was almost off-putting.

But Susan simply brushed it off and strode out the door, deciding that, whatever it was—if it was anything—she didn't need to concern herself with it.

Have I mentioned how much I absolutely hate Susan? I didn't like writing this chapter very much, either, which I suspect might be one of the reasons why it took me so long to finish it.

That said, I have half a mind to write a final scene from Jonathan's point of view, since I'm wondering if everything came across in the end. But at the same time, I kinda like the ending the way it is and I'm also wondering if such a scene would be too painful to write/read. There's quite a bit of angst in this story, and I don't wanna hit you guys with too much of it at once.

Notes

The Devil in the House – I just wanted to note that I like the ambiguity of this chapter's title, because it's up to you to decide who it's referring to. For me, personally, it's a toss up between Granny Crane's conviction that Jonny is hell spawn (which would mean that Satan's in her home, if his dad's come to visit) and the fact that Susan (who is just plain evil, in my humble opinion) is also present.

…go through the periodic table in his head – to me, this just seems like something that a poor, bored geek would do—and I don't mean that as an insult. Science and mathematics are not my forte, and anyone who has the periodic table memorized has my respect, as I can only ever remember that K is for potassium and Au is for gold. :-P

the boy– the other day, I was watching the Boy in the Striped Pyjamas (which was very good, even if it wasn't historically accurate, though it was still no Inglorious Basterds :D) for the first time. I got to thinking that, if this story was made into a film, I think that Asa Butterfield (Bruno) could totally get away with playing young Jonathan. He looks enough like Mr. Murphy, plus, more importantly, the kid can act—and this is coming from someone who normally can't stand child actors. Oh, and the fact that they had him wear sweater vests on occasion made my inner fangirl go into overdrive, especially when he was wearing the azure blue one. Yeah, I was entirely too pleased when I saw that and I kept going, "It's a siiiign!" because I really am that lame. :-P

"Everyone's got a temperature." – true, 'temperature' is another word for 'fever,' but I always thought that that was kind of silly since, like Jonathan says, everyone has a temperature at all times (and if you don't, then you should probably get that checked out immediately). It's just that, sometimes, it's higher than normal, in which case you most likely have a fever. Or are being roasted alive or something similar. Either way, consulting a doctor wouldn't be a bad idea.

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow – I debated over whether or not it was conceivable that a seven-year-old (even an exceptionally bright one) could read and understand Washington Irving, but…I talked it over with a children's reading specialist that I know and, according to her, this isn't unheard of, just uncommon.

…like she was supposed to know what he wanted her to do – to me, it would make sense that, starved for affection as he is, Jonathan wouldn't quite know how to explain that he wanted his mother to comfort him (or even what she could do to comfort him). It also seems natural that, just as a kid in general, Jonathan would assume that his mother would know that he wanted to be comforted (and if I didn't know how evil she is, I would think that, too). But, anyway, this is mainly what I was worried would not come across in this chapter, mostly because I didn't provide access to Jonny's POV for this scene, just Susan's utterly oblivious (and totally heartless) one.

"…kiss me goodbye?" – I wish that FFN let me use different font sizes because, while I normally use size twelve font, in the original word document, I shrunk this line down to ten and feel that it really adds to it. Yeah, I really should be able to convey Jonny's terror and desperation through my writing, but I can't help it; I like playing with different fonts. :-)

Disclaimer: I don't own Jonathan, only his mystery daddy and his grandmother. And Susan, though I wish I didn't.