Honey, I'm hoooome. (Dodges pillows, quills, bottles of ink, laptops, mugs, and other assorted objects thrown at her by irate readers). Okay, okay! I'm sorry for not updating in ages. But I did have an extremely good reason. It's called Spring Break in London with No Computers Nearby. Despite not being able to work on this fic, I did manage to have a marvelous time and am now refreshed and ready to go.

Sort of. I do have to warn y'all that I am going to slow down the updates. Don't worry, I'll still get chappies up regularly, just not every day. I need to slow down a little. Not only was the pace absolutely killing me, but the story is becoming much more complex and I need more time to works out the kinks in the plot. No more plot holes! Kudos to those who noticed them, by the way...you were paying attention! (beams)

Jonathan: You are such a masochist.

Bex: Excuse me?

Jonathan: People pay you these lovely compliments, but you only acknowledge the criticism.

Bex: I like criticism! How else am I supposed to get better?

Jon does have a point, though. Thank you all so much for your wonderful support! I really appreciate hearing that you like my story. 'Cause frankly, sometimes I get nervous about my ability to write such an emotionally involved fic.

Jackson: Bull.

Bex: Oh, no, not you too.

Jackson: Stop fishing for compliments. And by the way, you have completely stolen the idea of a dialogue with the characters from Eccentric Banshee.

Bex: Yeah, so?

Jackson: She could sue.

Bex: She's too nice to sue. And anyway, you basically gave me a disclaimer. Thanks, Jack!

So, yeah, back at the ranch...

Jonathan: You do realize how long these little chats with the readers are getting? People are beginning to get annoyed.

Bex: Like I was saying, back at the ranch...

Jackson: We're not at a ranch. And it's a terribly overused cliche, anyway. Can't you think of something more original?

Bex: Okay! That's it! Calisthenics for you all morning. And now, back to the story...

Tory wandered the halls of Arkham Asylum, looking for Jon. She was barefoot, and the cement was cold on her naked toes. Her feet seemed to make a curious wet, slapping noise as she walked. Tory glanced behind her and saw a line of bloody footprints behind her. She stopped and lifted one foot, balancing easily on the other, and examined it. Blood seemed to be welling up out of her skin, but she couldn't find a cut.

There was a noise behind her, and Tory turned to see Scarecrow, dressed in the orange jumpsuit and his burlap mask. "Tory," he whispered, and laughed mockingly. The sound echoed off the walls, turning into a thousand laughs, becoming so loud that Tory put her hands over her ears. "Tory, come and catch me!" Scarecrow shouted, and he began to run back the way she had just come.

Sighing at having to retrace her steps, Tory followed her own bloody footprints down a corridor. They turned into the conference room and Tory followed them. At last she saw where the blood had come from – the General's dead body was lying on the floor, and his blood was spreading in a thick, noxious pool. She must have stepped in it.

She was negotiating her way around the big man's corpse when he grabbed her ankle.

"You little bitch," he gasped, his purple tongue flopping, his eyes boring into hers. "You killed me."

"Damn straight," Tory told him, yanking her foot away. "Now stay dead."

She heard laughter behind her and turned to see Jon standing mere inches away, dressed once more in his black sweatpants and white T-shirt.

"Jon!" she cried out in relief. He smiled at her and knelt down, brushing his long fingers in the General's blood. Tory followed suit, feeling the cool liquid run down her hands. She looked down. She'd only dipped her fingers, but both her hands were dripping blood.

Guilty hands, she thought. She looked back up at Jon, wondering what to do.

He extended one finger and traced her lips, smearing her mouth in blood like obscene lipstick. She accepted his offer and licked at his finger, cleaning the blood off of his pure white hands. Then she looked down at her own, which were red to the elbow.

"We'll never get it all off," she told him worriedly.

"That's alright," Tory heard behind her, and she turned to see Jack, sitting at the conference table and talking into his cell phone. Jack glanced her way and grinned. "It's bound to come in handy."

Jack went back to his conversation and Tory faced Jon once more. Slowly, deliberately she placed one bloody palm on his white T-shirt, just above his heart. When she pulled away, it left a perfect handprint.

"You see, Tory?" Jon said, pointing at what she'd done. "This means you're mine."

"I'm not yours," she told him stubbornly, crossing her arms and getting blood all over her jeans jacket. "I'm not anybody's."

"You're mine, Tory," said Jon confidently. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and Tory stared deeply into the heavy-lidded, crystalline eyes. When he tried to kiss her, she put one bloody finger on his lips.

"Only," she told him, "if you'll be mine, too."

"Yes," he whispered against her finger, and Tory closed her eyes and leaned forward…

And woke up to the quiet beeps of her alarm clock.

She lay in the darkness for a moment, trying to slow down her thudding heart. Wow. Just wow. That had been a very, very weird dream.

Unfortunately, it had also felt very, very good.

Tory groaned and buried her face in her pillow. What was she going to do about Jon? She remembered the things she'd read in his profile. He was a sadist. A sociopath. A psychopath as well, or – if not quite that bad – certainly far too close for comfort. In other words, Jon wasn't somebody she should be interested in.

But she was interested, intensely so. As the dream had so kindly reminded her.

"I must be crazy," muttered Tory, and winced at her own word choice. All her doubts and fears and anxieties and awful memories threatened to overwhelm her in a rush, but Tory firmly pushed them down. She refused to think about her current situation. That was all there was to it. She'd driven herself nuts the first few days she'd been here, trying to rationalize what she'd done. Eventually she'd realized that she could rationalize all she wanted to, but that wouldn't change how she felt about it. So she'd stopped thinking about it. Period.

Maybe the same technique could work here, thought Tory. Maybe, if I just stop fretting over what's happening between Jon and me, it will just resolve itself. She decided to try.

With a yawn and a stretch she was out of bed. Dressed comfortably in the jean shorts and blue top Jorge had bought her – for an old man, he had pretty good taste – she sauntered barefoot to the kitchen, ready to do her normal barre exercises.

To her great surprise, Jack was sitting at the table, looking tired and grumpy and restlessly leafing through a yellow-backed novel.

"Hey, Jack," she said, slipping past him to take her spot at the counter. He made a non-committal noise of morning greeting, and Tory decided not to bother him further until he'd woken up a bit.

After stretching a little, Tory placed her left hand on the counter – her "barre" – and began her exercises.

"You're up early," she told Jack after a few minutes.

Her back was to him, and for a few seconds she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he said, "Bad dreams."

"I hear you," Tory told him. "Believe me," she added under her breath, "I hear you."

She heard someone enter the kitchen and a grunt of welcome from Jack, and knew that Jon had arrived. The footsteps came up behind her.

For a second, Tory was nervous. Then she relaxed. Just do what comes naturally, she thought. You think too much.

Jon's arm wrapped around her waist in a quick hug. "Morning," he said into her ear.

"Morning yourself," Tory told him playfully, leaning into the embrace and giving his hand a quick squeeze. "Now sod off and let me finish these."

She felt his chest shake in a silent chuckle, and then he let her go and started going through the cabinets, fixing himself a bowl of cereal.

The companionable silence lasted until Tory was on her last exercise. Then Jorge entered, fully dressed and clearly ready for action.

"Eat up," he told them all. "Today we begin to train."

Jack groaned and Jorge shot him a stern look.

"Train for what?" asked Jon, scraping the last of his cereal from his bowl.

"For anything," Jorge told them.

"I knew we should've stayed with Tom," muttered Jack. Jorge gave him a friendly cuff upside the head.

"You in particular, Jack. You have been getting soft."

Tory giggled and received a Look of Imminent Suffering from Jack. She ignored him and pulled her legs together in a sous-sous before gracefully relapsing into a final demi-plie.

She had a feeling today was going to get interesting.

Jack had a similar feeling, and was not at all happy to have it borne out.

"Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven," intoned Jorge sternly. Jon and Jack struggled to keep the push-ups in time with his count.

"Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty…" Jon collapsed. Jack stopped in the upright position, panting.

"Keep going," Jorge told him, and Jack managed a few more before dropping to the ground by his brother.

"Wuss," Jack taunted him between gasps.

"You didn't do that many more," Jon muttered, face buried in the scanty grass of Jorge's backyard.

There was a gunshot, temporarily deafening them both.

"How come Tor isn't doing these?" Jack demanded, pushing himself up to his knees.

"The poor chica is still recovering from her wound. When you have been shot in the side, Jack, you may be excused."

Jack speculatively eyed the pile of guns on the ground in front of them. He snaked out one hand, only to have his wrist firmly grasped by Jon.

"Forget it," his twin told him bluntly. "If I'm not allowed to shoot myself, you're definitely not allowed."

"Again," Jorge told them, ignoring their exchange. The brothers gave identical groans.

Another outrageously loud shot echoed through the air, followed by a shout.

"Oh, no!" Tory cried out.

Jon and Jack shared a single look of panic. Then they relaxed as they heard:

"Poor bird!"

A million years later – or so it felt – Jonathan stumbled after his brother into the house. He was in bad shape, all right. Of course, he did have a bit of an excuse. It was hard to do push-ups in a straightjacket.

The strenuous calisthenics had one excellent benefit, however. He'd been so preoccupied – and so in pain - he hadn't hallucinated all morning.

He wasn't sure it was worth it, though. Dear God. Push-ups, sit-ups, weights, even yoga. Then an hour each at the "firing range," with Jorge criticizing their every move. Jonathan hadn't known it was possible to pull the trigger wrong, but apparently it was.

"You are useless," Jorge had told them firmly. "Useless! The chica just learned, and already she outpaces you."

"I think Jorge is in love with Tor," Jack had muttered to Jonathan as they traded places.

"He'd better not be," Jonathan had replied deliberately, taking aim.

He hadn't been able see his brother's face, but he'd known Jack was rolling his eyes. "For God's sake, Jon, I was joking."

Jonathan hadn't replied.

Now he collapsed in a kitchen chair and laid his head on his arms. There was a cardboard box in front of him, and he whimsically hoped that it was big enough to hide him from further abuse by Jorge.

Out of nowhere came a loud, "Craw."

Slowly, as if he was in an overly dramatic horror movie, Jonathan raised his head. Black eyes glared into his from only inches away. They were set in a black, feathery head with a long, black beak.

The beak opened wide.

"Craw!"

Jonathan yelped and flung himself backward, remembering too late that he was in a chair. There was a stupendous crash.

Scrambling out of the fallen chair, Jonathan backed away against the wall. The crow, which was sitting inside the box, cocked its head and studied him.

"Craw!" it said. Logically, Jonathan knew that animal's emotions were not as complex as humans, and even if they were, they wouldn't be manifested vocally.

Emotionally, he knew that damned crow was laughing at him.

It's just a hallucination, Jonathan told himself firmly. You're hallucinating. Concentrate…concentrate…

"Sorry, Jon," said an extremely guilty voice. Victoria entered the kitchen and picked up the cardboard box. "I forgot you were afraid of birds."

Oh, lovely. The blasted creature was real.

"Why is it here?" Jonathan asked irritably, still pressed against the wall. Then it clicked. "You shot it, didn't you?"

"By accident!" Victoria told him defensively, hugging the box to her chest. The crow's head popped over and looked once more at Jonathan. He struggled not to flinch.

"I hit his wing, but Jorge helped me look at it and he said the bone wasn't shattered, and that he could recover in a few weeks."

"A few weeks?"

"Look at it as an opportunity," Jack said with a smirk, putting down the glass he'd been busily draining. His hair damp with sweat, blue eyes twinkling, he grinned at his brother. "A golden opportunity for you to overcome your fear of birds."

"I don't want to overcome my fear of birds," muttered Jonathan, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "They're stupid, they're messy, they're ugly, they're absolutely infested with parasites…"

"I'll keep him in my room," Victoria told him.

Oh, that was exactly what he did not want.

Victoria disappeared, carrying the crow to her room. He could hear her murmuring sweet nothings to the bird, chattering away in the nonsensical tone most people used on animals.

"Got a bit of a problem, don't you?" asked Jack sweetly.

"Shut up."

"All I'm saying is, things could get a bit difficult at night…"

"Shut up."

"Considering you're too scared to be in the same room as a scrawny little bird…"

"I am thirty seconds away from spattering your brains all over this kitchen."

Jack grinned, completely without shame. Jonathan glared at him for a minute, then took a deep breath and walked out of the kitchen. Down the left-hand hallway. Through Victoria's open door.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he took in the unkempt bed and the clothes thrown all over the floor. Hurricane Victoria had struck again.

"Craw!"

Victoria was setting up the box in one corner of the room. "Now, you behave yourself. No messing outside the box, no more scaring Jon..."

Jonathan felt this would be an appropriate time to clear his throat. Victoria whipped around, looking startled.

"Jon! What are you doing here?"

"As much as I hate to admit it," Jonathan told her, sighing in mock regret, "Jack is probably right." He gingerly approached the box, avoiding the heaps of crumpled blouses, and crouched beside Victoria. "This is a good chance to work on my fear of birds."

"Cool," she told him, and handed him a cracker. He took it and stared at it, nonplussed.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

She chuckled. "Not for you, silly. For the birdy here."

"Ah." Jonathan carefully grasped the very edge of the cracker and gingerly extended it forward to the large, grasping beak. Shrewd black eyes watched his every move.

Finally, just when Jonathan was prepared to give up the entire idea, the bird leaned forward and snagged the cracker out of his hand.

"Good!" said Victoria, beaming. For a second Jonathan felt irritated. For heaven's sake, he wasn't a three-year old. But one look at her sparkling eyes and broad grin convinced him that she hadn't meant it patronizingly. She was just happy.

"I'm trying to decide what to name him," she said, crossing her legs and sitting Indian style on the tile. "I'm thinking…Lenore."

"Lenore? As in Poe?"

"Yeah."

"That's a girl's name."

"It could be a girl," Victoria informed him. "You can't tell the sex of crows without blood testing."

"But you call it 'him.'"

"Well, pardon me for being scientifically inaccurate," she drawled.

"I'll forgive you," said Jonathan with a smile. "Just don't do it again."

"I'll do my absolute and utter best," Victoria told him solemnly.

"Good." It was only now that Jonathan realized they were unconsciously leaning towards one another – were, in fact, only inches away.

"What are we doing?" Victoria asked in a low, serious voice. Her dark brown eyes were uncertain.

"I don't know," murmured Jonathan in reply. He felt a thrill deep in his stomach and his heart beat faster. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to meet her lips with his and slip his tongue inside her mouth. Then pull her to the floor for a harder kiss, arms wrapped around one another, bodies pressed tight. Mingle his fingers with her hair. Slip his hand up her shirt. Kiss down the neck he had once kissed up. Hear her gasp with pleasure at his touch. Move to the bed…

With difficulty Jonathan discontinued the fantasy. "Staring into each other's eyes, I think," he added a bit flippantly, breaking the awkward silence.

Victoria suddenly grinned. "Corny," she said.

"Very," he agreed. They were even closer now, eyes locked, faces close.

Victoria suddenly broke the tension by laying her head on Jonathan's shoulder. Jonathan shivered slightly, both from the unexpected contact and from frustrated lust. Never mind. The time would come. She was uncertain and she was frightened, but with patience and diligence on his part those obstacles would be quickly overcome.

And then she would be his. This thought brought its usual rush of desire and possessiveness, but also, somewhat to his surprise, a sudden flood of tenderness.

Jonathan gently laid his head on hers, stroking her back with his left hand while leaning on his right. Victoria's fingers groped until they found his, and they intertwined his long, slender digits with her small ones.

"What are we doing?" Jonathan asked after a moment, curious as to her answer.

He was both disappointed and amused when she said simply, "Naming this bird."

"Hmm." They both studied the crow. The crow watched them back, bright eyes shining, head cocked curiously.

"How about something simple?" Jonathan said. "Something practical."

"Yeah? What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know. Black. Feathers. Beaky. Or Craw, I suppose."

This time they both jumped as the crow suddenly cawed. "Craw!"

Jonathan frowned. He raised his head from Victoria's and leaned forward, fear momentarily forgotten in sudden scientific curiosity. "Craw," he repeated firmly.

"Craw!"

"I think he likes it," said Victoria, also lifting her head.

"Interesting," Jonathan murmured. "Craw."

"Craw!"

"Maybe it means something," said Victoria. When Jonathan turned his head, one eyebrow raised questioningly, she shrugged. "Crows have a language, you know."

"How do you know so much about birds?"

"I used to volunteer at the Human Society. Every once in a while we'd get some wildlife, and squirrels and crows were the most common."

Jonathan smiled. It was too perfectly in character. Naturally, Victoria Godwin had volunteered at her local Humane Society. She was just the sort of person to be devoted to saving animals.

Which was going to make everything so much harder. She watched Craw and he watched her, taking in her sweet smile and sparkling eyes. So beautiful. So young. So innocent.

And beneath all that lay an inner drive that could not be denied and could not be contained.

He wondered if she'd be able to handle the knowledge of her condition. For a second, he thought no. Then he reconsidered. Victoria had proved to be remarkably tough-minded. For all her innate compassion, she was capable of doing what was necessary, with few regrets. Perhaps she would be able to endure this. She may even embrace it. He wouldn't know until he told her, and he had no intention of doing so now. He could still be wrong, after all. The symptoms were present, but they could be explained by other illnesses, or even by harmless variations within the normal condition.

He would simply have to wait and watch.

"Craw!" Craw called. To Jonathan's ears, the sound had a slight and foreboding ring of "Nevermore."