Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.

THE ONE WARNING: I DO NOT GIVE WARNINGS. I've been saying this from day one, but I'll say it again. Do NOT read this story if you are easily upset or offended. I mean it. Please do not read any further if simply reading a fanfic might horrify or disgust you.

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

Blood's Only Thicker Than Water If You Stir in Some Vodka

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As Jackson and Jonathan slowly grew older, they started to realize that there were, in fact, downsides to being the unholy terrors of their neighborhood. It wasn't that they ever planned on ending their bizarre antics; it was just that they began to discover that being thought of as the devil incarnate wasn't all rainbows and butterflies.

Jonathan remembered one afternoon when Jackson stormed into their bedroom, obviously in a bad mood. Jonathan looked up from his book to see his brother pacing frantically, running his hand through his hair every few seconds.

"Something wrong?" Jonathan asked dryly, not really needing an answer.

"It's…it's…" Jackson shook his head. "It's girls! They don't make any fucking sense!"

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "You've just discovered what most six year-olds could tell you at the playground?"

Jackson ignored that comment. "I mean, is there some sort of handbook you can buy? Some guide that lets you know how to deal with these fucking bitches! I mean, come on!"

Jonathan smiled knowingly before putting down his book and asking, "What's her name?"

Jackson looked slightly startled before replying, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, c'mon, you can't tell me that you're just randomly ranting about girls for no reason. Let's face it: you got rejected, right?"

"Oh, fuck you."

Jonathan smiled assuredly before picking up his book and pretending to read. Jackson paced for a few more seconds, glancing at his brother every now and then before stating abruptly, "She's in my art class."

"A-HA!" Jonathan sat straight up, a triumphant expression on his face. "I knew it!"

"Go to hell," Jackson shot back. Even though his older brother looked genuinely annoyed, Jonathan ignored his reaction, asking him, "So, what's she like?"

Jackson ran his hand through his hair. "She's one of those quiet girls. You know, the kind that doesn't talk much and always seems to be sitting in the corner? She's really good at painting, and she's painted some really nice shit."

Jonathan nodded, listening carefully. "What's her name?"

There was a long pause while Jonathan waited for an answer. After many seconds of silence, Jonathan sighed and asked, "You have no idea, do you?"

Sheepishly, Jackson mumbled, "I keep trying to find out, but it hasn't gone so well…"

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. What does any of this have to do with your whole little rant?"

Jackson stopped pacing, standing in one spot as he shrieked, "She's scared of me!"

Jonathan blinked. "Huh?"

"She's scared of me! I tried to talk to her during class, and she ran away from me!"

Jonathan peered at Jackson over the brim of his glasses. "Jackson, I'm not sure if you realize this, but everyone is scared of you."

Jackson didn't seem to hear him as he continued his shrieking. "I mean, seriously! I just told her that I liked her painting, and she starts hiding off to the side as though I'm gonna slit her throat!"

Jonathan replies again by rolling his eyes. "How dare she. What on earth would make her think that you, the paragon of virtue and epitome of kindness, would be in the least bit frightening? It's a mystery that shall last throughout the ages."

Jackson sat down on the end of his bed, shaking his head slowly. Jonathan was about to reach for his book again when Jackson stood up suddenly and announced, "I'm gonna go kill something in the woods. Wanna come?"

Jonathan blinked, surprised by the sudden change in mood. "Um, sure."

Jackson nodded, and the two brothers went off to go wreak some bloody destruction.

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Jackson lay on Jonathan's couch, sleeping fitfully as he writhed and moaned his way through fearsome dreams. The fear toxin had taken its effect, and Jackson had spent the last two hours in the midst of terrible nightmares. Try as he might to fight off these visions, Jackson couldn't escape his hallucinated hell.

And so the torture continued.

Less than two feet away, Jonathan sat in a wooden chair, a notebook resting on his knee and a pen in between his fingers. He watched Jackson's misery with something akin to fascination. As his brother shuddered and trembled his way through hellish nightmares, Jonathan drank it in like an intoxicating drug. Far from feeling compassion for his ailing brother, he had to maintain professional self-control to keep himself from pushing his brother's mind to the brink of collapse.

The dark, twisted part of Jonathan loved to watch the mind's slow descent into madness, whether it was his mind or someone else's. The first time that he'd accidentally sprayed himself with the toxin, he had stumbled his way through visions of chaos, feeling an overwhelming sense of terror that had been almost like being high. While most people got their kicks from sex or drugs or booze, Jonathan felt most alive when the scent of fear filled the air.

Tonight was no different. Watching Jackson's panic only intoxicated Jonathan, giving him a sense of rushing pleasure. For him, there was nothing like it.

The notebook Jonathan had was covered in clinical, detailed notes. They were clipped, medical sentences regarding Jackson's descent into the world of chaotic horror. Reading them, a person wouldn't think that these two had ever met, much less turn out to be brothers.

Jonathan watched carefully as Jackson's eyes fluttered open, pupils dilated and sweat pouring down his face. "Sc-…Sca-…"

Jonathan was unfazed. This had already happened several times throughout the night. He hurriedly scribbled notes onto the pages of his notebook.

"10:11 PM: Patient has awoken for the third times since inhaling toxin. Does not seem fully conscious. Has repeatedly called for 'Scarecrow', but has difficulty speaking. Am unable to determine whether he is calling for help or is reacting to Scarecrow image from initial intoxication. Has been sweating increasingly in the last hour."

Jonathan frowned. He wondered whether or not Jackson was developing a fever. It wouldn't be unusual, given that this was one of the stages where the body was weakest.

Jonathan put down his notebook, still frowning slightly as the sweat rolled down his brother's skin. He walked over to the bathroom, fumbling around his medicine cabinet for some kind of thermometer. After a few seconds of searching, Jonathan's hand alighted on a narrow, plastic thermometer.

Returning to the den area, Jonathan saw that Jackson was still calling out weakly, "Scare…Scarecrow…"

Jonathan returned to his chair, thermometer in hand. He grabbed his brother's chin and roughly turned his head to face him.

"Jackson."

Jackson seemed not to hear him, merely staring past Jonathan and murmuring incoherently.

Firmly, Jonathan spoke to his gibbering brother. "Jackson, open your mouth." Weakly, Jackson shook his head. "Poison…poison…"

"Jackson, this is a thermometer. I need you to open your mouth so I can see if you have a fever." Again, Jackson shook his head. "Gonna…gonna kill…poison…"

"Jackson."

No reaction, just more unintelligible jabbering.

Frustrated, Jonathan put down the thermometer. Using his left hand, he grabbed Jackson's chin roughly. Then, using his right hand, he slapped him hard against the face in the hopes of knocking some sense into him.

Still nothing. Jackson's head lolled limply on the arm of the couch. Jonathan bit his lip, frustrated. He picked up the thermometer before reaching over and using his left hand to pry open Jackson's lips and chattering teeth. Once he did that, he stabbed the thermometer hard into the back of Jackson's mouth.

When the thermometer slammed nearly into the back of his throat, Jackson started to gag while gasping for air. Jonathan held Jackson's head firmly with one hand, holding the thermometer with the other as he frowned like a teenage babysitter dealing with an especially unruly child.

After a few more forceful minutes, Jonathan extracted the thermometer. As he did so, Jackson gasped desperately, coughing and hacking as his eyes wildly scanned the horrific demons that danced before him.

Jonathan checked the thermometer's reading. One hundred and two degrees Fahrenheit.

Without missing a beat, Jonathan picked up his notebook and began to jot notes about his newest discovery.

"10:15 PM: Patient's symptoms seem to be worsening. Manages to speak in broken fragments, but the meaning of his words are still unclear. Has begun to shake more and more violently. Current temperature: 102 degrees Fahrenheit."

Jonathan looked to see Jackson wrapping his arms tightly around his chest, his eyes shut tightly as though doing so would end the psychological torture he was being forced to endure.

"Cold…so cold…fucking freezing…"

Jonathan took note of this. Jackson seemed to be losing consciousness again, since his eyelids were slacking and his words were becoming fainter.

"So…frigging cold…"

Jonathan watched interestedly as Jackson slipped back into fitful dreams.

Calmly, Jonathan put his notebook and pen down in a neat pile on the floor before making his way over to his closet. Reaching up to a shelf over his head, he grabbed a thick, fleece blanket and pulled it off the shelf. Jonathan carried it over his shoulder until he reached his sleeping brother. Looking at him once again, Jonathan noticed that he seemed to have settled down, save for his quiet, unconscious murmurings and squirming. Jonathan pulled the blanket off of his shoulder before dumping it on top of his sleeping sibling before sitting down in his chair.

After a few seconds, Jackson's shivering decreased, and Jonathan watched his steady breathing until his lids felt heavy and he drifted off to sleep.

----------

That first incident with the female gender had occurred when Jackson was fourteen and Jonathan was twelve. For about a year and a half more, Jonathan watched as Jackson continued to have frustrating encounters with the opposite gender.

There was Erika, the sweet, quiet girl who ended up stealing fifty dollars from him when he wasn't looking. There was Lauren, the hyperactive girl in his gym class who'd accidentally hit him across the face with a volleyball. There was Elise, who seemed to know the musical score of every Broadway show backwards and forwards. And then there was Kiera, who Jackson had never met before until one day at the local bowling alley. They'd gotten along all right until her 6' 4" boyfriend showed up and threatened to kill him. Jackson had gotten back at him by slaughtering his dog and leaving the head on a stick.

Needless to say, Kiera hadn't been too fond of him after that.

Every time that a girl rejected him because of the sick things that he did, Jackson would come home and bitch about it for a while before trudging off into the woods in search of something to kill, with Jonathan following like a loyal puppy dog. It was almost like a ritual designed to give Jackson an outlet for his frustrations, but it didn't seem to help. Jackson only grew more and more frustrated, while Jonathan could do nothing but sit back and watch.

Subconsciously, Jonathan knew that it was only a matter of time before Jackson's temper got the better of him. Killing animals out in the woods was doing nothing to quell his anger over his failures, try as he might to control it. Jonathan knew that if Jackson got frustrated enough, he either would find new, more potent ways to let it out, or his temper would essentially explode.

Still, knowing that, even Jonathan hadn't expected what happened next.

It had all started one night in August, when the air was humid and the cicadas were humming loudly. Jonathan was in his room, reading the newest Stephen King novel, like the nerd that he was. Jackson had been out all day, and Jonathan wondered vaguely if he'd be home before it got dark.

It was about seven-thirty when Jackson burst through the door, stumbling a little as he walked. As soon as he walked in, he started singing drunkenly about dead prostitutes, making up the words as he went.

"One hooker corpse

Is lying in my car

Another hooker corpse

Is bleeding at a bar

Third hooker corpse

Lyin' in an alleyway

All bones and skin and blood

And rotting and decay"

Jackson finished his cheerful little ditty by laughing gaily. As he made his way towards their room, he called out loudly, "Scarecrow? Hey, Scarecrow!"

Jackson stumbled into their bedroom, and Jonathan watched as he unceremoniously fell onto his mattress. In one of Jackson's hands was a full bottle of vodka, and in the other was a six-pack of beer. Jonathan vaguely wondered what Jackson had gotten drunk off of if all the bottles he had with him were full.

Jackson looked up and, seeing Jonathan watch him, called out, "Hey there, Scarecrow!"

Jonathan made his way over towards Jackson and plopped down on the end of his mattress. "Where you been all day?"

Jackson, uncorking the vodka, explained, "Dad gave me ten bucks this morning, so I took a bus into town and walked around doing all sorts of shit."

Jonathan gave him an unbelieving look. "You can't buy all this shit with just ten bucks."

Jackson laughed. "Who says I bought it?"

Jonathan grabbed one of the beers out of the six pack and opened it before asking, "Why the hell did Dad give you ten bucks?"

Jackson shrugged. "Fatherly guilt?" He paused for a second, thinking. "What day is today?"

"August 13th, why?"

Jackson thought about this for a second. "I think it's my birthday." Mulling over this, he remarked. "So this makes me, what, sixteen now?" He shrugged again before drinking straight from the vodka bottle. When he'd drunk a good amount, he loudly proclaimed, "Happy fucking birthday to me, cocksuckers!"

Jonathan nodded before swigging down half the bottle of beer in one fell swoop. Jackson handed him the vodka bottle, so Jonathan gulped some of that down as well, the alcohol burning the back of his throat.

They continued drinking for hours more, but everything seemed to be a blur. When Jonathan looked back on it later, none of it seemed coherent. Bits and pieces remained…the heavy scent of alcohol, Jackson's inane laughter, the taste of beer in his mouth…but none of it seemed to join together into a coherent memory. For years afterwards, Jonathan would pore desperately over what little he could remember, and he would always end up wondering what a fly on the wall would have seen in the hours that ensued.

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When Jonathan woke up the next morning, he was hung over and disoriented. Sitting up slowly, he realized with a start that the world was a blurry mess of images. Even worse, it was a blurry mess that smelled like stale beer. Once he was completely upright, he fumbled around to the left of the mattress, where his night table should be and where he would find his glasses. Strangely enough, instead of feeling his night table, he felt a wall instead.

Jonathan frowned groggily. What the fuck?

Still trying to clear his head from its hung over haze, Jonathan felt the carpet with his foot to see if he could find his glasses. After a few seconds, his toes connected with something made of glass and wire. Reaching down, Jonathan put them on his eyes, and the world suddenly seemed a thousand times clearer.

Looking around, Jonathan noticed immediately that he was on the wrong side of the room. Sitting where he was, he could look straight across the small room and see his own bed. Still disoriented, it took a while for Jonathan to put two and two together. If that was his bed over there, then he obviously wasn't sitting on his own bed. And if he wasn't sitting on his bed, then he must be sitting on…Jackson's.

Jonathan groaned and rolled his eyes. Shit, they had gotten wasted. Especially if he hadn't been able to move all of three feet away to pass out on his own mattress.

Jonathan paused for a minute to hear a strange sound coming from the bathroom. After listening for about a minute, Jonathan recognized it as retching. Sounded like Jackson was pretty hung over, too.

Jonathan tried to stand up, but pain shot through him as soon as he did. Sitting back down, Jonathan wondered what the hell that was about.

As he sat back down, Jonathan felt like he sat in something sticky.

Moving over a bit on the mattress, Jonathan checked to see what it was. Some spilled beer, maybe? Looking down at the sticky substance, Jonathan realized that beer didn't usually have such a white color.

Something inside Jonathan clicked, and his stomach sank very, very quickly.

Jonathan listened for a few more seconds to Jackson vomiting in the next room, his head hurting a thousand times more than it had been before. Trying not to think about what he was pretty sure he just saw and the fact that Jackson kept on throwing up in the bathroom, Jonathan stood up, trying his best to ignore the pain shooting through his legs and back.

Standing up, Jonathan clutched his head before moving over to his night table. Pulling open a drawer, he felt around until he found some Advil before tossing a couple of pills in his mouth and swallowing. Hoping as best as he could that the painkillers would help his throbbing head, Jonathan sat down on his own mattress, staring across the room with something akin to horror.

Jonathan tried his best to think things out. What in the hell had happened last night? They'd been drinking….they'd been drinking a lot. And…and Jackson was being an ass, and…and Jonathan had tried to push him or something. But he hadn't been able to, because Jackson had grabbed his wrists, and…

Oh shit, no.

Jonathan looked down at his knees, trying his best not to think of what might have happened. But when he looked down, he noticed that his jeans were on backwards. Even odder, they felt really loose, as though they weren't buttoned or zippered or…

That was the point where Jonathan threw up all over his mattress.

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Jackson and Jonathan managed to avoid each other like the plague in the days that followed. It almost became a game to see how they would cover up the previous night's events while still managing to avoid each other. Jonathan had been the one to put their sheets in the wash and then dry them. When he put their newly cleaned sheets back on their mattress, he realized that Jackson must have come in and cleaned, since the empty bottles were gone and the room smelled of air freshener instead of beer. And after Jonathan scrubbed out any beer stains that were left on the carpet, he heard the washing machine being run and realized that Jackson was cleaning their clothes from the night before. By the time they were finished, there was no evidence left of what had happened that night.

For the next several days, they didn't speak to each other, not even to say "Hello" or "Goodbye". They wouldn't even stay in the same room as each other. The only times they did stay in the same room was when they went to sleep at night in their room. But that brought up memories that neither of them wanted to talk about.

After a while, they did begin to speak to each other, if only to state the casual "Hello" or "Hand me a pen, willya?" Eventually, they went back to speaking to each other in full sentences, until it got to the point where they behaved as though nothing had ever happened.

But, in reality, things weren't nearly what they were before. Every night when Jonathan lay in bed, he listened to his brother's light breathing as he slept. As he did so, he imagined his brther's glassy eyes and rancid breath. He imagined Jackson grabbing his wrists and pushing him down onto the mattress, peering down at him before he…

That was the point where Jonathan would squeeze his eyes shut and tell himself to stop. But that didn't stop him from having nightmares about it.

Whenever he thought too hard about what had happened, Jonathan would always write it off, rationalizing it as a mistake made because of the alcohol flowing through them. These things happened when people drank too much. Booze could do that to anyone. Besides, he couldn't be positive about what had happened that night.

But something in the back of Jonathan's mind nagged at him, reminding him that Jackson wouldn't have gone to such lengths to avoid him if something hadn't happened. And even if Jonathan had been too drunk to remember what had happened, Jackson could hold his liquor well enough to remember in the morning.

And there was another part of Jonathan's mind, one even deeper and darker than the last, which wondered if it might happen again. It wondered, if they got drunk enough, would the end result be the same as last time. And it wondered what Jonathan would do if the situation ever arose. Even worse, Jonathan couldn't really think of answer.

Jackson, for his part, never brought it up. For probably the same reasons as Jonathan, he avoided the topic as best he could. Proving his devotion to evading it, he even stopped drinking alcohol for an entire month after the incident. This seemed to reassure Jonathan, making him feel secure in the knowledge that it would never happen again.

All of that seemed to come to a halt, however, one night about three weeks later.

Jonathan was returning home from school late, having to stay for detention after setting fire to one of the history teachers' replicas of the city of London. Whether anybody actually got the joke was a moot point by now.

Pushing open the door to the house, Jonathan peered around before calling out, "Hello?" Hearing some wild giggling coming from the other part of the house, Jonathan put down his books and headed over to his room.

Sure enough, there was Jackson, laughing like a drunken idiot on the floor. Two vodka bottles lay on the ground, half-spilled and half-drank.

Jonathan walked in, giving Jackson an odd look. "What the hell happened to you?"

Jackson laughed hysterically, as though he'd heard some insanely funny joke. Jonathan stood over him, wondering why in the hell he was so smashed.

"Jackson? Jackson, what the hell did you do?"

Jackson hiccupped before answering. "Managed to steal this shit from the grocery store. They didn't even see me coming." More laughing.

Jonathan shook his head. "Jackson, you're really fucking wasted, you know that?"

Jackson continued his cackling. After a few seconds, he calmed down a bit before kicking one of the open vodka bottles in Jonathan's direction. "Here."

Jonathan looked at the open bottle and then at his brother. "No thanks. I think you're smashed enough for both of us."

Jackson resumed his laughter. "What, you scared we're going to fuck again?"

Hearing that, Jonathan tensed up. "What did you say?"

Jackson giggled. "You're scared. You remember what happened last time."

Jonathan, remembering all too well the result of their last encounter with vodka, picked up the nearly empty bottle and started to walk away, saying, "I think you've had a bit too much to drink, Jackso-…"

Jonathan would have finished if Jackson hadn't grabbed his wrist and yanked him as hard as he could towards him. Surprised, Jonathan didn't think fast enough to fight back. Before he even realized what was happening, Jonathan had landed on his ass, Jackson directly next to him.

Jonathan opened his mouth to ask what the hell Jackson thought he was doing, but before he could say anything, Jackson's mouth was on top of his own. With his heart pounding and the taste of Jackson's inebriated breath filling his mouth, Jonathan pulled away and stared at his brother.

Jackson merely grinned. "Scared yet?"

Jonathan said nothing, simply looking at his brother, not really knowing what to say or do. Jackson, not one to go unanswered, replied with, "Well?"

Jonathan looked at his brother, his eyes glassy and his words slurred from way too much alcohol. Jonathan tried desperately to say something, to force his mouth to say the word "no". But it didn't. As much as it confused him and confounded him later, Jonathan didn't say no to his older brother.

Jackson, taking this as permission, descended on him like a vulture to a carcass.

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It was about an hour later that Jackson woke up screaming. Jonathan had fallen into a light sleep in his chair, but Jackson's panicked wails awoke him with a start. Looking over to his terrified brother, Jonathan saw that he was flailing wildly, trying his best to fight off an invisible enemy.

Rising quickly, Jonathan went over to his brother, who's helpless screeching was becoming louder and more raw as the seconds passed. Jonathan was thrown off by this sudden outburst, not having expected such a violent reaction to the toxin, especially considering that he'd only given him a light dose.

Jonathan felt slightly panicked. This wasn't normal. None of the other patients had ever had a delayed reaction to the gas. Yet here was Jackson, having a violent fit of terror after three hours of exposure.

As much as he'd enjoyed Jackson's initial squirming, it seemed as though Jonathan would need to give him the antidote sooner than expected.

Reaching into his briefcase, Jonathan pulled out a hypodermic syringe and needle. After taking them out of their airtight wrapper, Jonathan retrieved a small bottle of amber-colored liquid. While Jackson continued his violent writhing, Jonathan filled the syringe with a measured amount of the liquid. After he had done that, he put the syringe down and stood over Jackson's delusional form.

"Jackson," Jonathan stated calmly, an imperious tone in his voice. Jackson didn't respond, but he did seem to stop thrashing somewhat when he heard Jonathan's voice.

"Jackson." Jonathan said it again, slightly softer this time as he waited to see what kind of reaction he would get from his older brother.

Jackson was quiet for a few seconds before his darting eyes finally settled on the form of his younger brother. Even though his teeth were chattering, he almost seemed to smile slightly.

"J-j…Jonathan?"

Jonathan knelt next to the couch, grabbing the hypodermic needle and sticking it into the syringe. "Jackson, I need you to stay still. I'm going to put this needle into your arm. If you let me do that, these…visions will go away."

Weakly, Jackson nodded. He seemed to try his best to stay still, but he still shook somewhat.

Watching him, Jonathan tried his best to stay detached, mentally commanding himself to do each of the steps in the process of giving him the antidote. Get the rubber strap from the breiefcase. Tie the strap around his arm. Check for a vein. Find vein. Hold his arm still. Insert needle. Inject antidote. Remove needle. Untie strap.

When he had finished doing all this, Jonathan sat back and watched his brother for a minute. He observed how Jackson's shaking slowly subsided, and how Jackson slowly drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Jonathan hated the feeling of relief that washed over him when Jackson stopped shaking. He hated himself for not wanting Jackson to remain in the realm of nightmares, for having lost the joy he'd felt watching his brother squirm.

Dammit, he was supposed to be the master of fear. This wasn't how things worked.

After making sure that Jackson was, in fact, asleep, Jonathan checked his brother's forehead. It was cool. Whatever fever he'd had must have broken.

Jonathan sat back in his chair, the combination of relief and anger coming back again. He didn't like feeling guilty for tormenting a patient. He didn't want to be happy that Jackson was alright. The plan had been to let him endure the mental torture as long as his mind could withstand it. Hell, he'd only given him a light dose; if he'd wanted, Jonathan could have let Jackson suffer for another twenty hours or so.

But no. After only a little more than three hours, Jonathan had broken down and given Jackson the antidote. Some master of fear he was turning out to be.

And yet, Jonathan couldn't help but feel somewhat pleased that Jackson was no longer running a fever or having violent fits. He'd wanted so desperately to watch him writhe in agony when he first saw him in the apartment. But when he actually did it, he backed down after only three hours. Jonathan had never had this problem with any of the other patients.

But he supposed that Jackson was different than all the other patients.

When he'd first seen Jackson sitting there, looking smug on his couch, Jonathan had been angry. Pissed, even. The man had disappeared for over a decade, in all likelihood getting himself involved in all kinds of insane shit. Jonathan never even knew where he was or what he was doing. During those first few years, Jonathan had spent many a night wondering where his brother had disappeared, and whether or not he was even alive.

After a few years, so many people had told Jonathan so many times that Jackson was dead that Jonathan had actually begun to believe it. As much as he would remind himself that Jackson had made it out alive that night, it eventually became easier to just accept what everyone else kept telling him: that Jackson was dead, and he was never coming back.

But then he'd found the newspaper photo.

The second he saw it, there was no doubt in Jonathan's mind that it was his brother's picture. Even after so long, the cocky grin and the icy eyes of the mug shot were instantly familiar. As soon as Jonathan had seen it, it was as though all doubts about Jackson had been swept away.

Jonathan adjusted his glasses, watching Jackson as his chest rose and fell with every breath he took. Jackson's face was calm, relaxed…in a way, it almost made him look harmless and innocent.

Imagine that. "Jackson Rippner" looking innocent.

In the throes of his nightmares, Jackson had managed to toss off the blanket that Jonathan had given him earlier. Carelessly, Jonathan picked it up and tossed it back on top of him.

When Jonathan thought about it, there was no one reasons that he felt rage well up inside him when'd seen Jackson. Instead, there seemed to be dozens of them, all floating around and overlapping each other.

Perhaps he'd been angry because of Jackson's nonchalance, the way his return had seemed like a huge joke to him. Maybe it was his insistence on treating him like a fourteen year-old kid again. Maybe it was the childish teasing, the juvenile name-calling.

No, none of that was it. Jackson had always done those things since their earliest days of childhood. They had never bothered Jonathan before, and these childish actions weren't what were making him angry now.

Instead, it was a long harbored feeling of abandonment and betrayal. Jackson had screwed up everything in one short night, and he did it all for only a thousand dollars. Jonathan had shot their mother -their mother- just to cover up for him. And he'd just left, off to do who-knew-what, while Jonathan was left to watch their house burst into flames in front of his very eyes.

Maybe the reason he was so angry was because he couldn't get over the fact that he'd slept with that son of a bitch.

Jonathan winced. Even now, it was still difficult to think about. It wasn't because of the whole incest factor; he'd gotten used to that years ago. It was the emotions, or the lack thereof, that Jonathan associated with their nighttime trysts.

Their nocturnal excursions had never been for any of the reasons that most people slept together. It had never been about love, or desire, or even some bizarre act of rebellion. And the booze had nothing to do with it. Every night that Jackson pulled out a twelve-pack of Heineken, they both knew how the night would end. After a while, they didn't even need the booze as an excuse. Hell, after the first time, the booze was only a formality.

Jonathan knew that Jackson had always been frustrated by the fact that girls were repulsed by him. He knew all too well from all the afternoons he'd spent listening to Jackson ramble for ages before being invited to go kill something in the woods. And the more frequently it happened, the more frustrated Jackson had gotten, which had led to an increasing number of violent trips into the woods.

Jonathan wasn't sure if Jackson had planned the outcome of that first night, or if it had just been an accident. Either way, Jackson seemed to have stumbled onto something of an outlet for all his pent-up frustrations. His logic would have been that, if he couldn't have those girls that were so repulsed by his presence, at least he'd have someone willing to fuck him. Even if that person was his own brother.

At the time, Jonathan hadn't known why Jackson kept coming back night after night. Even worse, Jonathan wasn't sure why he let Jackson do it. At the time, he wrote it off as nothing, preferring not to think about his deeper motivations for sleeping with his brother. But now that he had become a shrink (and couldn't help but psychoanalyze everyone he met), he had pored over everything that had ever happened between them at least a thousand times, looking for reasons.

Even though neither of them had really known it at the time, Jonathan had hero-worshipped Jackson throughout their childhood. Even when they had been very little, Jonathan had looked up to his older brother as an ideal to emulate. Everything Jackson did, Jonathan tried to copy. He made it his goal in life to be everything that Jackson was, if not more so.

That being said, by the time that Jackson had arrived home with vodka in hand, Jonathan had devoted so much time towards becoming Jackson that the line where Jackson ended and Jonathan began was practically nonexistent. Jonathan, even though he'd never say so out loud, was willing to do anything for him. Even sleep with him. Even kill their mother.

There was something else to it, something that Jonathan didn't really notice until after Jackson had left. Partly because of their terrifying reputations and partly because of the fact that their father was always working and their mother was always screwing people around, Jonathan and Jackson had grown up isolated. As a result, they never really were exposed to any signs of affection, or even having anybody touch them. Things that most people take for granted – a hug hello, a kiss on the cheek, a frigging handshake when you meet someone new – were total unknowns to them. So when they'd slept together, it had been something of a shock to realize that contact with another person could actually be pleasurable.

Even if it was your brother you were screwing.

Still, even thirteen years later, Jonathan couldn't help but feel a myriad mix of emotions whenever he thought about what they'd done so many times. Looking down at Jackson's sleeping form, Jonathan wondered how Jackson felt about their trysts.

With these thoughts floating through his head, Jonathan slowly drifted off to sleep.

----------

Jonathan and Jackson's nighttime trysts continued long after that second time, up until the night that they killed their parents. For a while, they would get drunk beforehand, pretending to themselves that their encounters weren't planned. It was their way of lying to themselves about what they did behind closed doors.

Eventually, they stopped using alcohol when they realized that they weren't kidding anybody. Not that anybody else knew, but still. But they absolutely refused to admit out loud what they were doing, even to themselves. They never discussed the acts they did between the sheets, not even during the act. To do so would break some sort of unspoken, mutual agreement to deny until the death that they had ever slept with each other.

Whenever they had sex, it was carnal, animalistic, yet completely unerotic. There was no hint of tenderness or eroticism. The prevailing attitude between the two brothers was that sex was something that they should just get over with as quickly as possible. When Jonathan thought back on these encounters in later years he would remember dozens of nights being slammed into a mattress before Jackson had his way. No kissing, no foreplay…it was almost as though they were trying to have sex while touching each other as little as physically possible.

Their routine was always the same. After their (generally mild) climaxes, they would normally just lay there for several awkward minutes. After a while, Jonathan would get up and take a cold shower while Jackson fell asleep. Jonathan would then dry off, get changed, and then go to sleep in his own bed. The next morning, Jackson would take a shower before washing his sheets. Then they'd go about their day, not acknowledging what they'd done or what they'd be doing again in a few more nights.

It certainly added a bizarre layer to their relationship, to say the least. Despite how much they refused to admit to the things they did with each other in bed, there didn't seem to be any willingness to end it. Jackson was reluctant to end their mattress escapades, and Jonathan was reluctant to say no to Jackson.

So their nighttime fumblings continued, with both brothers keeping it as yet another skeleton to add to their respective closets.

Still, at times there were signs that their armor could easily crack. Jonathan distinctly remembered one afternoon when a local twelve year-old boy had tried to pick a fight with Jackson. The kid had called him every obscenity in existence, but Jackson had remained unfazed. But he did manage to strike a nerve when he loudly proclaimed, "You and you loser brother don't even have any friends! All you do is walk around the woods together, like you're some friggin' married couple!"

Now, any sane, rational person will tell you not to take an insult like that too seriously, that it's just the casual insult of a little shit that thinks it's cool to taunt people who are bigger and older. But Jackson was most definitely not rational, and whether or not he was sane was up for debate. He beat the little sonofabitch within an inch of his life, not holding back as the kid wailed for someone to help him. Jonathan was sure that Jackson would pull out a switchblade and kill the kid, bur a group of parents came running before he had the chance. Jackson was forced to leave the kid lying there on the ground to avoid dealing with soccer mom wrath.

That night, Jonathan remembered being fucked particularly roughly. Clinging on to the mattress as though it were a lifeline as Jackson thrust in and out of him in a particularly vicious manner. He knew that Jackson was still angry about what had happened. Somehow, Jackson must have equated screwing with stabbing the kid repeatedly. Either way, it was starting to hurt like hell.

Lying on his own mattress later that night, feeling somewhat sore, Jonathan felt his eyelids growing heavier. His mind began drifting away as though floating off to sea, and he could feel himself starting dream as the quiet room surrounding him vanished into thin air.

He dreamed that he was running through the woods near his house, the trees flying by him and the twigs beneath him snapping as he darted along. After a while, he emerged onto a highway, with rough asphalt and metal guardrails guiding it. But Jonathan kept running, not stopping to admire the scenery.

Jonathan stopped at the end of the road, where a tall tree stood. Its branches were low and its trunk short, and it leaves were alternately a bright green or a sickly brown. Dangling from its branches like a dead body was a scarecrow. Hanging in the air by a rope around its neck, it had rubbery fingers and short, squat limbs. Straw poked out of the worn clothes that covered its body. The face was made of burlap, a crude smile stitched onto it with thread.

Staring at it for a few seconds, Jonathan studied it with interest. Reaching out, he pulled off the mask, wanting to see the face that lay underneath. As soon as he did, a spark flew, and the scarecrow burst into flames.

Jonathan watched in horror as the fire danced its way across the scarecrow's body, smoke rising and swirling in the air. Jonathan stared in fascination as he saw a familiar face peer back at him through the flames, with cold blue eyes that seemed like ice caught in a cyclone of fire.

Jonathan awoke from the dream in a cold sweat, and almost felt surprised to wake up in his own room in his own bed. Everything was the same as usual, and Jackson's slow breathing was the only sound to permeate the silence.

Warily, Jonathan lay back on his mattress, trying to fumble for a meaning to the images he had seen. He didn't discover much, because after only a few seconds, his eyelids drooped and he drifted back to sleep.

----------

At about seven the next morning, Jonathan woke up out of habit. He had gotten so used to waking up at that time every morning that he didn't even need an alarm. He hadn't, however, gotten used to the sight of his older brother lying before him on his couch.

Jonathan blanched for a moment as all of the events of the previous night rushed back to him. Jackson's arrival, the toxin, his fever…

Satisfied in managing to remember what had happened, Jonathan got up from his chair. Starting off his morning routine, he made his way over to the kitchen area to brew some coffee.

As he plugged the appliance in, Jonathan glanced over at his still-unconscious brother. Jackson lay there, breathing in slowly, peacefully, as though he had never been flailing his way through hallucinated horrors.

Jonathan bit his lip, frowning slightly. When Jackson woke up, he was probably going to have quiet a few questions about what he'd seen that night. Jonathan wouldn't…or, rather, couldn't…tell Jackson about the toxin. But it was going to be difficult to make up an excuse for all of Jackson's hellish nightmares.

Picking up the unopened beer that Jackson had put on top of the trash the previous night, Jonathan unscrewed the cap of the long-expired booze. He walked over to Jackson's sleeping figure and poured the beer's contents all over his face, mouth, and chest. If Jackson asked any questions when he woke up, Jonathan could attribute his night terrors to a bad drinking spree. It wasn't the best explanation in the world, but it would do.

Having settled that, Jonathan started to get ready for yet another day of mob deals, terrorizing the insane, and preparing for Gotham's apocalypse.

He had finished getting showered and dressed, and was drinking his coffee when Jonathan heard Jackson stirring on the couch. Putting down his coffee mug, Jonathan walked over to the couch in time to see Jackson pry his eyes open before looking around in confusion.

"Whe…what…?"

Jonathan watched as the memories rushed back to Jackson. The elder Crane blinked and relaxed slightly, still seeming a bit sickly. Looking somewhat pale, Jackson mumbled weakly, "What the hell…?"

Jonathan using the same tone of voice as he used with unruly patients, stated calmly, "You had quite a lot to drink last night, Jackson. You must be feeling quite hung-over."

Jackson, still seeming weak and dazed, murmured quietly, "There was blood…and screaming…and corpses."

"You must have had a nightmare."

Jackson limply shook his head, still lying almost lifelessly on the couch. "It was too real…too real to be a dream…"

Jonathan arched an eyebrow as though Jackson were being utterly ridiculous. "Well, it obviously must have been. Do you see any blood or corpses lying around?"

Jackson didn't answer, choosing only to mumble, "It wasn't a dream…"

Jonathan didn't respond. Instead, he went back to the kitchen and poured another mug of coffee, then walked back to Jackson and left it on the floor near the couch. Speaking again in a clinical tone, Jonathan stated, "Drink this if you're feeling up to it. Hopefully, it'll help you sober up."

Jonathan gathered his coat and his briefcase from where they sat near the front door. Turning back to face Jackson's direction, Jonathan added, "Get some rest. I'll be back tonight."

With that, he exited the apartment, shutting the door carefully behind him.