Disclaimer: I don't own anyone.
Rated: M
Warning(s): Slash, Incest, Crime, Non-Con, etc.

I arrived home to silence, which in itself was unusual. It only took me a few minutes to remember that Brock was behind bars and wasn't a concern of mine anymore, and wouldn't be for quite some time. I barely took note of the fact that my father's car wasn't in the driveway. It didn't upset me all that much. Ever since my Dad had found out about Brock shooting Adam, he had been nearly inconsolable. And, as it would seem, the last person that he wanted to be around was his other son. I wasn't his 'baby boy' anymore.

I unbuttoned my coat and slid it into the coat closet, before I blindly made my way toward the staircase. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I barely noticed someone was making their way down the stairs at the same time, and by the time that I did realize it, it was far too late to avoid a collision. My face hit the middle of a broad chest, scarcely covered in a blue muscle shirt. An array of curses could be heard above my head, and when I tilted my head back, I saw the irate face of none other than Dave Batista.

"You better watch where you're going, you little fucking twerp!" His meaty hand clenched my forehead and squeezed. He seemed thrilled when I swooned, black dots dancing before my eyes. It hurt so badly.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Dave. I honestly didn't see you there." Oh, like that one would fly. You would have to be blind to not see an animal like Dave. "I'll be more careful next time, I swear."

Dave didn't look convinced. "Or maybe I should make sure that there isn't a next time." His grin was borderline sadistic. His nails dug into my forehead as he tossed me aside like trash. I skidded across the floor and stopped only when my back hit the railing of the staircase.

"Please, don't." Dave's fist swung out and connected with the side of my face. I could feel it start to swell and purple. "I c-can… I know how to defend myself." And it was true, I did. I would be almost lethal if my opponent were a fly.

"You think that you can take me on? I'd like to see you try." Dave offered. He took hold of my wrist, yanking me to my feet. When I wobbled, still delirious with pain from his last strike, he chuckled. "Or did big-bad Brock fuck you up too badly?"

That was the last straw. I wouldn't have anyone talk down about me when it came with what I had to live with. It wasn't my fault, damn it! He reached forward to land another strike to my jaw, but I twisted out of the way and watched as he stumbled forward. There were some perks to my small stature, however few and far between they may have been. Cursing under his breath, he meant to kick me, but I reversed the move and his knee got strung up on the railing. He howled like a werewolf mesmerized by the full moon.

After that, I managed a sloppy head scissor that sent him spiraling into a nearby wall. His shoulder left a nice dent, which would add to the collection of cracks, scratches, and holes in the walls of this run-down facility. Barely able to sit up after the hard fall that he had taken, I landed a drop kick on him and knocked him out cold. And he thought that I couldn't take him on. But then, that was about ten times better than what I could do when I was in Mark's studio. It must've been the adrenaline.

Randy, roused by all of the commotion, came downstairs in little more than a pair of black boxer shorts. "What the hell happened down here?" And then, his eyes widened when he saw Dave. "Did you do this?"

I motioned to the bruise on my cheek. "He punched me and threatened to do worse. All I did was run in to him. It was an innocent mistake." Fearfully, I waved my hand at the scene I had made. "It was all in self-defense, I swear."

"Man, kid." He crossed his arms over his muscled chest and whistled swiftly. "Remind me never to piss you off. He won't wake up for a week. He'll be lucky if he can sit down in two."

Suddenly worried, I felt a dark blush wash over my cheeks. "But he'll be okay, won't he?"

Randy walked over to him, bent down, and grabbed his wrist. "The bastard's got a pulse. He'll be fine."

I couldn't help but stare at the perfect outline of Randy's ass within the boxer shorts. They were a bit too large for his slim frame, but it didn't bother me too terribly. His entire body was clean shaven and tan, like he spent his entire life on the beach. Two identical sleeve tattoos held my attention for only a moment, but they captivated me nonetheless. Randy was always so covered up. It was almost like he was ashamed of his body. I didn't know why. His body was absolutely beautiful.

Randy snapped his fingers in front of my face. "You alive in there, kid?"

I shook out of it, my blush only deepening. "Yeah. Sorry about that. What was it that you said?"

"I said that he'll be fine. However, you won't be if your Dad finds him cooling in his own bodily fluids here. Grab his feet, I'll take his head. We'll take him up to his room so he can rest." Randy said.

I was quick to obey his command. I didn't want to cause any more trouble with my Dad. "Thank you so much for this, Randy. You don't know how much this means to me."

"Don't take it for granted, kid. My services don't come cheap."

Brock never had a trial. At first, I found this a trifle unusual. After all, he had shot down a man in cold blood and had also been found with anabolic steroids. I knew for a fact that, if Jeff were still with us (rest his soul) he would want Brock safe behind bars. But Adam had refused to file any charges. Part of it must have been the fact that he wasn't in any condition to testify, but the other was because of me. If Adam were to testify, then he would have to reveal the truth. And that was that Brock had raped me.

It was only later that I found out that my father was the one who made the trial disappear. He had taken me aside and explained to me that Brock shooting an innocent, unarmed man wasn't 'good' for the name of the halfway house. It could result in the loss of our government funding, as well as my father's license. And once that was taken away, where were we? Out on the streets? He had asked me if I wanted to sit through a trial and watch them drag our family name through the mud. I wanted to ask him where the sanctity was in our family name.

That was the last time that I spoke with my father for the next two weeks. I know that it was rather immature, but I'm only seventeen. I'm still unsure what I want to make of my life, but I know one thing for certain. I want out of this hellhole everyone insists on calling a home. It's not a home to me. It never was, it could never be. So long as my father refuses to see the light and Brock continues to torment me, I know one thing for certain. I will forever be alone.

I had made a promise to Adam. I told him that I would try to talk with my father. As much as I didn't want to, I would try. But now that I stood outside of his office, one hand raised to knock on the door, I knew that it wasn't the best idea. My father was in a delicate emotional state. While Brock may have been responsible for Adam's injuries, and more injuries then I would like him to know about, he was still his son. And we were all that he had left in this world, now that my other Dad had died. Frankly, I was worried about him.

Gathering all of the courage that I could muster, I knocked on the door. There was no answer. This was eerily similar to my earlier encounter with Adam, but I knew for a fact that my Dad hadn't been shot. When I knocked a second time and he didn't answer, I just let myself inside. He sat behind the desk, mountains of paperwork in front of him. There was no reason that he shouldn't have been able to hear me knocking. And even as I made my way to his desk, I knew that he could tell that I was there, even if he didn't acknowledge me.

"Dad…" I mumbled softly. He tensed, but otherwise made no gesture to show that he had heard me or even acknowledged my presence. "Dad, we need to talk about something. It's important. It's about Adam."

Dad didn't even look up from his paperwork. "I'm busy, John. Can't we talk about this later?" With a flick of his wrist, he signed his name on another dotted line. When I didn't move, he frowned, "You're still here."

My heart sank in my chest. "We need to talk about this eventually, Dad. From the way that you're acting, you're making me feel like you loved Brock more than me. I know I'm not the perfect son, but don't act like I don't exist."

Dad's hand clenched around the fountain pen until black ink spurted over his fingers and ruined the paper he was working on. "That's enough, John. This conversation is over. Don't you have wrestling practice or something?"

"You just want to get rid of me." I slammed my fist down on the desk. Now, he had pissed me off. "Well, it won't be so easy. We need to talk about this, Dad. And I won't leave until we do."

"You want to torture me with this? Fine, John. Go right ahead. Why don't you torture me with it until I have a heart attack? Will that make you feel like a winner? Will that make you feel like you're in control?"

My lower lip trembled and tears threatened to spill from my eyes. "How could you say that? I love you, Dad! You're all that I have left, and like it or not, I'm all that you have left! So don't treat me like I don't exist! Don't treat me like I'm not here!"

My father slammed his fist down on the desk, a look of utter infuriation on his face. "I want you out of my office, John. Now." In his eyes, I could see the pain of losing everything he had once held dear. In mine, I'm sure he could see the pain of betrayal.

"Fine! You want me out? You don't have to ask me twice!" I stormed off in the direction of the door, but before I left, I turned back and glared at him. "I never wanted to hurt you with any of this. But now, I hope all of the secrets burn you."

I stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind my back. I could hear my father collapse in his chair, holding his head in his hands as he sobbed. It was absolutely awful. But, at the same time, there was a sick sense of relief within me. I felt as if a ten-ton weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I knew that my father needed to know about Brock. I knew that he needed to know about what he had done to me. But, right now, I didn't trust myself to be the one to tell him. It would be better if he found out himself.

Fear. That was a word that I knew all too well. I wasn't afraid of my father, but at the same time, I was. I was afraid of what he would do when he found out that I had been lying to him this whole time. When he learned that I had been raped by Brock, would he still love me? When he learned that I had been abused by Mark, would he still smile when he introduced me as 'his baby boy'? I knew that I would never be as perfect as Brock, but some part of me had always hoped that I could be. That part of me died that day.